He rakes his fingers through his thick, light brown hair. It’s buzzed on the sides, but longer on top, and his impromptu combing makes it stick up in a mess that makes him seem even younger.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking at me with an expression of capitulation.
He gave me a peek at the layer underneath his veneer, and I wish he hadn’t. Because now my sense of duty kicks up a notch, and there is no way I’m going to deny him my company.
I still don’t understand why he isn’t with someone from his circle, with one of the long-legged bombshells he probably spends time with normally. Why me?
I shouldn’t spend a day with him. It makes no sense. I’m a decade-older woman with a failing business who lives in a small apartment in Brooklyn.
He is rich, powerful, successful, and a ridiculously attractive playboy. There is nothing we have in common besides a group of friends—his partners who seem to have snatched up all my girlfriends.
His chin dips as he stares at me, and there is a veil of honesty in his expression I haven’t seen before.
And as much as this friendship, or whatever this is, makes no sense, I realize we have something in common.
We’re both tired and lonely.
I clear my throat. “There must be someone—”
“I had more fun with you at that gala than I had in as long as I remember. You’re real, genuine… unlike anyone in my circle. Sue me for wanting more of that.”
I expect him to joke or bullshit me, selling me a version of himself he so skillfully dazzles the world with. While his words ring true, I don’t think he would freely confess his feelings to his peers. He trusted me. Perhaps because we’re not close.
It’s easier to confide in me. I don’t matter in his life. I won’t use his words against him. Perhaps that’s why he’d want me to fill the gap.
And if I allow myself a moment of selfishness, the idea of one day that is completely different, almost illicit—stolen away from the everyday grind—sounds very appealing.
“Where would we go?”
The smile my question brings to his face is blinding. It’s not his usual grin, which I’m starting to think is about as real as a wax figure’s smile.
“Let me surprise you.” He winks, and the playful playboy is back.
And while I find this side of his personality annoying, and quite frankly ridiculous now that I suspect there are other layers to him, I’m willing to put up with it.
“No shenanigans, Stone,” I warn.
He offers me his arm. “It has never crossed my mind.”
Of course it hasn’t. I’m not his type. But for a moment, as I snake my arm through his, I allow myself to picture how it would feel to be chosen by Xander Stone.
Forget the age gap, the financial gap, and all the other gaps that separate us… I have a feeling we could have a lot of fun together.
I banish the thought as quickly as it blossoms, because it’s a ridiculous fantasy.
“Don’t make me regret this.” I sigh.
“You’re going to ask for more. And that’s a guarantee.” He gives me his cocky grin, and I roll my eyes.
Xander offers me his hand to help me out of the car. We’re in the underground garage of a swanky hotel on the Upper East Side.
“A hotel? Really?” I glare.
“You will like it here.” He locks the car, and we walk to the elevators.
“We agreed no shenanigans,” I scold, but my admittedly rusting lady parts weep.
I have been buried at work, and it’s been too long. Unfortunately. Because hooking up would be preferrable to my current celibacy.
