“It’s my life,” I argue. “My messed up, crazy, ironic life because the universe hates me. It’s bad enough that we connect the dots and conclude that my boss is the Phantom. I’m still shocked he didn’t fire me on the spot when he discovered that truth. Him finding out he’s Luca’s dad is a whole other revelation.”
“But why?” she presses.
“Because he has made it very clear that he doesn’t want kids, Rache. His exact words wereI’m not a family man.He doesn’t want any of it.”
Rachel chews her lip, a signature expression that tells me she is coming up with her own conclusion about the situation. Being both an optimist and a romantic, I know she isn’t convinced.
“Every bachelor says that until they meet the woman who changes it.”
There it is. Her argument, considering she doesn’t know the whole story, doesn't really have a leg to stand on. She doesn’t know what else my job entails. She doesn’t know him.
“I can’t change that man,” I shake my head.
Luca laughs again, and this time I can see Damien’s face. He’s smiling. It’s somewhere between a smirk and a grin, and if I had to guess, there is a deep, low, subtle chortle in the back of his throat.
“Are you sure about that?” Rachel says, arching her eyebrow. I watch Damien with my son, a man who doesn’t show emotion ever, and a child who doesn’t click with anyone ever. My stomach knots up in a ball. I don’t know what I’m sure about anymore.
Chapter 31
Damien
I’m not used to asking people to do things. I’m more of a decide what I want and then tell people sort of man. Now I know that Ellie is a mom and she can’t get a sitter without notice, I make a mental note of that. No more finger snapping with the expectation of immediate results. If I want to go to the Opal room, she needs forty-eight hour’s notice. It isn’t entirely unreasonable. The way I see it, if my dick is more impatient than that, and doesn’t want to stick to the new schedule, then there is no reason I can’t fuck her in the hotel suite.
I hand her a note when she hands me my coffee even though I could easily just tell her. It says, “Opal Room on Friday night.” There is something about a handwritten note that feels exciting, and I know it’ll bring a smile to her face.
When Friday rolls around, there’s a knock on my door right before the office closes for the day.
“Yes?” I ask without looking up from my computer.
“Mr. Graves,” her satin-like voice tugs my gaze upward.
“Yes, Miss Bates?” The formality of it feels like flirting.
“I was wondering if there is something specific you’d like me to wear tonight?” She shifts her weight and bites her lip. I’m tempted to just take what I want now and forget about the OpalRoom altogether. But I’ll wait. Just because I can have whatever I want when I want it doesn’t mean I’m not a patient man.
“The green dress. The sheer one that touches the floor with the straps that fall off the shoulders,” I answer.
“And lingerie?” she asks.
“Whatever you want,” I answer. A hint of satisfaction flickers across her face. She liked that answer; I can feel it. And I like knowing that. Tonight is going to be different. Hotter. I am going to truly make this woman mine.
It’s too warm for a jacket, and I don’t expect her to cover up. That means that everyone we pass from the car to the front door of the Opal Room has eyes on her. I love it and hate it. It’s both exhilarating and infuriating. But as she slips her hand into the crook of my elbow and squeezes, I know it doesn’t matter. She’s not looking at anyone but me, and not just because contractually she isn’t allowed to.
We step inside and follow all our normal movements, all the protocol that comes with being a gentlemen’s club owner and his assistant. Others would refer to her as a mistress, but I don’t like that word. I know the way it looks, but this is different.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask as we head straight for the Velvet Lounge.
“Moving along rather quickly…” she says subtly enough that only I can hear her.
“I know what I want. Why waste time?” I ask as we reach the door. As it opens for us, I look back at her. “I’ve waited long enough.”
Ellie smiles, and pink blossoms on her perfect cheeks. It’s early enough in the night that most people are still warming up. I see women flirting while sipping drinks, wearing gowns and cocktail dresses. The ones in lingerie are most likely on drink number two.
At the bar, she orders her usual drink, a sugar-rimmed and pear-garnished version of the Salty Dog. This time as she plucks the pear slice from the glass, her eyes lock on mine as she slowly brings the fruit slice to her mouth. It’s both provocative and nostalgic.
“I still remember the first time you sipped that drink,” I tell her as I take a sip of my whiskey.
“I was a mess that night,” she says.
