Chapter Ten
CHAPTER TEN
TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT
ELOISE
There’s a permanent scowl on my face.
It isn’t like I’m known for my effortless smiles or my ability to brighten a room. But I’ll blame this mood on today’s correspondence.
As I scroll over the details of the email on my phone one last time, I let out a frustrated grunt.
This man.
My lawyer has drawn up a contract, which is attached to this email. Feel free to read it over and send it back along with any requested changes.
I look forward to business and pleasure with you.
This… asshole .
It isn’t hard to picture the smirk on his face as I read that last sentence. The smugness. The audacity to think I am a sure thing.
I’m sitting in my car, trying to find any last-minute stash, a hidden reserve, of patience. But the longer I sit, the more my frustration festers.
My mother was a freethinker. She swore as much as she desired, revealed her anger in theatrical displays, and defended her irrational ways by using the word “feelings.”
Her feelings were important. They deserved to be acknowledged.
My father was reserved. He was delighted by her, of course. Entertained, for sure. But I admire the way he was able to love her and still be deeply rooted in his own identity.
All these memories serve to tell me that in this moment, I have to decide if I can button up like my father.
Or unleash my rage like my mother.
Today feels like rage.
I step out of my car and onto the gravel that leads to the impressive house before me. I’d heard that houses were being built on the outskirts of Cherry Cove. This is my first time seeing one and, even in my glorious fury, I can acknowledge the beauty of the building in front of me.
The gray home stands proudly, previously hidden behind trees and a long winding driveway, its tall windows and white trimming peering down at me.
The porch isn’t a full wraparound, like the one at home, but it’s long enough to house a few Adirondack chairs.
He’s been busy.
My fist bangs on the white front door just as the wind blows.
Part of me thinks Mother Nature is on my side, the clouds heavy and as gray as this house. I can almost smell the rain coming, can nearly hear the wind howling with its need to unleash as well.
“You’re early,” he announces as he opens the door. He’s barefoot and I wonder what kind of business dinner he has in mind with his T-shirt and cotton shorts on.
His smile pushes me over the edge.
“You think that just because you’re giving me some money, I’m going to fuck you?” My arms are crossed and I’m happy I wore heels, standing taller than I usually would.
His chuckle reeks of danger.
But I push forward, my brow lifted with challenge. “I don’t need the money that badly.”
“You do. But I don’t think that’s the reason you’ll fuck me…again,” he tells me, his voice quiet.
Too quiet for such a passionate man.
“You’re entirely too confident. It’s unbecoming.”
“Don’t play these games with me.” His voice is a little harder now as he braces the frame of the front door, but I stand my ground and ignore the stretch of muscles as he moves.
“What games, Mr. James?” I ask, lifting a brow, daring him to go toe-to-toe with me.
“The same intimidation tactics you use on the frail men around here who don’t have the wherewithal to fuck you right. I’m not them. I don’t scare easily.”
He says all of this with an ease that makes me tremble. I try to hide it with a scoff.
“Oh? Is that right?”
“I bet none of them have ever made you come as hard as I have.” He straightens as I touch my index finger to my thumb, my arms at my sides. “I could do it again, if you’d like.”
“It was a fluke,” I blurt out. “Nothing more than months’ worth of pent-up desire.”
“Truth or dare?” he asks, his question nearly interrupting me.
“Truth,” I tell him, opting to confess rather than be forced into doing something I may regret later.
“Can you count on your hands how many orgasms you’ve experienced? The ones you haven’t given yourself?”
Yes.
But I’ll never tell.
“That’s none of your business,” I grind out, sure that my flared nostrils are giving away my truth.
“You can either answer or perform a dare of my choosing. Those are the rules,” he reminds me, bringing his arms back down until they cross over his chest.
And they are. I’d read them in the contract I have yet to sign.
I could walk away from him, get in my car, and laugh all the way home.
And my laughter would turn into panicked tears because I have no idea what my Plan B would look like. I need the money that badly.
I look him square in the eye as I speak. “Yes,” I whisper, hating the fragility of my tone, the unleashing of my secret, the embarrassment at my lack of experience.
“But not for a lack of trying, I’m sure,” he responds, dropping his arms and stepping forward, and it nearly soothes me.
I close my eyes as I feel him near, hearing the floorboard squeak as he steps closer. I can sense him coming toward me, and it reminds me of our first kiss.
Of his sheer determination to shatter my world.
“Don’t,” I say, opening my eyes to meet his. “Let’s dissect this ridiculous contract so I can get on with my night.”
His facial features don’t speak of a man who’s just been rejected. No, his smile makes me wonder if this is a small victory in his eyes.
“First things first: how much are we talking?” he asks, peering down at me. I hate his height. I hate the way I imagine him pulling me against him and having to bend toward me to steal a kiss.
“What? Afraid to put your money where your mouth is?” I hiss out.
“Let’s not talk about the placement of things and mouths.” I hear his smirk even though he’s turned to walk inside. “Come in.”
I hesitate and he looks back at me.
“Yes?” he asks, pausing.
“Should I take my shoes off?”
His shoulders follow the turn his head has already made. Then his torso and his feet. Green eyes linger on my face, down my neck, and over my breasts. All at once, I’m hit with the sounds we made against the bookshelves when no one was around to warn me.
He peruses my bare legs beneath the hem of my floral dress and stops at the black stilettos currently pinching my toes—a splurge to make me feel better the day we put my parents in the ground.
They hadn’t been out since then, and it feels like my feet have grown in that time.
“You can do whatever you’d like.”
His voice is a quiet murmur, but there’s no mistaking the heat behind them. Not when it’s accompanied by a gaze that could burn a hole through me.
“Although, I don’t think there’s anything I like more than the sound of a confident woman in high heels.”
Confident.
I take the word and mentally tuck it away. I’ll need it for this meeting.
“Dinner is ready. Follow me,” he instructs, and I do follow him, allowing the click of my heels hitting the wood floor to fill me with even more confidence.
We walk through the empty home. There are no pictures, no sign of being lived in, no furniture to speak of. That is, until we step into the dining room just off of what should be the living room.
A long table sits in the center of the room, with candles lit and food spread. Assorted fruits, cheeses, salad, and what looks like a lasagna. Two chairs are positioned across from each other. Only those two chairs meet the table, as if the others had just been cast away in an attempt to have us seated closely together.
“You seem to have gone through a lot of trouble,” I say as his hand meets my lower back. When I jerk away, I swear I hear a chuckle as I choose the seat closest to me. “Completely unnecessary.”
“You’ll let me know how enjoyable life is if we’re only meant to do the necessary.”
He takes the seat across from me, and it’s only then that I’m able to take in the breathtaking view of the woods behind him. Large windows make up the entire wall, and I try to contain my sigh, but it spills from my lips.
“Even the impenetrable Eloise is affected by this beautiful view.” He leans in to grab the bottle of wine, gesturing toward me with it. I shake my head and he shrugs, pouring himself a glass. “A worthy investment.”
“Did you purchase this home?” I ask, trying to keep the shock from my voice.
“I did.”
“Why?” Who would choose to be stuck here?
“Again, I consider it a worthy investment,” he answers, patience in his measured words.
“Are you certain this will be?” My fingertips are pressed into the tabletop as I try to keep myself from feeling like I’m about to be outmaneuvered.
“No one can be certain, but I’m willing to take that risk.”
“Why?” I sit back, and somehow, I hate the way the slouch feels even more than I hate this discomfort of my insecurity. “Why do you want to take such a risk? Knowing I may not be able to ever pay you back.”
“Eloise, we’re here to discuss your payment,” he reminds me, lifting his glass to his lips.
I straighten again, my mind wandering back to the email.
I look forward to business and pleasure with you.
Smug bastard.
“I got in touch with a Benjamin Filucci,” he says. “He seemed pretty disappointed to hear from me and wouldn’t answer any of my questions.”
He sips his wine while I try to keep from wringing his neck.
“That’s what you get for trying to take matters into your own hands,” I mutter.
“I needed to know a ballpark estimate. For my lawyer,” he informs me as he sets his glass down.
“You need to stop trying to move so quickly.”
“You have two months. Maybe you aren’t moving quickly enough.”
“Don’t speak to me like I haven’t been doing everything in my power to keep that place from its inevitable end,” I snap.
“You’re right.” He leans forward, those green eyes unblinking. “I’m sorry.”
The crickets chirp as night falls outside. It’s a lullaby, something that’s soothed me more times than I could count.
“I’d rather we keep this between us. No one has to know. No one in town and not my sisters. They can never find out,” I tell him, my words quiet and my hard limits set out between us.
I haven’t touched anything on the table but as I stare at the place setting in front of me, I admire his style. White dishes, silverware so clean I can see the reflection of my hand that rests beside the spoon.
“So those are your terms?” he asks.
His pointed stare has me wondering if I’ve missed anything.
“I’ll spend time with you, play this strange game of truth or dare. And in return, you’ll give me what I need to save the bookstore. You hand me the money, I hand the money to the bank. Should I renege, the store will belong to you.” My lips quiver as I take a deep breath. “No sexual favors will be expected of me, and this ends on Labor Day.”
“Labor Day?” he repeats, his eyes widening a fraction. He’s different when it comes to negotiations. Far better than I am at a poker face. So that small reaction warms me.
“Yes.”
“And if either of us want it to last longer?” he inquires.
“We don’t have to worry about that,” I answer, waving the idea away with a flick of my wrist.
“Why not?”
“I can hardly to stand to be around you as it is,” I remind him, pulling my hands down onto my lap.
His chuckle has me pressing my lips together to keep the rage inside.
“I usually don’t have this effect on women.”
There is an emotion running through me; it’s a cocktail of disappointment, disgust, and jealousy. I’d so easily given myself to the man in front of me as if I had no self-control. Like I was the type of woman who belonged among many others, some sort of sexual trophy.
“They probably didn’t have enough time to figure you out before you were onto the next one.” My smug tone matches his, but his rebuttal is just as quick.
“You don’t have me figured out. You hardly have yourself figured out.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss, standing. The chair screeches behind me as he sits there with his wine glass in his hand.
I watch him as he sets it down, taking his time, and I wonder what I’ll face. His patience? His humor? His fury?
“Hard words from a woman who rarely swears,” he says, sitting back to stare at me evenly.
Patience. I’d spit on it if I could.
“You bring out the worst in me,” I state.
“I bring out the you in you.”
He stands now and we both stare at each other; my chest rising and falling quicker and with more gusto than his.
Barely a moment passes before we’re reaching for each other, our lips reacquainting themselves with a furious passion. He yanks me closer, and I grunt as my knee hits the table. We’re pushing things off the surface of the table with hands and knees, and when I’m flush against him, I melt into him.
Some men kiss you and you don’t feel anything. It’s lips to lips; a part of an act, leading up to what it is they’re really there for.
Ezra kisses me like he’s seducing my mouth. As if he won’t let any part of my body be utterly entranced by him.
Before I know it, my back is against the tabletop, and his hands are on my thighs, pushing them apart.
There is a need in my blood and a lust ringing in my ears as I feel his thumb rub against the lace of my panties before slipping his finger underneath the fabric.
“Tell me what you want,” he mumbles against my lips, and I’m taken back to the first time.
To the reckless devouring of each other, damnation on the horizon. Unbeknownst to me.
I hadn’t been chasing an orgasm; I’d been preyed upon by what could very well be my ruin.
“No,” I say, placing my hands on his chest and pushing the solid wall of it away from mine. “No. I don’t want any of this.”
“Eloise,” he starts but I shake my head.
“I said no.”
He sits up and I can’t look at him as I bring my legs together again.
I slide off the table, adjusting the skirt of my dress and pushing my hair from my face. My eyes are on the floor, on the scattered items now littering it. On the wine splattered on the wood.
“Where do I sign?” I ask, ready to get this over with.
“Come again?” He’s too busy picking up the mess we made in our disastrous desire to witness my tailspin into panic.
“Where do I sign so I can go home?” The question rushes out of my mouth, getting higher in octave despite my yearning to seem in control.
“You don’t have to?—”
“Please. There are so many things in my life that I regret,” I start, my words heavy. Rain starts to hit the window, and I stare at the inky skyline outside. “I don’t want to add something else to the list.”
I have no hard words left in my arsenal. I can’t give him little quips that are meant to sting, just to protect myself.
And if the tears come again, I’ll never sign the contract.
Even if it means protecting the bookstore.
“Okay,” he answers.
He steps out of the room, I assume to get the agreement, and I keep my eyes on the view. It all blurs together.
Fat drops of rain slide against the glass, and I watch the little rivers, wondering what makes the rain feel so solemn and poetic all at the same time.
Maybe it’s the idea that water is all cleansing.
“You can’t go home in this,” he whispers, and I glance over my shoulder to see him leaning against the doorframe, papers in his hands.
“I can and I will.”
Which is exactly what I do before the ink on my signature has dried.