The weight of Julian’s body and the movement of his hand and the feel of his fully clothed body against mine are enough to make every nerve ending in my body work toward one common goal. When my orgasm hits me, I lose the ability to speak. My body tenses, my spine curling, and I’m helpless against the power of the climax.
He collapses onto me, his ear pressed against my beating heart as I stare at his ceiling, letting my body sing its quiet postorgasmic song.
Rule #22: If anyone accuses you of having a heart of gold, deny it at all costs.
Julian
While Freya finishes getting ready, Archer heads down tohis own apartment to freshen up. I make a call to Delia, telling her we’re ready to put in an offer in for the restaurant. My fingers drum quietly on the tables as Onyx purrs in my lap, and I stroke the back of her head.
“I’ll get the paperwork sent over right now,” Delia says through the line. “I’ll be back in touch as soon as I can.”
“Thanks, Delia,” I say before hanging up the phone.
Pride swells in my chest, letting the reality of this sink in. I’m helping someone who deserves it. This money is going to something good. After only knowing this girl for two weeks, it’s incredible to me how important this has become. How good it feels to help someone so genuine, so deserving.
I’ve never known anyone with such conviction, but I know that she’s going to work her ass off to make this restaurant a success. She’ll pay us back because of her own integrity, because she’ll want to, even though we don’t need it. Any fears I mighthave had before about going into business with someone new, someone I’m romantically entangled with, are gone.
It feels like so much more than that now. This doesn’t feel like just a romantic entanglement. These two people have somehow become important to me. That conversation with Freya on the couch bubbles up to the forefront of my mind.
It’s not often I face my own insecurities. Why I constantly feel so bitter. Why every morning, I erect this armor between me and the world. Why I refuse to let anyone in. I wish it made sense, but it doesn’t.
But I started to get the feeling that Freya could see this part of me that I keep hidden. She looked at me as if she wouldn’t immediately judge me or reject me if she knew the truth.
The only ones who truly know are my family, and they have vowed to tell no one. My sister might be more forthcoming with her own condition, but I’m not. And I never will be.
Suddenly, as if on cue, my phone starts ringing in my hand. Glancing down, I seeDadacross the screen. Letting out a sigh, I hesitate before swiping the call and answering it.
“Hey,” I say in a flat, lifeless tone.
“Hey, son,” he replies in a better mood than I do. “What have you got going on today?”
I glance up toward my room, hearing Freya hum to herself in the distance. My family doesn’t need to know all the details of our relationship yet.
“I’m hanging out with some friends,” I answer him.
“Some friends?” he asks. “That’s great.”
“Why did you want to know?”
“Well, I was hoping to see my son. Is that a good enough reason?”
“I guess,” I mutter despondently.
This sense of guilt swims inside me, and immediately I blame it on him. All my life, my dad has been older. Older than my friends’dads. Older than everybody else’s dad. And now he’s…eighty-two.
Sometimes I swear he calls me like this, begging to spend time with me, only to make me feel guiltier when I say no, because I know that my days with him are numbered.
And I know that’s even more reason to say yes and to get in this precious time when I can, but instead I prolong the inevitable. When my dad—or even my mom or my sister or Jack for that matter—does eventually leave me…it’ll just be easier if our relationship isn’t any closer than it is now.
I’m just saving myself the heartbreak.
Is that selfish of me? Am I just a self-fulfilling prophecy, the selfish brat of the billionaire? Never satisfied. Never putting anybody before himself.
“Don’t worry, son,” he replies casually. “Glad you’ve got some friends to spend the day with. Another time then.”
I swallow the stinging pain growing in my throat. “Yeah, another time then,” I reply flatly.
Freya walks out of my bedroom a few minutes later with her typical Freya style, a bohemian-type skirt with chunky black boots, a loose-fitting blouse covered by a snug jacket. Around her wrist are a set of bangles, and a green emerald necklace adorns her neck. On her fingers she has rings like me. Her hair is in waves parted on one side and draped over her shoulder, and she’s giving me a soft, angelic smile.
