17. West
CHAPTER 17
WEST
The next day, I’m waiting outside the front doors when she returns home. I’ve spent almost a solid six hours in remote meetings, discussing the latest expansion of Cal Steel, and the sight of her washes it all away. Chases away the headache that’s been drumming at my temples.
She gets out of the car with two large bags, a pair of sunglasses on her head, and parted lips. “West?”
“Welcome home.”
“You’re here? Waiting for me?”
“I am.”
She lifts up one of the bags and gives me another curious look. “You’re not here to tell me off, are you?”
“And why do you think I’d do that?”
“Because I left Fairhaven.”
“It’s your right to.” She took her guards with her, and despite what she might think, I’m not her jailor. Never have any intention of being so, either. I open the door for her. “I’m not angry at you. But we can pretend that I am, if you like.”
Her lips part. “You mean…”
“Practice arguing. You haven’t had much issue standing up to me in the past, so it shouldn’t be too hard for you.”
“That’s different. You’re different.” She pauses in the doorway to my home, and then her shoulders straighten. “Okay. Tell me off.”
The determination in her voice makes my lips twitch. But I don’t let any of that amusement bleed into my tone. “Where were you?”
“Out,” she says. She puts her bags down on the checkered marble floor. “I brought guards. Amos and Miguel. I even stopped to get us all burritos between errands. I went to two fabric stores, one bookstore, and a coffee shop. I made sure the guards were feet away the whole time.” She turns to me, fitting her hands to her hips. “Are you pleased, my fearless leader?”
My lips curve. “That’s an exaggeration, wouldn’t you think?”
“You’re right. Despot. Dictator .” She takes a step forward, and her smile morphs into something sweet. “Is that better?”
“You’re doing spectacularly,” I tell her. “And who said you’re allowed to go out?”
“I did. You don’t set my schedule. I followed every single rule.” She grabs one of the large bags stuffed with fabric. I take it from her and shift it to the hand farthest away so she can’t steal it back.
“Feeding your guards is not part of our deal.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No. It’s practical. Do you know whether they have allergies? What if Amos has a severe gluten intolerance and your kindness puts him out of commission for three hours? Who will guard you then?” I step past her to grab the bag of books. It’s far heavier than the one stuffed full of fabric.
“Where are you going with those?”
I head for the stairs. “Your workspace.”
“Amos isn’t gluten intolerant.”
I look over her shoulder. “Why do you know that?”
“Because he ate bread. And he was able to perform his very boring duties of walking five feet behind me without keeling over in pain. I asked what they’d want, and he said he loved a place down the street.” She follows me up the stairs, her heels clicking against the wood. “Why wouldn’t I be allowed to buy lunch for my guards? That’s ridiculous.”
“They’re not your playthings.”
“I don’t treat them like they are. Which is why I fed them!”
“Not your pets, either.” The irritation in my voice isn’t entirely staged. Amos is tall, handsome. He has an easy smile, and he’s around her age, too.
“I bet they do a better job if they’re well-fed. Also, unless any of them file an HR complaint, it’s officially none of your business.”
“I hire them. I pay them.” Shouldering open the door to her studio space, I tilt my chin to tell her to go first. “It’s decidedly my business.”
“You’re being an ass.”
“Did you want to go to the place Amos suggested, or did you please him by choosing it?”
“Don’t overanalyze everything I do,” she snaps.
I set the bags on the large table Ernest must have put in here for her. In the center of the room, right next to two mannequins and a sewing machine. “Did you buy half the store?”
“I bought some books. For inspiration.” She takes a deep breath and glances at me. “And I’ve agreed to the guards. I want the guards. But how I interact with them is up to me, not you.”
I look down into one of the bags to hide my smile. “You should have let me pay for all of this.”
“What? No. This is my collection.”
“And you’re my girlfriend.”
“ Fake girlfriend.”
“Fake or real, you’re mine,” I say. The words feel better than they should. “Take my card next time.”
“I’m perfectly capable of funding this collection. It’s mine.” She takes a step closer, and I catch the scent of her. Flowery shampoo and clean woman. “If you’re so eager for me to spend your money, I can think of more fun things to buy.”
“If that’s meant to be a threat, it’s only making me intrigued.”
“So if I spend it on buying lunch for all my guards every day,” she murmurs and tilts her head. “You’ll love that, will you?”
My jaw works. “As long as it’s my money you’re spending and not your own.”
“I’ve been a professional model for years. I have a savings account.”
I reach into my back pocket and slide out my wallet. Grab one of the black cards and set it beside her on the working table. “Use mine.”
“You know that I don’t like it when men pay.”
“I know. It’s on your list.”
She grabs my card, turns it over, and runs a finger over the embossed name. Weston Calloway. “People think it’s stupid. A few of my girlfriends tell me I should accept any free dinners and drinks that come my way.”
“Do you think it’s stupid?”
“No.” Her fingers curl around my card, and she looks back up at me. “I’ve told you—I hate when men have expectations of me. If they buy me stuff, well…”
“You don’t owe them shit,” I say. We’re supposed to be arguing, but this is too important. “You don’t owe your mother a career, and you don’t owe a man kisses or another date just because he chooses to pay for a meal.”
“I know it intellectually. But it’s not that easy.”
“It is that easy.”
Her eyes flash. “No, it’s not. Disappointing people is not easy. If it was, do you think I’d be the way I am? Maybe it’s easy for you. You’ve never struggled with speaking your mind.”
“Which is why I know it’s easy.”
She rolls her eyes. “Just for that, I’m going to take this card and spend it on all kinds of stupid stuff.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll think about it. But you’ll be too afraid to upset me for real to make good on it.” I take a step closer, and she braces her hands against the worktable behind her. “I wish you would.”
“If I do it, it won’t be to make you happy.”
“Well done.” I slide a finger under her chin and tip her face up. Her eyes spark with the look I’ve come to crave. Surprise. Excitement.
Curiosity.
“You’re so good when you’re fighting back,” I tell her.
“I’m starting to like it.” Her words are whispered, laden with guilt. Like it’s an admission.
I slide my thumb over her lip. “You’re pretty when you stand up for yourself.”
“That’s not why I do it.”
“I know. But that doesn’t make it any less true.”
Her breath warms my thumb. “Is this when we practice ending an argument?”
I drop my hand. She’s not mine to touch. I know that. Not outside our practice sessions, outside the fake game we’re playing in public. And I’ve forgotten.
“Yes.” My voice comes out gruff. “You were right. You’re free to do what you like with your guards.”
She nods a little. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your concerns. And that I got so heated.”
“I got heated, too.”
“I guess we have that in common.” She looks at me like I’m something new, something she’s never seen before. “Are we good?”
“We’re good,” I tell her. “And I mean it.”
“I mean it too.” She digs her teeth into her lower lip for a second, distractingly pretty, beautifully earnest. “I won’t bring it up again. Or hold it over your head.”
“I won’t either.”
“Good,” she says.
“Great,” I say.
A smile breaks out over her face, and it makes something tighten inside me. Like a ray of sunlight peering in through the large half-moon windows in this room that was forgotten, the furniture covered with sheets, before it became hers. “I’ve never had closure like that before.”
“How did it feel?”
“Good. A bit silly.” She shrugs again, and the smile stays in place. “We weren’t really arguing.”
“No. But can your nerves tell the difference?”
“Not really.” She glances down at my card, still in her hand, and then slides it into the back pocket of the white jeans she’s wearing. “Thank you.”
“I meant what I said about that. Practice getting used to men paying for things for you too. If you want.”
“Yeah. Thank you.”
I shouldn’t ask her for this. Have been considering it for days, whether it’s a good idea or not. But the glittering of her green eyes is an invitation, a door ajar. “Want to pretend for me tomorrow night?” I ask. “We can combine a lesson with being seen in public again.”
She tilts her head. “You need a date?”
“I do.”
“Where are we going?”
I open my wallet again. This time I pull out the playing card that was delivered a few days ago. It’s an ace, and scribbled on it in a flowing cursive is a date and an address.
And on the back it says come play in red ink. Beneath it are two words. Paradise Lost. The party’s theme this time. Considering the address, the theme has been very deliberately chosen.
Nora turns the card over, her eyes narrowing. “Oh my god. This is the invite?”
“Yes.” I hesitate only a moment. “It’s a… special kind of party. People go there to gamble.”
“Will we play?”
“No. But we need to be seen.” The stalker won’t be there. He better not be. But some of the world’s most powerful people will be. They always show up to these parties, and in the haze of the night, they’ll all see that Nora is with me. That she has my protection. It’ll filter down the chains, back out through the network. The Calloway and the Montclair.
“We’ll need to put on a show,” she says, and her gaze slides back up to mine. “Won’t we?”
“We will, trouble. Will that be a problem?”
“No. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Maybe we should practice that,” she says. “I’ve never been a girlfriend before. Never engaged in… PDA.”
Everything in my body tightens. “You want to practice the physical part of dating.”
“No.” Her cheeks spread with the most delicious color, and she looks back down at the books she bought. “Well, yes. Sort of. Apart from fighting, we haven’t… touched.”
I’m undone.
By her voice, by her asking for what she wants, and by the openness in her expression. She’s not sparring with me right now. She’s offering up another truth.
“When we’re in public, when I’m pretending to be…”
“Mine?” The word feels better than it should.
“Yes.” She worries her teeth between her lower lip. “What would that look like?”
“How would I touch you?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
I reach for her hand.
I’ve touched her before when we practiced self-defense. I had my hand on her low back at the party. But threading our fingers together between us, in the silence of the large room, feels like the first time we’ve touched.
“Like this. I would be touching you. Often.”
“Holding my hand?” She’s looking down at where we’re joined.
“Yes. I’d have my arm around your waist. Like this…” I do just that with my free arm, sliding it around her narrow waist and flattening my palm against the low of her back. Like she’s actually mine to touch. Like there’s not a million reasons why I shouldn’t.
Nora’s eyes land back on mine. “That’s good.”
“Yeah? It’s good?”
“I mean, it’s okay. I can do that.” She’s nodding a few quick times, now, like she’s embarrassed.
“If we’re sitting next to each other, I might do this…” My hand trails up her back, finding the soft ends of her hair. I wind them through my fingers. “Make sure everyone knows that we’re together.”
“That you’re mine, too,” she says. Her pupils are wide, and her hair is soft between my fingers.
“Mhm. You’ve got pretty hair.”
“Thanks.” She places her hand flat on my chest. Carefully, gently, like she might hurt me. It would make me smile if I wasn’t so dialed into this moment. If it didn’t feel like I might shatter with one word.
“I could touch you too?” she asks.
“Yes. You can.”
Her fingers spread a bit, pressing firmly against me. But not pushing me away. “If we want to sell this, it would be good if we kissed.”
It’s like she’s punched the air right out of me. Want shoots down my body, electrifies the nerve endings it passes by. My eyes dip to her full lips.
If she only knew how much I’ve thought about doing just that.
It would send her running.
“From what you’ve told me, men have kissed you when you didn’t particularly want them to.” I reach up and slowly push a tendril of her hair back. Her eyes are on mine, and the air grows taut, like before a storm. “I’m not going to be one of them. You’re done kissing men just to be nice.”
“It’s more that they sometimes just lunge. I never understand why they do that.”
“They lunge. What do you mean?”
“It’s like they think this is their moment, and if I meet their gaze for a second too long or smile too nicely and there’s even a hint of intimacy in the air, they just pounce.” She shakes her head, a flush creeping up her cheeks.
“Sounds like you’ve kissed the wrong men,” I say.
“Maybe, yeah. Probably. It’s like I always end up two steps behind the pace they’re setting.” Nora looks back at me, and there’s a question in those eyes. A question I’m not sure she’s brave enough to ask.
So I ask it instead. “If you want to practice kissing, trouble, practice it with me.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
The question would make me laugh if it wasn’t asked in such an earnest way. If the blood in my veins didn’t immediately rush south, if my hands didn’t tighten into fists at my sides. I’m a bastard for taking any pleasure in this.
“No. And from what you told me, I’m guessing you’ve been kissed. You haven’t kissed someone. Is that true?”
She sways closer, just an inch. Nods once.
“Then this is all you.” I tilt her head up. “You decide, Nora. You decide when, how long, in what way. You don’t think about me. Okay?”
Because I’m going to enjoy this regardless of what she does.
Because I’m going to hell, but I need to make sure that this is about her.
“I can… kiss you?” she asks. Her voice vibrates, half excitement and half nerves. But her deep green eyes don’t stray from mine.
“Yes.” It’s all I can do not to add please .