CHAPTER FOUR #3
I can’t help the small, satisfied smile that escapes. Seeing this girl flustered is both unexpected and oddly gratifying.
“Dude, you should tell your trainer to up your weights. Since I took you down twice in one day.”
She leans in to examine the angry red mark blooming on my chest, her fingers—surprisingly gentle—trace the outline of what will no doubt become an impressive bruise. My skin ignites wherever she touches, a completely different kind of electrical current now racing through me.
I should be terrified of her. She literally brought me to my knees tonight. But goddamn I want more of it, more of that delicate press of her fingertips against my bare skin.
Do not focus on her hands. Not her pale, soft skin. Not the fact that she smells like jasmine and fresh morning coffee. Not those red lips that are inches from my chest.
Her touch softens further, featherlight fingers stroking across my pecs with hypnotic rhythm. The pad of her thumb catches on my nipple, and we both gasp. Then—as if burned—she jerks her hand back.
“Oh yeah, that’s gonna bruise. Let me get you an ice pack.”
She practically sprints to the mini-fridge and yanks the door open so hard the whole thing wobbles.
“So…” Petra says, her head buried in the freezer, “what was that nonsense you were spouting about Amanda? Something about teenage vampire blood and a lake house. Sounded like a weird Twilight sequel. ”
I freeze. The haze of post-taser delirium had me forgetting the Amanda situation and the well-rehearsed story we’d agreed on.
“She’s at her family’s lake house. Her mother’s recovering from a procedure.”
For a moment—a single impulsive, reckless breath—I consider telling her the truth.
“Anti-aging treatments,” I say instead. “Her mother is very dedicated to them.”
“Rich people. Always finding new ways to avoid reality.”
Petra places a plastic freezer bag in my hand, filled with small green balls. The weight is substantial, the cold seeping through instantly.
“You’ll have to forgive me. I don’t have ice cubes in my budget. This should work.”
I lift the bag, eyeing it with deep suspicion.
“Are these… narcotics?”
“God, I wish. No. It’s cookie dough.” She unzips the bag and holds it under my nose. “Take a sniff, Moneybags. I promise they’re not edibles, though I would love to see what you’re like high.”
The scent hits me immediately—sweet, earthy, with a weird green tea aroma.
“That funky smell? Matcha,” she says, grabbing a dough ball and tossing it into her mouth like popcorn. “Fancy word for ‘dirt that tastes expensive.’ Matcha chocolate chip, my specialty.”
“You… make cookie dough to freeze?” I ask, trying to imagine this menace in eyeliner whisking away in the kitchen.
“Pro tip for single life survival: Always have emergency cookie dough on standby. My friends and I make giant batches and freeze ’em. Then when life sucks—and spoiler alert, it always sucks—you can reward yourself with warm cookies on demand. ”
I press the bag to my ribs and hiss as the ice-cold dough sears against my skin. “Christ!”
“Aww. Poor baby. Billion-dollar body, two-cent pain tolerance.”
I grunt, repositioning the bag. “Are these ‘friends’ guys?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to bite them back.
Smooth, Sterling. Real subtle.
“Spying for my brother, B?” she teases. “Tsk, tsk. Very uncool.” She pops another ball of dough onto her tongue.
“Not men. Katie and Camila. My besties from college.” She licks a smudge of chocolate from her thumb with deliberate slowness.
“But for the record, dudes do love my cookies, if you want to include that in your little spy report for Gavin.”
I adjust the makeshift ice pack over my heart to hide the heat creeping up my neck. Pain ignites. “Holy mother of—”
“You definitely need drugs. I’m making dinner, and you’re eating. I’ve got painkillers that require food.” She heads toward her kitchen area then glances back with a devilish grin. “But if you want a cookie, you better be a good boy and take your medicine.”
The words “good boy” in that husky voice of hers does irreparable damage to my insides.
While Petra bangs around in her sorry excuse for a kitchen, I take the opportunity to further examine my surroundings.
Stacks of textbooks are shoved into every available space—Contract Law, Property Law, Civil Procedure. Thick volumes with sticky notes and highlighter explosions leaking out the sides.
Law books?
I push up off the couch with a groan, wandering over to the closest stack. I open my mouth to ask— Why law books? —but then something else catches my eye .
A record player.
Not just any record player.
The record player.
The same vintage turntable that was in her teenage bedroom, perched atop a milk crate overflowing with vinyl. The exact setup from that graduation night seven years ago when she kissed me and my world slowed down—for a fleeting moment.
“This is quite a collection you’ve got here,” I say, flipping through the albums.
“Well, there’s no Mozart in there, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
I keep flipping. Led Zeppelin. Fleetwood Mac. Nirvana.
And then—
Heart. Their Bad Animals album.
My pulse spikes. The primitive art design on the cover reminds me of Petra herself—raw, powerful, untamed. But more importantly, it holds track two, the song that was playing when her lips touched mine.
“Mind if I play something?” I say before my brain can stop me.
“If you think you can resurrect that fried record player, be my guest. It’s been dead for months. Which sucks because pawning that thing was my backup plan to make rent this month. My ‘Nips for Tips’ campaign’s been underperforming lately. Guess even the creeps are on a budget in this economy.”
I slide the album back into the milk crate as she approaches, juggling two mismatched bowls in her hands.
“Dinner is served, Your Highness. Feast of champions. Zero Michelin stars guaranteed.”
“What exactly is… nips for tips ? ”
“Basic bartending economics 101. No undergarments increases revenue.” She gestures toward her chest with the bowls. “The girls earn their keep.”
Do not stare at her breasts, Sterling. You are not a hormone-addled teenager. You are a grown man. A professional. An heir to billions. Stop. Looking.
I’m definitely still looking.
I cough into my hand, immediately wincing as pain shoots through my taser-fried muscles.
Petra grins, knowing exactly what I was looking at.
“Okay, tough guy. Let’s feed you before you pass out and sue me.”
We settle onto the couch, and she drops two white pills into my palm, passing me a chipped glass of water.
“What are these exactly?”
“Like Tylenol, but stronger. Trust me, it’s fine. Probably.”
“You inspire exactly zero confidence.”
“Relax. They’re not roofies. If I wanted to take advantage of you, I wouldn’t need pharmaceutical assistance.”
I choke mid-swallow. Why do I have the impression that’s not a brag but simply plain fact?
She hands me a steaming bowl filled with a vibrant, unnaturally orange… pasta?
“Eat up. Those pills need food, or you’ll be barfing all over my vintage couch.”
I raise my fork, eyeing the bright-orange mound, then take a bite. “Your mom used to make this when I’d stay for dinner!”
“I remember!” she says, laughing. “You thought it was a science experiment. And you’re right, it is. Nuclear-orange goo that’s pure magic. But it’s gotta be Kraft Mac & Cheese. I’d rather eat out of a dumpster than go generic.”
“Marcel, my personal chef, would hate how much I’m enjoying this,” I mutter, chewing.
“Oh my God. That’s the most billionaire thing you’ve ever said.”
We both go quiet, totally absorbed in our bowls. Petra polishes hers off and places it on the coffee table with a CLINK.
“All right, B. Why were you lurking outside my bar like a handsome stalker? I’m enjoying this twisted little reunion, but we aren’t in each other’s lives.”
Tell her what’s going on. Tell her you’re leaving Heartvest. Tell her you feel as though you’re breaking something with Gavin you can’t fix.
“Your brother wants you in Mexico. I came here to convince you.”
“I figured. The answer is still no.”
“Think about it logically. In exchange for a paid vacation in a private Mexican paradise, you’ll get your college paid for.”
“Look around, Moneybags! Am I a person who makes decisions based on good financial plans?”
“You said yourself you need the money.”
“And I’ll figure it out like I always do,” she counters, chin jutting forward defiantly. “Without selling my dignity to be my brother’s performing poodle for his bridezilla fiancée.”
“It’s eight days, Pip. That’s it. Why are you being so stubborn?”
“Eight days of pretending to be someone I’m not for people who’ve never respected me. No amount of infinity pools or free champagne is worth that.”
The conviction in her voice floors me. What the hell can I say to that ?
Then I feel it—the drugs kicking in, my body sinking deeper into the couch, muscles liquefying.
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you further,” I mumble, my words slurring, “but I think I need a nap… right here. Just a little.”
“Lightweight,” she teases, but her expression softens as she grabs a blanket from a nearby heap and lays it over me.
“I’ll be over there if you need me,” she says, pointing awkwardly toward her bed. “Normally I sleep naked, but I’ll keep the goods covered tonight. You’re welcome, Moneybags.”
My eyes betray me instantly, drifting to where her nipples press against the thin cotton of her T-shirt. I rest my head against the couch, my vision blurring.
After a good night’s rest, I’ll convince her to say yes.
For Gavin.
That’s why I’m here.
That’s the only reason.