Huh?“Are you sleeping… in my room?” Since this is his house, it’s his room, but… what the hell?
“I want to be close by in case you have a nightmare.”
I stare at him slack-jawed.
“I don’t know what triggered last night’s nightmare, and I don’t know if you have them often, but if you do, I’ll be here for you.”
In a matter of minutes, I go through myriad emotions––turned on by a romance, freaked out and humiliated for getting caught re-enacting a saucy scene from my book, turned on by this man, and now… my heart is about to burst wide open.
How can a man I barely know care this much about me?
My family never gave two shits unless they needed me to act as their personal ATM machines.
My casual hookups were too short-lived for the guy to give a damn.
Most of the few ex-boyfriends I’ve had were selfish.
My father took a page from my mom’s book and never treated me like I matter.
Kaz Lindström is raising the bar way high.
Chapter 18
Don’t fight it
Harley
Kaz parks his Mercedes in front of a building I never thought I would ever set foot in again.
I swing my gaze in his direction. “This is New York, there are a gazillion discount clothing shops, secondhand shops, and I’m certain there are tons of sample sales happening as we speak.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but this is the most efficient way of doing it. It’s one stop shop.”
“An expensive one stop shop.”
He shifts in his seat. “I’m footing the bill. Speaking of which…” He pulls out his wallet and extracts a black card from it. “This is for you.”
I grab the card from him and I gasp.
“This is… a Black American Express with my name on it?”
Holy shit.
I never thought I’d see Harley Mackenzie Lancaster engraved on the iconic metal card in my life. The annual and joining fee alone are preposterous. Never mind the spendingrequirement to be a card holder. So not part of this broke girl’s reality.
“You can buy anything you need for the charity gala.” He says that with such casual nonchalance.
I arch a brow. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
This guy has lost his marbles.
I tap the black card without limit against my chin. “What if I want to arrive in style in one of those cars where the doors lift upwards?” I demonstrate with a hand gesture.
“You like wheels with butterfly doors.” He purses his lips and nods. “It might be a bit last minute to get a custom Bugatti pimped out for tonight. Same for the McLaren, but if your heart is set on one of those cars and you’re willing to accept a pre-owned one, that can be arranged. I can make some calls.” He pulls out his phone.
My jaw drops. “I was joking.”
