Chapter Eight-Andrea
I’ve been pacing the hardwood floor of my apartment for the better part of an hour.
Back and forth, back and forth. Wearing nothing but a pair of pajama shorts and one of my old college tees, the fabric soft and clingy from too many washes. I was supposed to be dressed already.
Hair done. Makeup on. That perfect gold gown zipped up like armor.
Instead, I’m barefoot and jittery, spiraling in circles and second-guessing everything.
The plan was airtight.
Clementine helped me hatch it.
Another charity gala—just another night of rich people pretending they care more about the cause than their own Instagram stories.
Happens every month when your last name opens doors in Manhattan.
This one’s being held at some new rooftop venue in Tribeca.
Late summer.
Views of the Hudson.
The theme is Golden Hour Glamor.
And yeah, I have the perfect dress.
A silky gold slip that skims over all my curves and makes my skin glow like I’ve swallowed sunshine. It hugs my hips just right and falls off my shoulders like a promise.
I was supposed to be out the door by now.
But here I am.
Sweaty palms. Pacing. Panicking.
Because it all sounded so simple over the phone.
Step one: Call in a favor from my cousin-in-law, who just happens to work for my uncle at Sigma International Group. Get assigned a bodyguard. A familiar one. Preferably the one who makes my heart stutter like a teenage girl with a glittery Vampire crush.
Step two: Go to the party. Make a brief appearance. Ditch early.
Step three: Seduce him. Get pregnant. Fulfill the baby-making phase of my plan without the messy entanglement of a relationship.
Boom. Done.
Only nothing feels simple now.
Because the bodyguard I requested? Remy Falco?
Every time I think about him, my stomach does this weird flip.
Like a rollercoaster drop you didn’t sign up for.
My skin tingles. My thighs clench. And my chest gets tight in a way that’s not entirely hormonal.
Which is exactly why I shouldn’t do this.
I should cancel.
I should pretend I’m sick. Or that a rodent came back and I need to burn the building down. Anything but follow through with this half-baked, wildly reckless plan.
I’m two seconds from calling Clementine to talk me out of it when—
Knock knock.
I freeze.
My breath catches in my throat. My hands go clammy.
The door.
God, please don’t let it be a neighbor or my landlord or—worse—my mother.
I cross the living room in slow, measured steps, hyper-aware of how loud my heart is pounding in my chest.
There’s still that lingering PTSD from the rat fiasco. For weeks, I half expected to see one every time I opened a cabinet or stepped into the kitchen.
The exterminator swore they were gone.
The landlord swore it wouldn’t happen again. But trauma lingers.
I brace myself for the worst anyway.
I unlock the deadbolt.
Grip the handle.
Pull.
And then—the breath whooshes out of me.
Because it’s him.
Remy Falco.
All six-and-a-half feet of rough-cut danger and dark-suited temptation, standing in my doorway like he owns the damn night.
His tie is loose. His jaw is tight.
He’s freshly shaven and somehow still scruffy.
And the look in his eyes?
Hot. Intense. Controlled.
Like he knows exactly why I called him tonight.
And I—God help me—I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.
Not when he looks at me like that. Not when he sees me in nothing but my stupid pajamas and still lets his eyes sweep over me like I’m the one seducing him.
I’m supposed to be dressed.
I’m supposed to be composed.
Instead, I’m caught between need and regret and whatever the hell this tight ache is forming in my chest.
“I have a confession,” I blurt, foregoing any normal greeting, lips parting before I can stop myself.
Remy’s gaze flicks down to my bare legs. Slowly back up.
“What’s that, Andy?”
I bite my lip.
“I don’t want to go to that gala tonight.”
A pause.
“You don’t?” His voice is soft. Knowing.
I can see it in the slight tilt of his mouth. He knows. Of course he knows.
I nod slowly, the air crackling between us.
He comes closer. And just like that, the plan is in motion.
Only now, I’m the one who feels like prey.
And Remy? He’s standing in my tiny living room now.
Like some devastating, green-eyed hallucination cooked up by my lonely subconscious and a dangerous cocktail of hormones and delusion.
Only this hallucination has the nerve to smirk.
“What do you want then?” he asks, voice low and velvet-smooth, like he belongs here.
Like he’s not making every nerve ending in my body vibrate with awareness.
What do you want then?
I’m trying to process that question. My throat tightens. My brain short-circuits.
But my body? It knows.
“Andy?”
I blink. Literally forget how to function for a beat. Because—good God—the man wears a suit like it’s a weapon.
The dark gray fabric stretches across his broad shoulders like it was tailored just for him.
His shirt is black. Everything he wears is black.
Like the midnight sky just decided to come down from the heavens and envelope him completely.
A hint of tattoo ink peeking at the collar.
Just enough to remind me that this isn’t some generic bodyguard in a tux.
This is Remy. And he’s here for me.
Sort of. I mean, he is technically here to work.
The gala. The whole reason I requested an escort in the first place.
The reason he’s looking at me like I’ve grown an extra head.
Because I’m still in shorts and a T-shirt.
No makeup. Hair up in a messy knot.
Definitely not dressed for an upscale event.
“You don’t want to go to the gala. But I’m gonna need you to tell me what you do want, Baby.”
Silence.
And then—slowly, deliberately—he takes a step closer. Just one.
But it feels like gravity’s shifted, tilting the world in his direction.
He tilts his head, reading me like a damn dossier.
It’s a challenge. A desperate whisper. A game. A test.
But we both know he already knows the answer.
My cheeks burn, but I don’t look away. Finally, I open my mouth.
“I want you,” I say, voice barely above a breath.
He doesn’t move right away.
Just watches me, his jaw tight, something fierce flickering behind his eyes.
Like he’s trying to decide if I mean it. If I’m strong enough to handle what comes next.
Spoiler alert: I’m not sure if I am. But I want it anyway.
“Fuck. I didn’t want you to think I planned this, Andy. I don’t have protection on me,” he says, eyes glittering, voice rough like gravel.
“You don’t need it,” I shoot back, instantly regretting it because now I’m blushing like a fourteen-year-old virgin and oh my God I need a do-over.
God, I should just tell him the truth. I should confess all my plans. Tell him I want a baby.
I should tell him that’s what this is all really about. That he doesn’t need protection not because I’m on birth control, but because of the opposite.
According to the little stick I peed on earlier, I’m ovulating.
That’s the only reason he’s here.
Sure, tell yourself that, Andrea.
It’s about getting pregnant.
It’s not about the fact that my body heats up and gets slick just from looking at him.
Or the fact my pussy clenches on air when I remember our one night of passion.
Nope. Not at all.
And I am just about to come clean, to tell him everything when I glance up into his emerald eyes, but then Remy—he just grins.
Not smug. Not cocky.
Hungry.
I forget how to breathe. And just like that, all my good intentions fly out the window.
“You sure about this?” he asks, and this time, the words aren’t just about tonight.
They’re about everything.
And I nod.
Because whatever happens next?
I want it. I want him.
Even if he ruins me.
Especially if he does.