Chapter 8 – Morgan
8
THIS IS MY BED… WHERE ARE YOU SLEEPING?
MORGAN
The car slowed to a stop in front of a sleek, industrial-looking building in SoHo. I stared out the window, my confusion deepening. This wasn't the penthouse Lance had taken me to with its cold, minimalist decor and sky-high views. This place felt different—warmer, more lived-in, more... private.
My stomach twisted with something between wariness and curiosity.
"Where are we?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady as I climbed out of the car. "This isn't your penthouse."
Lance's expression revealed nothing as he grabbed my bags from the trunk. "It's my place."
My radar pinged. For someone so blunt about everything else, his evasiveness felt deliberate.
The first thing I noticed inside was that the warm, eclectic loft was nothing like the ultra-modern penthouse where we'd slept together. The second was the stunning view of the Hudson River, with walls lined with art from around the world. I recognized a ZCon portrait and some Xander Chase photos right away. And was that a Winston portrait? Holy shit, it was My Queen —the sunset piece from the Winston Isles. The model was rumored to be the actual Queen herself.
"This is your place?" I asked, eyebrows raised. "Your actual place?"
Lance tossed his keys into a bowl by the door without looking at me. "What clued you in? The fact that I had a key?"
I narrowed my eyes. "Glad to see your inner asshole is still intact."
He rolled his eyes. "Yes, this is my place. Why?"
"You took me to the penthouse before," I said, rolling my shoulders and keeping my voice neutral, even as my mind raced. "Not here."
Something shifted in his gaze, but he quickly shuttered it. "The penthouse was closer that night." Then he added more softly, “I was feeling impatient if you recall.”
Closer. Right.
I watched his face carefully for any flicker of emotion, any tell that would reveal what he wasn't saying.
Is that fair?
Maybe not, but I was emotionally bruised from growing up with Dad.
I’d learned nothing was that simple and outside of Gwen, it was better not to trust…anyone. Especially after this last time. I didn’t trust myself to take anything at face value.
"So the penthouse is what—your convenient fuck pad?" The words came out harsher than I intended.
Lance's jaw tightened. "It's an investment property. I usually rent it out, but it was between tenants."
I didn't believe him. Not entirely. There was something in his eyes, a guardedness that reminded me too much of my father when he was hiding something.
"And you just happened to have a fully furnished penthouse sitting empty?" I pushed, wanting to see how far his evasiveness would go.
"Morgan." His voice took on that warning tone. "Does it matter?"
Yes. Yes, it mattered. Because I'd spent years of my life accepting convenient explanations from my father, only to discover later something had been hidden from me to get me to comply.
"I just want to know which version of you is real," I said quietly. "The one with the sterile penthouse or the one with Winston portraits."
He studied me for a long moment. "They're both real . Just different sides. It’s not a big deal. I would have brought you here if it had been closer."
Different sides. Like how my father was both the supportive dad who funded my art studio and the manipulative businessman who controlled my every move.
"Right," I muttered to myself as I tried to reconcile myself with who Lance actually was. On the surface he was uncomplicated. But underneath...
He shrugged, like having an incredible loft in SoHo wasn't a big deal. "You probably don't remember, but I sold some apps right after college. I invested in property after that. This was one of the first places I bought."
I hadn’t known.
It was like I didn't know him at all. Then again, he'd taken me to his fuck pad downtown, not here where the real Lance apparently lived. I made it a point to remind myself of the journal entry I'd seen. I needed to hold onto that.
"Here, let me show you where you can store your stuff. I'll make up the couch, then tomorrow, I'll get someone in here to see about a Murphy Bed for the office. For now, you can keep your stuff in my closet. I had a smaller den modified into a closet so there's plenty of room," Lance said, breaking the silence.
He led the way upstairs, effortlessly carrying my bags and giving me a perfect view of his... everything.
Goddamn it, Morgan. Get your shit together.
He opened the door to a spacious bedroom, all white with Manhattan landscapes adorning the walls. He dropped my bags at the foot of the bed.
"Hopefully the closet's big enough for all your stuff."
I didn't want to be grateful. I didn't want to appreciate anything about this. Lance had crushed my heart that night I refused to talk about. Not just my heart—he'd crushed my spirit. I didn't think I'd ever recover.
But he was right. I needed a place to stay. I couldn't go home. I couldn't crash at Atticus and Gwen's during construction. Devon was moving. Micah had been hotel-hopping, so he wasn't an option.
And here I was.
"Thanks for this," I said, forcing the words out. "You didn't have to. I would have figured something out."
Lance sighed, looking genuinely frustrated. "Morgan, one of these days, you'll be able to just say thank you and leave it at that."
I narrowed my eyes. "And one of these days, you'll learn not to be a complete and total asshole. Unfortunately, today is not that day."
He sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. "Are we fighting already? We can do that if you want, or you can just admit that you needed help, and I helped you. Not a big deal."
"You helped me, sure. But why? What do you expect? I already told you—I'm not fucking you again."
His eyes darkened, and he took a slow, deliberate step toward me. "Is that so?"
My body betrayed me, my traitorous lady parts immediately perking up at his voice.
Come on, girl. Just a quickie?
No. Absolutely not.
Okay, hear me out. How about a dry hump?
Absolutely the fuck not.
A make-out session?
I squared my shoulders. "You heard me. I feel like that needs to be a ground rule."
Lance's eyes glinted dangerously as he stepped closer. That electric tension I always felt around him was back, crackling in the air. With every step he took, my resolve weakened.
"Princess Morgan," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, "let's be really clear. You can pretend all you want. I'll even let you live in your little delusion that you don't want me. But if you ever again act like that night was anything short of fucking spectacular, I'll call you a liar."
My breath hitched as he came closer, the air between us thick with tension.
I let out a broad laugh, though my pulse was racing. "You had your chance. You should have performed better."
His smile darkened, and he looked at me like he knew exactly how much I was bluffing.
"You're pushing it, Spitfire."
I turned my back on him, heading for the bathroom. "If you don't mind, I'm getting ready for bed. It's been a long day, and I was kidnapped."
"Kidnapped?" he asked incredulously.
I glanced over my shoulder. "Yeah, kidnapped. What do you call this? You're forcibly holding me against my will."
Lance shook his head, chuckling. "If it wasn't for your sister, I would've left you there."
My chest squeezed. There it was. The Gwen-shaped elephant in the room.
"Right. Because this is all for Gwen's sake," I muttered. "She'll be so proud of you."
His brow furrowed, sensing the shift in my mood. "Morgan, I'm bullshitting. I wouldn't have really left you there. Gwen or no Gwen. I'm not that much of an asshole."
I looked away and flippantly said, "Whatever. Doesn't matter. I won't be here long."
Lance choked out a laugh, dark and amused. "Oh, is that what you think? Cool. But just so you know, I'm not letting you out of my sight until Atticus and Gwen are back. So get comfortable, Spitfire. It's going to be a long two months."
God, two months resisting the devil. I grabbed my overnighter from him and was lightning fast in the bathroom. When I stepped out in my favorite eggplant short set, his eyes flickered over me, darkening as he took another step toward me, his fingers slowly working the buttons of his shirt.
"What the hell are you doing?" My voice came out more breathless than I intended.
He didn't stop. Another button slid free, revealing the smooth skin of his chest.
"Getting ready for bed," he said in a low, velvety tone.
I hated the way his words sent heat pooling in my stomach. I hated even more that I couldn't trust him. That I couldn't tell where the real Lance ended and the performance began. It was like living with my father all over again—never knowing which version was showing up.
I plugged in my phone just as a text came in.
Sperm donor: Final payment artist co-op refunded
The accompanying image showed the pro rata funds paid to him. I blinked back the tears and slapped my phone down.
Dad really thought I was going to crumble. Well, I wasn't. I'd had enough of men deciding what was best for me, hiding their true motives behind convenient explanations.
"What's the matter?" Lance asked from the general vicinity of the closet.
How the hell did he know something was wrong with me? I was not pouring my heart out to him. Being vulnerable in front of a man who couldn't even be straight with me about where he lived was not high on my list.
"Nothing. Just a friend saying good night like usual."
I could have sworn there was a tiny tick in his jaw. "You and this friend often say goodnight to each other?"
In for a penny, in for a pound. "Yes, in fact, we do."
I watched in fascination as his muscles bunched in the act of tugging off his shirt. The man wore nothing but pajama bottoms, and the V was v-ing, pointing all the way to the promised land.
"What I find really funny, Spitfire, is that when I said I would make up the couch, you assumed I'd make it up for myself. You're in my bed."
I blinked at him slowly, then let my gaze drift down to what must have been thousand thread count sheets. Damn it. "The couch was for me?"
"The couch was for you. I made it up while you were in the bathroom. You can stay here if you want, but the twist is, I'll be in here with you. Hope whoever you're saying goodnight to won't mind."
The sheets felt warm, and they had this light woodsy scent to them that made me want to burrow deep. I didn't want to leave, even as alarm bells rang in my head. "I'm not leaving this bed, Lance."
He flashed me the devil's own smirk. "Suit yourself, but I'm sleeping in this bed tonight, so make yourself comfortable."
He was dead serious.
Relax, it's a California King. You don't even have to touch him.
After dividing the bed with several pillows, I tried to make myself comfortable.
"You know," he said after a long moment, his voice low, almost teasing, "if you really want to sleep with me again, all you have to do is ask nicely."
I rolled my eyes even though he couldn't see it. "And give you the satisfaction? Never."
I could practically feel his smirk in the darkness. Despite the wall of pillows between us, I was acutely aware of his presence—and the fact that I still didn't know which version of Lance I was dealing with. The man with the sterile penthouse who'd broken my heart, or the man with art on his walls who'd come to my rescue.