CHAPTER EIGHT
RILEY
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Heart thundering in my chest despite the alcohol-blood level in my body, I press the number he messaged me.
“Riley Scott,” Colt purrs in his sexy-as-hell American accent.
“Colt Winters.” I reply and my grin is so stupidly wide I drop my face so nobody can see me.
I told the girls I was heading to the bathroom, but I lied. I knew taking this next step and talking in person was bold. That it would change things, but I’m drunk, and the sun is going down.
I feel like living on the edge.
It’s all innocent fun at the end of the day. We are on opposite sides of the planet from one another.
Colt and I are both silent for a few long seconds and I wonder if he expects me to say something funny or sexy or intelligent. He’s going to be majorly disappointed if he does.
“You called,” he says, his voice gravel.
I rub my arms as a shiver rushes through me. If he was standing in front of me, I would melt into a puddle of desire. If that was at all possible.
“I don’t know why. This is stupid.” Suddenly I feel dumb. He’s not making any effort to make this easy for me.
I feel vulnerable and want to hang up.
“I said I wanted to hear your voice.”
“Well, this is it. I’m real. Not a bot, if that’s what you thought.”
“Bots don’t send sexy pictures.”
“They weren’t sexy.” I cringe.
“Trust me, Riley, they were sexy.” His voice is like malt and whiskey, smooth and confident.
What would it be like to have sex with such a rich and powerful man?
My core clenches, imagining him sitting at home in his big, fancy penthouse. In front of his fireplace is a big rug on which he makes love to a woman .
“Where are you?” I ask, hearing the huskiness in my voice.
“At work.”
Oh.
“You’re always at work. At least tell me you have a big rug and fireplace.”
Silence.
“At my workplace?” Colt asks.
“No, at...never mind. Goddamn wine!” I rub my forehead.
“I have a gas fireplace in my apartment. Why are we talking about fireplaces?”
I am not explaining that one. Closing my eyes, I throw back my head, feeling like a complete dork.
“I don’t know why I called. This is...what is this? What are we doing?”
I hear ice tinkling in a glass despite the noise surrounding me. “Why does it have to be anything?”
Right.
It’s nothing.
“Okay. Um. Well, this is my voice. No need to send the Navy SEALs my way.” I clear my voice and get ready to say goodbye.
Colt chuckles, and the sound sends the butterflies in my tummy, which are already adrenally burned-out insane.
“How are you getting home?”
“Bus.”
“Is that safe?”
“Safer than driving. I’ve been drinking.” I shrug even though he can’t see me.
“We’ve established that.” More tinkling of ice. “Shouldn’t you catch an Uber?”
“Oh god, no, do you have any idea how much—” I trail off, remembering who I am talking to. Mr. Colt Winters, billionaire. “I mean, how long it would take to get an Uber. There are hundreds of thousands of people at the festival.”
Silence.
“Catch an Uber, Riley.” His demand is strong but calm and makes me shiver.
“Bossy.”
“Trolls are bossy,” he purrs.
“Sorry I called you a troll. Maybe you aren’t.” I spin on my heels like I’m a coy eight-year-old girl.
I don’t want him to hang up, despite how awkward the entire conversation has been.
He’s quiet again.
This time for a long moment.
“It’s better if you think I am,” Colt finally says. “Message me when you get home.”
I blink. “Why?”
“So that I don’t have to send the SEALs, Riley. Do as you’re told.”
I smile, my cheeks hurting at how this man makes me feel.
“Riley.”
“Yes?” I almost whisper.
“You’re fucking beautiful.”
Then the phone goes dead.
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ALL I WANT to do when I return to my friends is go home and lie in bed dreaming of Colt. I want to close my eyes and hear his smooth voice.
I want to go over and over all the things we said.
I want to imagine his fireplace and him drinking his grown-up drinks—much more grown up than my pink sparkling wine—and how he’d pull my legs across his lap if I were there. His big hands sliding up under my skirt, spreading my legs and slipping his thumb under my panties.
You’re fucking beautiful
Gardening shorts.
I snort to myself. If only Cole knew that under my outfit I’m wearing a pair of silver and black lacy panties and matching bra.
Balconette even.
My nipples almost peeking out the top.
Why I want him to know, I don’t know.
Sorry I called you a troll. Maybe you aren’t.
It’s better if you think I am.
I know I shouldn’t, but I add the photo I took while getting ready...the one in just my lingerie. I hover my finger over the send icon.
Don’t do it.
Do. Not. Do. It.
Fuck it.
I’ll probably never speak to him again.