The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

30. The Price of Me

30

THE PRICE OF ME

Gunnar

I am not for sale.

I can’t be bought for thirty days or for even one night. But it sure looks like that’s what Rafe is trying to do.

What other explanation is there for the timing of this deal to be the face—or cock—of his brand? I march back toward my house, building up a new head of steam as I go. The man made such a song and dance about honesty and then... this . This deal that makes it seem as if he’d own me.

I huff out a breath. I want to hit the treadmill. I want to lift weights. I want to move. I need to burn off this annoyance with a run that makes my thighs scream.

But I also need to see Rafe and get to the bottom of this latest move in his game of sex chess.

I stop by my place for my car, then peel away from Hayes Valley and cut across town. The route takes me toward the ballpark. My home away from home. The place where I feel most like myself.

Rafe lives near there, and when his building comes into view, I let out a long exhale of begrudging admiration. The dude is loaded, no doubt. He lives in the most exclusive skyscraper in the city, in the penthouse, of course. I drive into the parking garage, pull into a visitor spot, and cut the engine. In the elevator, I punch in Rafe’s key code.

5512.

Part of me feels victorious that I’ve earned his key code. But another part wonders if this was always part of his plan. Lure me, tease me, toy with me. Then own me. On the way up, I sort through what I want to say. How to handle this. I don’t have a plan because I’m moving through a haze of anger and shock.

When I step out on his floor, I can practically smell the greenbacks. Everything here is sleek, chrome, white—the decor screams if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it .

Rafe can afford anything. He’s all about money and honesty. That’s why he has that stupid fucking membership to his private club. Because he has more money than he knows what to do with.

When I reach his door, I rap loudly. Even my knock sounds irritated.

Rafe doesn’t make me wait. A few seconds later he opens the door, and I catch my breath with a hiss.

I missed him, and that makes me even madder.

He’s so stunning with those dark eyes and the chiseled cut of his jaw. He’s wearing blue jeans, something I’ve never seen him in. But I’m sure they cost a thousand dollars and they’re designer. He’s barefoot, and there’s something so sexy about that, as well as the crisp, charcoal-colored button-down that I want to rip off him.

My libido is not helping.

Nor is Rafe—the fucker didn’t shave this week. Rafe with stubble might be my favorite Rafe look. He’s Seductive Rafe tonight, because it seems he’s got a whole plan for me. Sexy music floats through an expensive sound system, a mix that sounds like D’Angelo or Sam Smith.

The man who wants me at any price holds a tumbler of scotch, the picture of cool.

“You’re here,” he says, so smooth and sexy. As if he knew all along I’d say yes to his arrangement.

Of course he did. He tried to buy my yes.

He leans in close like he’s going to give me a welcome-home kiss. I jerk my face away and step inside, kicking off my shoes. I don’t wait for him to tell me to take them off. Rafe is the type of guy who doesn’t let you walk around his home in your shoes.

In the living room, a stunning view pulls me toward to the floor-to-ceiling windows showing off the night beyond, the stars winking in the sky, the ballpark below.

I whistle. “Nice view.”

“It is. I rather enjoy being near the ballpark.” He says it like it’s an insider secret. He has so many secrets.

“Yeah? You’re not really a baseball fan though.” I toss it out like I’ve caught him in a lie.

“I think I’m becoming more of one,” he says and strides over to me. “I find I have quite an interest in the game these days.”

The game. That’s what I’ve always been to him. A fucking game. He who has the most money wins.

“Can I get you a drink, Gunnar? You seem tense.”

No shit, Rafe.

“Yes,” I say crisply. “I definitely need a drink for tonight.”

He arches an inquisitive brow, but he doesn’t follow it up. He has his plan of seduction, knowing I’m here and assuming I’ll just fall to my knees for him. I follow him to a liquor cart in the corner of the open living room, a bottle of expensive libation resting on a mirrored surface. He lifts the decanter full of bourbon, I presume, and pours some for me.

“Woodford Reserve Baccarat,” he says. “I thought you might like it, so I got it for you.” He hands me the dark liquid, another sign he’s trying to buy me. I’m not for sale, but I’m not turning down the bourbon.

I take the glass, and he lifts his. “A toast?” he asks.

This’ll be good. “What are we toasting to?”

“To our arrangement.”

That’s when I crack, hissing through gritted teeth. “Yeah, let’s talk about our arrangement. How you arranged for me.”

He blinks and steps back. “Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean,” I bite out.

“I don’t think I do, Gunnar.” He sounds genuinely flummoxed.

I’ll make it easy for him. First, I down the bourbon in my glass. The liquor scorches my throat and pushes me closer to my mission. Then, I set the tumbler on the liquor cart with a clink. “Why are you trying to buy me?”

His baffled frown deepens. “How am I trying to buy you?”

I scoff. “Give me a break. I’m not stupid.”

“Gunnar,” he says, his clipped tone on the edge of confusion and frustration. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But maybe you’d like to tell me.”

“Maybe you’d like to tell me why your company just made me an offer to be the spokesperson for the You Do You campaign?”

I’ve never seen Rafe Rodman caught completely off guard, wide-eyed and speechless.

“They made you an offer?” he asks when he recovers his voice and sets his glass down.

“You expect me to believe you’re in the dark about this?” Everything I know about him says that’s impossible.

We stand in front of his windows, the entire city at our feet.

“I met with my agent an hour ago,” I explain crisply. “Your marketing agency just offered me a deal to represent the You Do You campaign because of my thirst trap. The one for you. The one we fucking flirted over.” I point to him. “The one that got you to come to the goddamn ballpark. The one that started everything.”

My voice rises with every line. Passion and emotion storm inside me. What the hell is going on with me? I feel so much for this man that it’s consuming me. “And it’s a great offer. But I feel like you’re trying to buy my yes.”

There. I’ve put it all out there.

I expect Rafe’s cool reserve to slip into place, but he only looks mystified.

“I had no idea,” he says, as if he’s doing a lightning-fast scan of his brain for some clue. “I didn’t know a thing about this.”

None of this makes any sense. I shake my head, trying to sort out which is more likely—that Rafe is that good an actor or that he didn’t know the marketing plan. “It’s your company. You love your business. How could you miss that they offered me a deal?”

Rafe’s dark gaze pops with some realization, then he drops his head into his hands and says, “Because I fucked up.”