Chapter Sixteen
Elliot
O h my God.
I just suggested he go rub one out in my bathroom.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
The man also was about to make a move and I pushed him away…
Okay, okay, I get that one, because it’s going to end in hurt, a world of it, for me if I kiss him again and it wouldn’t have been a kiss. It would have been a whole lot more and he makes me… He makes me feel alive.
Even though he never says the right thing. I don’t know why, and I don’t know what this is, except I want it from him. And I’m more than aware he wants me because he can’t have someone else. Anyone else. Hell, it might be built into his DNA to hit on a woman. I don’t know.
That hurts, but it also rocks my foundations a little.
Makes me unsure of myself. Which is ludicrous.
I’m confident. I know my place—I like my place. I like the shadows and staying there. I like quiet affairs of the heart with someone smart and level and who treats me with respect. I’m not unwanted, I’ve had partners, relationships. I’ve had men want me, and yes, I’ve turned men down.
But never one like Ryder.
I’m shaking, and I sink down to the floor, leaning my head back against the door.
Bottom line is it doesn’t matter if he wants me for me or because I’m a warm body whose mind he likes. If I let him, if he did it right, if he turned that Ryder on, the one who is so smooth and electrifying, I know he’d have me naked in moments.
No. I’d have me naked in moments. No matter what he meant, if anything at all.
And I hate that weakness.
I’m not weak.
Except when it comes to him.
How the hell am I going to get through the next three weeks?
Because I was dealing with the microcosms that keep cropping up when it comes to him. His scandal couldn’t have come at a worse time for him. Because the couple involved are famous. Worse, they’re hungry for it, and whether their marriage is real or fake, or over privately, in the papers and magazines and online it’s not. Opinion sways. That’s one reason I created the relationship for him with me.
That way I can control it. Sure, I tried to find someone, but this is better—for him.
But the way he looks, his history, his wealth, it’s all catnip to the paps. And he could spend a year as a monk and one article could keep him from reaching his goals. So I’ve got things in motion.
A soft tapping at my door draws me from my thoughts.
“Elliot?”
Crap. He’s all I need. The questioning tone I need even less. Because it’s vulnerable and confused and… And how does he do that? Flip the script?
I’m not even sure that’s what he’s doing, but it feels like it because he’s hotter than the sun and I’m…I’m me.
Someone who doesn’t fall for his kind. Ever.
Yet here I am. Hiding.
“Yes?”
“Can you open the door?”
I push myself up the door and put my hand on the knob but stop, leaning my forehead against the wood. “I don’t think that’s smart.”
He’s silent a long time and I’m half hoping he’s given up. But finally, he speaks. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Yes. No. Nothing. Everything. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. You took off.”
“Ryder…” Thing is, he doesn’t get it, doesn’t see that something he does like he takes his next breath is huge for me. And asking if he did something wrong, I just…it’s all jagged and sharp edged. Because would he ask someone else? I can’t shake that feeling he wouldn’t have tried something if we weren’t in this situation. If he wasn’t in this situation. And that makes me stupid and weak and all the things I dislike.
“Ryder,” I say again, “you’re my client.”
“So?”
I breathe out, wanting desperately to turn that knob. Wanting to step out and just go with whatever happens.
“So, we belong in two different worlds. You like the limelight. I hate it. You…you don’t do relationships and I do. We’re working together.”
“You know, Elliot,” he says, his voice soft and close like he’s leaning against the door on the other side, and the silly part of me can almost feel him there, that vibrating awareness, that pull. “I get it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. You’re not into me. You don’t see me that way.”
I’m going to regret my next question. “What way?”
“Like I’m long term. Like you want something deep and romantic with me.”
He has no idea and my hand starts to turn the knob when he speaks again.
“And that’s okay. It’s not me. I’m not that guy. But I like you. I’m attracted to you and there’s something between us. I’m not an idiot and this is one area where I’m pretty much a fucking genius, so I know you feel the same, and you feel that awareness. So, I don’t know. Friends with benefits.”
My hand slides to the lock and I click it into place.
I don’t want him coming in here again.
“Good night, Ryder.”
And with that, I go to bed.
My work schedule is complicated. Ryder is complicated. I try not to think about that night a handful of days ago, but it’s hard. I could have had him. Could have thrown caution to the wind and accepted that offer.
A one-night stand? They happen. Nights of passion that go nowhere except into friendship? They happen. And relationships, too. I’m no stranger to any of those things. But I don’t do friends with benefits.
I’m not against it. It’s just not a scenario I can see myself fitting into. If I make room for someone, I want a relationship. I want them to want me the way I do them—all of them. And Ryder Sinclair doesn’t give his all to anyone.
Oh, in the moment, I’m sure. And—
Nope. I’m definitely not going to imagine him having sex and what it’s like.
Instead, I go back to my complicated micromanaging and molding of Ryder.
Maybe that’s all it is. I have to spend all my time with a hot man. It’s no wonder I’m crushing hard, no wonder I want him. I’m immersed in him.
Problem is, I thought the longer I spent doing this, the weaker the attraction would get. But he’s more than he seems on paper. And every layer is intriguing. Both the good and the bad.
The last two nights I needed a break. And I also needed to spend time working out our next phase.
And just like some kind of kid with burning ears, Ryder arrives in my office. Without knocking.
“No one was at the desk, so I came on in.”
“It’s almost seven, Ryder, and my receptionist has a life.”
There’s a half smile on his face. I know why. Lena is hot and just his type and she’s told me all about her fantasies about him. He’s probably got similar ones to hers.
“Pity. She seems…nice.”
I narrow my eyes. “She’s off limits to you.”
“Hey, I just said she seemed nice, not that I wanted to bone her.”
“But you would.”
“I’m pleading the fifth. Besides…” His gaze slides over me in my suit. “I like you.”
I finish up, grab my bag and coat, and we head out into the SoHo night.
As we head to an upscale bar on Orchard Street, I give him a low glance. We find a table—Ryder can always get a table—and settle in. “Drinks are the plan?”
He’s ordered drinks and fries. The drinks arrive in short notice, just gin and tonic for me and a mescal on the rocks for him, and he sets his gaze on me. Waiting.
I shrug. “No one’s going to buy it if you just go out to galas and work events, or just see your brothers or we stay in. You go out. So we go out.”
“And you let me choose?”
I shrug again. “You have taste, Ryder, and this is a nice bar.”
The fries arrive and he takes one, and Lord do they smell good, they’re lightly spiced with smoked paprika from the earthy, sweet scent that carries that rich hit of smoke, so I take one, too, and moan.
“Jesus,” he mutters, eating his. “They’re good, but not that good. Or is that erotic sound you’re making for my benefit? Because I gotta tell you, Perry, you don’t need to up that game to hook me.”
“They’re that good. Not everything’s about you.”
I forgot to have lunch today so the fries are perfect, and heat coils and licks within me at his words, and the gin just gives the heat a boost.
He laughs. “Are you sure? Because the latest Ryder Sinclair Weekly mag came out, and it said I was.”
“You have problems.”
“Nope, it also says I’m pretty much perfect.”
“Do not—” I shake a fry at him “—make me launch these at you. They’re too good.”
“If I’d known this is what it would take to get you making hot sounds, I’d have been feeding you fries from Basic since day one. What else gets you going?”
“Idiot.” This time I do throw one at him. Ryder catches it and eats it. “I’m going to the bathroom. Try not to get into trouble.”
“Me? Never.”
I head off, and after I use the facility I take my time washing my hands so I can think. Ryder’s a little softer now, more relaxed in his role.
The other night, I was too caught up in the moment to see it, but I think he really can pull this off. He’s chosen a place that’s him but not flash and sizzle. It’s not full of models and the kind of hot women he’s photographed with. This isn’t even the kind of place that draws the attention of the paps.
It’s neighborhood, happening and upscale, yes, but it’s small, too.
Even his flirting with me is more laid back. I don’t think he’ll ever stop that. I think flirting is as much a part of Ryder as his charm. But he’s not angling for anything like he was the other night. Oh, he made the comments about the erotic sounds, but that’s Ryder, right?
And I know he likes me, likes spending time with me. But that’s neither here nor there. This is about him and the change in him.
Maybe it’s real, maybe it’s an act, but if it’s an act then he’s doing a stellar job. I buy it, and if I do, then the board and his mother might too.
Who knows, if it’s an act, it’s one that comes from a place of sincerity, not cynicism. And that means real change, if he wants it, can happen. What’s that line? Fake it till you make it?
There’s a lightness to my step as I turn to leave. But it thumps down the moment I step out into the back hall of the bar. A woman stands in front of the single occupant bathroom and she blocks my path. Someone else starts to ask about the bathroom, but she waves them past.
She’s looking at me, her beautiful face cool and narrow-eyed.
There’s no need to ask. Ryder slept with her at some point. She has that look and she’s up his alley.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
Her gaze travels over me and her perfect nose wrinkles, her mouth twisting in a delicate sneer. “Have his standards fallen so far?”
“Obviously, I can’t, so if you’ll excuse me, I have my boyfriend to get back to.”
The word feels so weird, so alien, as I say it. Normally I’d never go there, and I know she’s not media of any kind, not officially, but there’s social media and for the next few weeks I’m watching my mouth because anything I say that’s used online can be way more powerful than an article.
But the word is a trigger and the woman’s face turns ugly with hate. “Boyfriend? Maybe, but you’ve got to have something on him. And trust me, a man like Ryder Sinclair, who looks like that, will never in a million years be faithful to someone like you.”
“Or maybe he knows real quality when he sees it.” Inside I’m shaking. But not on the outside.
Even if Ryder was mine, I’d never give trash like this the satisfaction. And this isn’t unexpected. She thinks I have something she couldn’t get looking like her—Ryder. As in basically living with him. Going out with him. Sure, she slept with him, but that isn’t the same as a relationship.
Not that I have him, but she thinks that.
It’s almost laughable. But I don’t make that mistake.
“You’re not quality—”
“Maybe not. But Ryder thinks so.”
And without another word, I step around her and head back into the main part of the bar.
Our table is empty.
With a sinking heart and a flash of something hot and jagged-edged, I see Ryder. At the bar.
In conversation with a gorgeous blonde in a low-cut top and painted on black shiny jeans.
Oh, hell no.
His hand is on her hip and she’s giving him the sex eyes.
I don’t think. I just do.
I march over there. Time to break it up.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand.
And Ryder’s dark gaze swings to me.