Chapter 8
8
CARLEE
T oo many wandering eyes watch him watching me. His gaze follows my every move. I keep my head down and focus on the sidewalk as we part ways. Cameras take snapshots of everyone leaving Ambrosia, just in case they can expose something later.
I’m aware pictures of me and Weston will be released eventually.
I understand how the gossip life works and navigate it as cautiously as possible. Too many rumors swarm around Weston, and he pretends it doesn’t bother him. The truth is, it does when what’s being said are blatant lies.
He’s one of the few men at his level who can handle the truth being told about him, whether it’s beneficial to his image and ego or not. It’s why he’s never faulted me for what I wrote about him. My words were his reality.
I slide into the car, careful not to glance over as his sleek SUV pulls away.
Those little flutters in my stomach morph into a roaring desire, and I know I should ask his driver to take me home. It’s the proper thing to do, considering I unapologetically make moves on him when I’ve had too much to drink, and my inhibitions are down. This song and dance—it’s a classic, one we both know by heart.
When alcohol mixes with my blood, I swear on unholy things that Weston Calloway desperately wants me. It’s a heady fantasy that I remind myself of constantly, nothing more.
I’m nearly giddy from the thoughts of him, and a hiccup releases from my throat. It’s a telltale sign that the five—or was it six?—martinis might’ve been too much.
The world outside my window blurs, and each stoplight stretches on for an eternity. The lingering taste of gin and vermouth dances on my tongue. I close my eyes and drift off, letting the hum of the city wash over me.
When the car door gently opens, I jolt awake and laugh at my ridiculousness. I forget where I am until I glance up at The Park building.
“Apologies,” Weston’s driver says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Totally my fault. Thank you,” I reply as I step out.
Twenty-five minutes slipped by without me noticing, but I needed that power nap. Maybe now my head will be clearer.
I glance around the perimeter of the building that stretches across several city blocks as I search for the reflection of ambient light against long camera lenses. Paps being here isn’t out of the realm of possibilities. They snapped several shots of Lexi with Easton in this very spot.
The public knows I’m Lexi’s best friend and that she lives here.
If someone photographed me right now, most would assume I’m visiting her because we hang out weekly. In the articles that have mentioned me, I’m described as her longtime best friend from college. My full name is rarely used, and I’m happy to be an embellishment in her life.
I enter The Park with a pep in my step, knowing it’s safe inside. Too many influential people own penthouses in this building, and privacy is required. It’s on Billionaires’ Row for a reason—they’re the only ones who can afford it .
The lobby buzzes with activity, typical for a Saturday night, and I feel like I’m floating. A group of women brush past me, and one pauses, backing up to meet my eyes.
“Valentino?” she asks, tucking her dark brown hair behind her ears, her enthusiasm noticeable. “Love that style. Crepe Couture, I believe.”
“Yes,” I reply, grinning.
She looks familiar, but her name escapes me, like the final note of a song just out of reach. It will come to me.
“Excellent choice. It looks stunning on you.” Her voice is bright, and she smiles.
“Thanks.”
She strides toward the front door, and the sharp click of her heels echoes against the marble floor as she meets up with her friends.
I linger beside a tall potted plant by the elevators, my thoughts spiraling around Weston’s date tonight. The way he interacted with Naomi was more Easton-coded than he realizes.
He made eye contact, flashed his charming smile, and devoted his full attention, but the spark—that effortless flirting I’m so accustomed to seeing during his interviews—was absent. Like he’s broken.
A few minutes drift by, and I refresh the browser I had open earlier.
A new article grabs the headlines.
Naomi and Weston: Power couple potential.
Naomi had to leave their dinner early due to business. It’s rumored they’ve already planned their second date.
The internet loves to ship Weston into relationships. Each time a new woman is mentioned, Lena gives them more content to run with. They bait her, and she goes public with her opinions, throwing as much shade as possible while trying to stay relevant. She doesn’t realize she’s an entire circus with the entertainment she provides. It makes me feel sorry for Weston .
When I look up from my phone, I spot him .
Dark hair falls above his bright blue eyes that seem to pierce through my facade. He adjusts his suit jacket like he walked right off a Dior runway. While he’s polite and charming in public, he reveals a softer side in private, a side he only shows me.
His gaze catches mine, and it sends a wave of warmth through my chest. He runs his fingers through his messy hair, adding a touch of effortless charm that I find irresistible. A genuine smile spreads across his face, and I can’t help but mirror it.
He’s always happy to see me.
“Hi.” He moves closer, gently hooking his pinkie with mine and pulling me with him. The single touch causes electricity to race through me as he guides me inside the elevator.
As the doors slide shut behind us, Weston releases my hand, pressing his thumb against the reader. In an instant, we shoot upward toward his penthouse.
“I’ve never been to your place before,” I admit, my pulse quickening with excitement when I study his kissable lips.
“You’re always welcome to visit,” he replies, his voice smooth.
Weston easily disarms me with a single glance.
“Really? Do I get a key?” I laugh, glancing away to collect myself.
I struggle to keep my composure when he looks at me intensely. It’s easy to imagine we’re the only two people in the universe.
“Consider it done,” he says.
“I was only kidding,” I tell him.
“I’m not.” He smirks. “Your wish is my command.”
“Are you my genie in a bottle?”
“No, babe, because I’ll give you more than three wishes.”
“Why don’t you bring this side of you on your dates? This is what women want,” I say.
“You don’t think I know what women want?” He blinks at me, being cocky as fuck .
Oh, he knows. God, of course he does.
I can’t look at him; the urge to capture his mouth takes over.
Thankfully, the elevator doors slide open, and Weston guides me out.
“Thank you for tonight. You’ve spoiled me,” I say as we move into the foyer that mirrors the Diamond in the Sky.
“There’s so much more to come.” He shoots me a wink.
This entrance has a unique charm that feels distinctly like Weston’s style. Very modern with moody lighting.
I glance at him, not able to hide my smile. I could wrap my arm around his neck and taste him. Would he kiss me back?
“Don’t start shit,” he says, almost as if he can read my mind.
“Not sure what you’re talking about,” I mutter, wondering if my wants are written all over my face.
“Oh, keep playing innocent. I find it endearing as fuck.” He presses his thumb onto the pad, and the main door opens.
I enter first, and I’m filled with anticipation as I walk farther inside. The glow of the city lights spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm halo over the space. A shiny white grand piano stands as the centerpiece, offering a stunning view of the park, covered in a blanket of snow.
“Do you play?” I ask, picturing his fingers dancing over the keys while taking in this breathtaking scenery.
“Not anymore,” he replies, turning on the overhead light that floods the room with a cozy warmth.
Despite its size—two stories high, wrapped in glass, with an expansive view—the place feels lived in.
Mail is sprawled casually across the bar, and the pillows on the couch aren’t aligned. There’s a lingering scent of him, almost like cedar. It’s familiar and comforting.
I step closer to the piano and trace my fingers along the cool, polished keys. The silence breaks as a playful sound fills the air. I lean over, plucking out the opening notes of “Heart and Soul.” The melody is bright and nostalgic as I use my two pointer fingers .
“It’s from Big with Tom Hanks. Ever watch it?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
I can sense him pulling inward as he lights the gigantic fireplace. The flame catches and burns bright as it licks up the side of the glass. He holds his hands out in front of it, then glances at me.
“What’s on your mind?” Curiosity meets his tone.
I grow quiet, a giveaway that I’m in my head, swimming with my thoughts—something I do a lot.
“Tonight, I realized there are a lot of things I don’t know about you,” I say, moving to the edge of vulnerability.
“How is that possible? You’re a Westoncyclopedia ,” he says, smirking.
“Not yet,” I admit, watching him watch me. I see an expression I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. I can’t read him. “What’s on your mind?”
“I had the urge to paint again,” he says, almost confused.
My mouth falls open. “You paint?”
“I stopped four years ago, when I stopped playing piano. But I think you’ve inspired me.” A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You’re fucking gorgeous. Wow. ”
“Weston,” I whisper.
“I won’t hold that back for your comfort.” The confidence in his eyes is mesmerizing. “If you’re told, maybe you’ll start believing it.”
My willpower crumbles as our eyes meet.
“What are your plans for next Friday?” he asks, changing the subject.
He sheds his suit jacket, tossing it casually on the back of a stool. I can’t help but notice the rich blue silk lining that echoes the color of his eyes—the same color in the jewelry boxes. The dark gray vest and tight button-up shirt hug his body. He carefully removes his cuff links, placing them next to the mail, and loosens his tie. His biceps flex as he removes his accessories. It’s casual yet somehow intimate .
“Already back to eye-fucking me.” He chuckles, breaking the spell. “Didn’t take long.”
“Blame the suit,” I reply, my heart racing as I try to convince myself it’s just his clothes that captivate me. I clear my throat as the weight of anticipation floats in the air.
“About Friday, I’m going on a date,” I offer.
He nods. “You are?”
“Do you remember how Lexi said my ex’s name?”
“You flipped out about it, yes,” he says, dropping a large ball of ice into two glasses. He fills it with an amber liquid and then hands me one.
“Sam texted me. I think I’m going to meet up with him on Friday.” I wait for a reaction, but he conveniently doesn’t give one. When I turn my head, my mouth falls open when I notice the shimmery water outside. “You have a pool?”
“Yes. It’s heated.” His voice vibrates through the space.
“Can we go swimming? Please?”
Weston tilts his head. “It’s twenty-two degrees outside.”
“And?”
I grab the sliding door handle, my heart racing as I step out onto the balcony with my drink in hand. I shudder under the cold breeze as I bend down and dip my fingers into the warm water. Steam rises from the top. A wave of excitement floods over me, and I can’t resist.
Weston appears beside me, the bottle of bourbon in his hand. His presence radiates a blend of mischief and allure. I glance back at him. The cool night air mingles with the warmth of the pool as I set my drink down. I reach behind me to unzip my dress, letting it cascade down around my heels.
I can feel his eyes on me, and it makes my heart race. I look over my shoulder, standing in my delicate black lingerie, and offer him a teasing smile.
“Joining me?” I ask .
His eyes don’t deviate from mine as I dive headfirst into the inviting water.
When I resurface, laughter dances in my chest. Weston stands on the pool’s edge, the moonlight casting a silver sheen on his muscular frame.
“It feels amazing,” I say, a smile breaking across my face. “You should join me.”
“It’s the dead of winter,” he replies.
“Yep. Peer pressure,” I say. “Are you scared?”
I lean back, dipping my hair in the warmth.
A heartbeat passes, and he unbuttons his shirt, revealing more of those tantalizing tattoos that cover his skin. My gaze stays glued on him.
“What are you smirking about?” His belt clangs to the ground.
“Nothing,” I say, loving how warm the water is, trying to ignore the smoke show in front of me but failing.
My eyes slide down his body, and it’s all curves and dips and ink like he was sculpted from stone. In those boxer briefs, he looks like a bad-boy underwear model covered with tattoos. Confidence drips off him.
“Damn,” I say in a hushed whisper.
“And to think, you removed me as your hall pass. But don’t worry; you can change your mind.” He bursts into laughter, and in one smooth, fluid motion, he dives into the pool, muscles rippling as he slips beneath the surface.
His head pops up, and he slicks his hair back.
“I hate that you know that.”
“I love it,” he says and swims toward the edge of the pool to grab the bottle of bourbon.
“If I pulled the card right now, would you have sex with me?” I bluntly ask.
Silence.
“Oh, so you’re not going to answer?” I ask.
“No, because it’s a trick question. ”
I keep most of my body submerged and study him while treading water.
“You would,” I say.
“I’m not sure what I’d do in that situation,” he admits. “I haven’t been with anyone since Lena.”
I study him. “That’s over a year.”
“You sound shocked,” he mutters, swigging back the liquid.
“Every date you’ve been on has been a decoy?” It’s still hard for me to process. I’m still searching for reassurance.
“When I filed for divorce, I made a pact with myself. One I will not break for anyone.”
My eyes twinkle with curiosity.
“LadyLux once wrote that I rushed things with women, and that’s why I’ll never be happy or find real love. I think she suggested I get to know someone first.” He glares at me incredulously.
“Okay, I did say that. But I don’t get how it’s relevant.”
“I require one year of casual dating before sex. Relationship building first. Physical second,” he admits, completely vulnerable.
“Jesus, Weston.” I scoff. “No woman will want to wait that long to be with you.”
“You’d be surprised,” he says with a brow lifted. “A year of getting to know someone isn’t that long when you’re discussing forever.”
“This is a joke, right? You’re Mr. Playboy. Fuck ’em and forget ’em. Bag ’em and tag ’em.”
“Not anymore. Now that sex is out of the picture, other things hold more weight. Like conversations,” he says.
I shake my head. “Well, I wish you all the luck in the world. And I’m sending prayers for whoever you date next. Poor thing is going to be so sexually frustrated, especially when you look like this.” I shiver from the cold and smile. I’m sexually frustrated, and we’re just friends. “I’m happy though. That means things with us will stay the same for at least a year. ”
My eyes trace over the ink on his shoulders and arms. I don’t want to think about the things I’d do to him if we weren’t stuck in the friendzone.
“Your tattoos are fascinating,” I say, moving closer to him.
I’ve only ever studied them in photos. It’s not lost on me this is the first time we’ve actually been alone.
“Easton drew them,” he mutters as my fingers tracing over his biceps.
“It’s beautiful that you’re decorated with your brother’s artwork. And before you say anything, I know they’re different,” I offer, grabbing his hand and pointing at the tiny diamond above his wrist. “This is the one I always look for in photos to see if it was you or Easton. And the diamond on your right elbow.”
“Really?” He searches my face.
“They’re the most recognizable to me,” I whisper, knowing it’s not something I’ve shared with him before.
The cool breeze wraps around us, soothing and refreshing as the warm water encapsulates us.
“If you could have any wish in the world, what would it be?” I ask, the intimacy of the moment inviting more vulnerability.
“I can’t say, or it won’t come true,” he replies.
“Oh, come on. I won’t tell. I’ll keep your secrets.”
He shakes his head, staying strong.
“Can I take a wild guess?” I plead.
“I’ll allow it if you tell me when you’ll write and publish again on your blog,” he counters, a challenge in his gaze.
“Ah, I thought we’d avoid that conversation tonight.” A sheepish smile creeps in.
“No. What’s going on?” His voice is calm.
I gulp down some bourbon, and it’s a distraction from the countless thoughts swirling in my mind. “I’m scared.”
“Why?” he asks.
“I feel like it’s going to disappear. The pressure to produce at a high quality is almost paralyzing. This was—and is—my dream, yet I feel a sense of dread. I’m so scared of failure and letting everyone down, especially myself. And you.” I take a deep breath.
He gives me a kind smile. “As long as you stay true to yourself, you’ll never let me down.”
I suddenly feel vulnerable and exposed. “I don’t know if I trust myself with you.”
“You’re safe.” He winks, then lazily rests his arm on the edge of the pool, the blue lights illuminating his face.
His relaxed expression is a promise of adventure. But instead of giving in to temptation, I paddle to the center of the pool, creating an ocean of space between us. I’m trying to stay on my very best behavior.
Sometimes, I hate how my mind operates after a few drinks—bold and reckless—imagining all the sweet yet dangerous possibilities with him. The thoughts wrap around me, nearly strangling me before I can push them away. The world tilts ever so slightly.
Yep, I’m definitely tipsy.
The martinis and bourbon have me captured in a dreamlike haze.
“Have you ever been curious?” I finally ask the question that has been dancing in my mind all night.
“About?” he inquires.
“Us,” I say, dropping my body back into the water to face him.
“Ahh, you’re at that point of the night,” he mutters.
I raise a brow. “Which is?”
“The one where you fantasize about making out with me.”
Desire and intrigue battle for dominance.
“If I actually wanted to make out with you, I would,” I retort.
“All bark, no bite.” His gaze locks on to mine, intense and unyielding.
“Because you reject me every time!” A laugh escapes me, airy and light. “Don’t change the subject. Answer. ”
He swims toward me. The water ripples around us, leaving the two of us suspended in time.
My breath quickens. I’m tilting dangerously close to the edge of temptation, and I almost lean in to brush my lips against his, but I stay strong.
“Well?”
“I don’t want to be another one of your statistics,” he offers me. “You’re not ready.”
The ball is back in my court.
“Are you?” I ask, sucking in a deep breath.
I’m aware we both have our issues.
“How many of your guy friends have you dated?” he asks.
“Three. And I always think it will be different, but it never is. After the third time, I promised myself I would never do it again.”
“What about friends with benefits?” he asks.
It’s an interesting question.
“If there was chemistry and emotions could stay in check, I’d think about it, but it would come with rules,” I say.
“Like?”
“No cuddling. No I love you s. No expectations. No sleeping in the same bed. No couple bullshit . Just fucking for pleasure only. I’ve also learned most men can’t handle a situationship. At least not with me.”
“Really?” he asks, being cocky as fuck.
“I’ve been in one before. It was great until he fell obsessively in love with me and got really jealous when I went on dates with other men. With the right person, it works. But usually, someone starts catching feelings, and it’s never me. I can separate friendship from fucking because when I walk into something like that, I know it will never work. You never start friends with benefits with someone who has actual potential. Recipe for disaster.”
He dips his hair into the water and smooths it back on his head. The tips immediately start to curl. “We should go inside and warm up. ”
At the mention, the air feels colder than it did seconds earlier.
Weston swims to the edge, and I can’t help but admire the tattooed muscles that ripple across his back. He hoists himself out of the pool, striding toward the small room beyond, wrapping a towel around his waist while holding another out for me.
I follow his lead, pushing myself up from the edge. Each freezing step guides me closer to him. The instant he blankets me in the towel, our electric connection restarts.
The only thing that pulls me away from him is his phone buzzing in his pants pocket. It goes on for a little while before stopping and starting over.
“Is that your secret girlfriend?” I tease, glancing at the light flashing.
“Maybe,” he replies, his voice low and husky.
Whoever is calling is insistent.
“Should you answer?” I ask, breaking away from him to fish his phone from his pocket.
I glance at the screen.
Unknown Caller.
I show it to him.
“It’s Lena.” His voice is steady, but the seriousness of the situation builds. “Since the blind item was posted, she started harassing me again.”
My heart tightens at the thought of him dealing with this. “Are you sure it’s her?”
He nods, his brows furrowing. “She used to do this every night in the beginning.”
“This has to stop,” I say, determination taking hold.
“Carlee,” he warns, “don’t.”
I take a breath, and my gut twists as I answer. Someone breathes on the other end of the line, sending a chill up my spine.
“Yes, please ,” I moan out.
Weston’s lips part as he watches me with intent.
“Right there. Mmhmm. Yes, baby.” I close my eyes, unable to look at him. “Please. Please . More. Harder ,” I demand. “Yes. Yes. Weston. Weston ,” I whisper breathlessly, my heart racing. “Oh God, I’m so fucking close. I’m—I’m co—” I end the call and return the phone to him, my pulse quickening.
I swear his blue eyes mirror the depths of the ocean at midnight. I glance down at his towel, noticing he’s rock hard.
“Say something,” I whisper, tucking my lips into my mouth to hold back a smile.
He swallows, his throat working nervously. “Don’t you ever fucking say my name like that again.”
I burst into laughter, the sound bubbling out of me. “Maybe that’s the only way I’ll say your name from now on? Weston. Oh God ,” I moan out, my voice echoing off the tall wall of his balcony.
I lean over and grab the bourbon bottle, needing a shot to cool the heat simmering inside me. I savor it as it slides down my throat, but it tastes like water. Not a good sign.
“You should be cut off,” he says, snatching the booze from my grasp.
I pout. “Oh, come on. You’re no fun.” The Southern in me says hello as the bourbon loosens my tongue.
The glow of the pool light illuminates his handsome face. That chiseled jaw and scruff are what wet dreams are made from.
I know it’s getting late. When we’re together, time always seems to slip away.
“I have to work tomorrow,” I admit, hating how I always have to leave. “I should probably head home soon.”
He takes a deep breath, his expression turning serious.
“What if you quit?” he asks.
“I cannot just quit my job,” I insist, shaking my head. “We’ve both had too much to drink, and that’s not logical.”
“I’ll give you an allowance,” he offers.
“Like you’re my daddy?” I waggle my eyebrows. “What’s next? Grounding me if I misbehave? Spanking me?”
His brow arches. “You’re really fucking intense. ”
Desire takes hold. “I’ve been told that before. By you, actually.”
He holds his phone in one hand and the bourbon in the other as he guides me inside. I stand in front of the fireplace and dry my body. He sways beside me, and I reach out to steady him. Somehow, we stumble and collapse on the couch, laughing.
I remind myself of the boundaries that threaten to pull us apart just as the attraction pulls us together.
“Have you ever thought that maybe whoever posted that blind item was trying to do you a favor and end this war between you and your ex?” I whisper, laying on his chest.
“That’s what my publicist believes,” he says and hiccups as he stares into my eyes.
“Oh my God. Is this the first time I’ve actually seen you drunk?” I can’t help but tease. “You’re usually more careful around me when I’m tipsy.”
“Shit,” he echoes, amusement dancing in his eyes. “We’re shit-faced.”
“Uh-oh,” I tell him, leaning my head back on the couch, creating space between us.
I shiver, and he notices.
Weston pulls a blanket from behind him and throws it over me. His fingers graze across my skin, causing goose bumps to race up my arm. We settle into a comfortable silence—the kind I only share with my closest friends—as we stare at the skyline.
I don’t know how much time passes.
“Are you still cold?” he asks as his gaze lands on me.
“A little,” I respond.
Without hesitation, he stands and taps a button. Instantly, the gas fireplace roars to life, flames dancing eagerly in their glazed glass enclosure. He returns to the couch, and this time, he’s even closer. I savor the warmth radiating from him as I rest my head on his chest.
“Your heart is racing,” I whisper. The thumps tug at my attention .
“Be reckless with me,” he says, a seriousness creeping into his tone.
I laugh, the sound a mix of disbelief and exhilaration. I want to.
“Go all in with LuxLeaks.” Challenge flickers in his bright eyes.
The temptation to capture his lips is nearly overwhelming.
“I have to be responsible,” I say.
“Easton paid your rent for a year because he had been an asshole to Lexi,” he reminds me. “I also know your blog pays you well, so you don’t have to keep working at the hotel.”
“And my blog thrives on fresh content,” I remind him, a reluctant grin tugging at my lips.
“You haven’t posted in over three months because the information you got at the W was no longer relevant after you leveled up. If you quit, you’ll have the time and freedom to be my plus-one to every social event I’m invited to.”
I shoot him a glare. “That will only feed the girlfriend rumors. Everyone will think we’re together.”
“And?” he asks.
The thought leaves me speechless.