Chapter 20
MELODY
Iwas still riding the high of successfully driving Austin’s ridiculously expensive sports car when we pulled into the underground parking garage of his building. And then I saw the parking spot.
“Oh no,” I breathed.
“What?”
“That spot. It’s so narrow.”
“It’s a normal spot.”
“For a normal car! This thing is not normal.” I gestured at the sleek sports car. “It’s wider than a normal car. And lower. And more expensive than my life.”
Austin was trying not to laugh. I could hear it in his voice. “You’ll be fine. Just take it slow.”
“Take it slow,” I muttered, inching forward at approximately one mile per hour. “Just take it slow while parking a car that costs more than most people make in five years.”
“Yeah, and if you hear a crunch, back up.”
I was sweating. Actually sweating. My hands were slick on the steering wheel as I tried to gauge the distance between the car and the concrete pillar that seemed to be getting closer and closer and—
“A little to the left,” Austin coached.
I turned the wheel. The car lurched.
“Your left. Not the car’s left.”
“They’re the same left!”
“Are they though?”
I shot him a look. He was grinning, clearly enjoying my suffering.
“You’re terrible,” I said.
I finally managed to get the car into something resembling a parked position. It was probably six inches from where it should be and definitely crooked, but it was in the spot and not hitting anything.
“I did it,” I said, my voice slightly hysterical. “I parked your stupid car.”
“I’m as shocked as you are.” He was definitely laughing now. “Come on. Let’s get out before you decide you need to straighten it.”
We climbed out, and I looked back at my parking job. It was objectively terrible. But the car was intact, and that’s what mattered.
I pulled out my phone to call a ride, but Austin caught my wrist. “What are you doing?”
“Getting a ride home. It’s late, and I’m exhausted.”
“Come up first.” He said it casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Have a wind-down drink. Decompress from that disaster of a family dinner.”
“Austin, rule seven. No overnight stays.”
“Who said anything about staying overnight?” He gave me that devilish smile that was becoming dangerously familiar. “Just a drink. One drink. Then I’ll call a service to take you home.”
I should say no. I should stick to the rules we’d established. But the truth was, I didn’t want to go home yet. Didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts about Armand’s words and Austin’s hurt and how good it had felt to make him laugh.
I was still riding the high of driving a freaking Ferrari. I never dreamed of putting that on my bucket list, but I did it. And once I got the hang of it, it was addicting.
“One drink,” I agreed.
“That’s my girl.”
“Not your—”
“I know, I know. Fake girl. Whatever.”
He led me to a private elevator that required a key card. Of course it did. Because regular elevators were for regular people, and Austin Bancroft was decidedly not regular people.
The elevator opened directly into his penthouse suite. The hotel was posh. I’d actually been in one of the rooms before to do an interview with a journalist from LA. But that room had looked like something from the Bates Motel compared to the penthouse.
“Holy shit,” I breathed.
“What?”
“This is insane.”
The penthouse was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of Manhattan. The furniture looked like it belonged in an architectural magazine. Everything was sleek and modern and screamed money.
“This is where you’ve been staying?” I turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. “This whole time?”
“It’s not that impressive.”
“It’s a palace. You’re living in a palace in the sky.”
He shrugged, clearly unbothered by the excess. “It’s a hotel penthouse. I’m between places right now.” He moved toward what appeared to be a bar area. “Want the tour first, or drink first?”
“Tour. Definitely tour. I need to see all of this ridiculous luxury.”
His grin was boyish and genuine. “Okay, come on.”
He walked me through the penthouse, pointing out features like they were normal things everyone had. The gourmet kitchen with appliances I couldn’t even identify. The living room with a TV that took up an entire wall. The home office with enough tech to run a small country.
“And through here.” He opened a door, revealing a hallway. “This is where it gets fun.”
“Fun how?”
“You’ll see.”
The hallway led to an entire wing dedicated to wellness. A fully equipped gym with every machine imaginable. A sauna that looked like it belonged in a spa. He told me about the pool on the roof that had private access for just him or whoever was in the penthouse.
“This is obscene,” I said.
“This is Bancroft standard.” He kept walking. “Hot tub’s over here. Ice bath there. Great for recovery after workouts.” He opened another door. “This is the spa room.”
It was exactly what it sounded like. A massage table. Soft lighting. Shelves lined with expensive-looking oils and lotions.
“I have an on-call masseuse,” Austin explained. “She comes by a few times a week. Works out all the kinks.”
The image hit me immediately. Austin on that table. Shirtless. Naked. Maybe in just a towel. Some beautiful masseuse running her hands over all those muscles I’d felt through his shirt as he moaned and groaned with pleasure.
“Melody?”
I snapped back to reality, my cheeks burning. “What?”
“You zoned out. You okay?”
“Fine. Totally fine. Just… processing all this luxury.” I turned away from the massage table, trying to get the image out of my head. “You said something about a drink?”
“A drink is one way to unwind,” he said with a suggestion. “Or I could give you a massage.”
“No!” It came out too loud, too fast. “No. Absolutely not. New ground rule. No massages.”
He stepped closer, and I could smell his cologne again. “Why not? You’re tense. I can see it in your shoulders. You were nervous all through dinner.”
“Because I was having dinner with your father. The Armand Bancroft. That’s nerve-wracking!”
“Exactly. Which is why you need to relax.” He was using that smooth, persuasive voice that probably got him whatever he wanted. “Come on, Melody. I promise I’ll be gentle.”
“Austin.”
“I’ll take it easy on you. Just your shoulders. Nothing weird.” He gestured to the table. “Five minutes. If you hate it, I’ll stop.”
This was a terrible idea. This was violating at least three of my ground rules. But my shoulders did hurt. And the idea of his hands working out that tension was appealing.
“You’re not a masseuse.” It was a lame argument.
“I think I know what I’m doing.”
It was a choice. I didn’t have a crystal ball, but I knew what would happen if I let him massage my shoulders. I could say no. Get a drink and then go home. Clean. Simple. Sticking to the rules.
Or I could climb on that table and let nature take its course. I wasn’t that naive. I knew where it would lead. I could see the lines we would cross.
“Five minutes,” I heard myself say. “That’s it.”
“Five minutes,” he agreed.
I climbed onto the table, lying face down. My heart was hammering. This was fine. This was just a massage. People got massages all the time. It didn’t mean anything.
Austin’s hands settled on my shoulders, warm even through my dress.
Oh.
His thumbs found the knots immediately, applying pressure that was just this side of painful. I couldn’t help the small sound that escaped me.
“Tense?” he asked, amusement in his voice.
“Shut up.”
He worked on my shoulders, methodical and thorough. Then down my spine. I felt myself melting into the table, all the tension from the evening slowly dissolving under his hands.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For tonight. For coming with me.”
“You didn’t really give me a choice.”
“I know. That was shitty of me. My dad can be a lot. I should have warned you.”
“Yes, you should have.” But I couldn’t muster any real anger. Not when his hands were doing magical things to my lower back.
“I’m sorry. About my father. About what he said.” His hands moved to my hips. I tensed again for entirely different reasons. I considered reminding him about the only shoulder rule, but it felt too good. “He doesn’t understand. Anything, really.”
“I understand you better now.”
“What do you mean?” Austin asked, hands pausing for a second and then starting up again.
“That conversation we had. About pressure. About expectations.”
“What about it?”
“It couldn’t have been easy,” I said. “Growing up with that. Having a father who sees you as a disappointment. A father who doesn’t believe you’re capable of change or growth. That’s tough, Austin.”
His hands had stilled on my hips.
“I said the wrong thing,” I said quickly, starting to push up. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
His hands moved up my spine. He wasn’t massaging anymore. He was touching. Exploring. It sent shivers through my entire body. He brushed my hair off the back of my neck, and I felt his lips there.
It was so good and so wrong.
I turned over before I could think better of it, and suddenly we were face to face. I noticed the way his breath had gone shallow. His gaze dropped to my lips.
“Melody.” My name on his lips sent more shivers coursing through my body.
His hands cupped my face. Austin leaned over me and then he was kissing me. They weren’t like the kisses at the wedding or outside the bathroom. Those had been for show, calculated and controlled.
This was desperate. Real. His mouth moved against mine like he’d been dying to do this, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.
Or maybe that was just me.
I kissed him back just as desperately, my hands finding their way into his hair. He made a sound low in his throat that did things to me. Dangerous things.
His hands slid down from my face to my shoulders to my waist, pulling me closer. I was half-sitting on the massage table now, and he was standing between my legs. Everything about this was breaking our carefully constructed rules.
I didn’t care. Not when he kissed like this. Not when every nerve ending I had was singing.
“We should stop,” I breathed against his mouth.
“Probably.”
But neither of us did. His lips moved to my jaw and slid down my neck. I let my head fall back to give him access. His hands were everywhere. My hips, my thighs, skating up my ribs but not quite going far enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he said again, his lips against my collarbone. “Tell me this is breaking the rules and we need to stop.”
“It is breaking the rules.”
“Then tell me to stop.”
But I couldn’t. Because I didn’t want him to stop. I didn’t want the moment to end. It would be okay to have one night, right?
I arched into his touch and let myself feel everything I’d been trying not to feel since the moment we had met. It was dangerous and would complicate everything.
I didn’t stop.