He rolls his eyes, a cautious smile broadening across his lips. “My dad’s bourbon and I’ll be sure not to pass on your compliments, otherwise, he might realise it’s missing.”
“Come in,” I say, waving him towards a seat and closing the door. “Why are you here?”
Trent pulls out a chair but doesn’t sit. His eyes move around the room, like he’s looking for something or someone. His gaze shifts to me and his smile deepens. A tingle hits me, right in the belly, spreading out a warm glow until it’s like there’s a fire banked in there.
I hope he’s come to see me. I hope it’s for a good reason.
It’s been ages since I had a boyfriend. A proper one. So long since my thoughts even travelled in that direction, but a large blond rich boyfriend seems like it would hit a multitude of spots. He’s hitting some hard already, and he hasn’t even asked me on a date.
“I have a proposition for you,” he says slowly, his voice rich and buttery, rich and satisfying, or maybe it’s just that it sounds filthy, filthy rich.
“Oh, yeah?” I arch my eyebrow because I know it makes me look playful. Lean forward because I know that even with my relatively modest blouse it makes my breasts look perky especially when I press my elbows closer together as I immediately do.
I lick my lips slowly, biting on the corner, wondering how many more moves I have up my sleeve because he still hasn’t asked me anything and the clock’s tick tick ticking on the wall behind me.
“Um, yeah. So, someone told me you were a prostitute, and I wondered if you’re… I don’t know how to word it properly… like, available? To hire.” His eyes cautiously examine my face. “For a job.”
My smile freezes in place as my stomach drops. As stunned as if he’d slapped me in the face. “Sure, we can talk about that.”
I struggle to find the right tone, to keep my voice light so he doesn’t know how disappointed I am. So he doesn’t know the stupid daydreams I’ve been playing out inside my head.
“Just hold on a second while I grab a cup of coffee. You want a drink of anything?”
“I’m good,” he says, sitting when I wave him towards the seat.
In the kitchen, I pop on the kettle, then grip hold of the bench, pressing as hard as I can, focusing on my clenching muscles instead of the disappointment.
It’s okay. You need a new client, anyway. This is good.
Good. Yes, good.
Except I’m in no fit state of mind to take this boy on as a client. Not when I’m hiding in the kitchen, hoping I can drive back my urge to cry before I need to go back in the room and smile.
You don’t need a boyfriend. You’ve already got far too much on your plate.
True. Although, it would have been good to have something nice heaped on one of my plates for a change. Something less like hard work. Something to remind me I’m a teenager and meant to be enjoying myself while I’ve still got the energy.
The kettle boils and I tip my head back, so any tears reverse trajectory and get sucked back in. I make my coffee and plaster a smile onto my face before walking back through to the table.
“Now, what was this proposition?”
CHAPTERSIX
TRENT
When she walksout of the kitchen, I can’t stop staring. There’s so much more to her than I remember. So much more than I can see on the tiny screen of my phone.
Over the long weeks since the party, I’ve revisited her in my memory, time and time again, but the edges had curled, the image faded. Now, here she is, in full colour and bright as a thousand stars. My eyes eat her up like she’s a buffet and I’ve just come off a week-long fast.
Beautiful.
My memory downplayed the shine of her hair, how the soft waves of it bounce against her shoulders. It didn’t catch the gleam of brightness in her eyes, how it looks like she’s on the verge of tears even though her smile is luminescent.
She’s so perfect, I feel a pinch of desperation. I’ve imagined the end product so many times that if I can’t get it—now I’ve finally worked up my nerve to ask—I’ll be devastated.
No one else will do. My mind has inserted her into the role too many times to settle for another.
“Don’t worry,” she says in a soft voice. “Take your time.”
