Chapter 14
GIANA
The arena is not asbusy as last night. In the entrance hall, I walk up to the reception desk and talk to the security guard on duty. I recognize him from when we were here watching the game. He points to Kirsten as soon as she finishes taking a call.
“Hi, Kirsten, I’m looking for Charlotte. Well, Byron, actually. Are they around?”
“Miss Monroe. Charlotte should be in her office, and I think Byron has left, but you’re welcome to head to the locker rooms and check. You know the way?”
“I do. Thanks.”
I take the elevator to the basement and walk the long hallway, admiring the framed images of basketball greats who have played for the LA Sharks. I hear Charlotte’s voice. It’s faint, but I know it’s her. I’m walking toward the locker room, apprehensive about whether I should enter. What if other players are showering or getting dressed? Charlotte is used to being around the players.
“Brandon,” she says playfully, but in a gentle way. Are they flirting?
I assume Byron is with them, and I can picture the three of them sitting around chatting. I never imagined I would be comfortable hanging out in a locker room, but with Byron, I would be comfortable anywhere. I slow my steps. Charlotte’s voice is off. Is she moaning? I reach the locker-room door and stop. Oh my Lord. Her moans are of pleasure.
With one foot inside the door, I see her clinging to the cubicle wall, Brandon’s name above her head. Her legs are wrapped around Brandon’s waist, his bare ass clenching as he pumps into her.
I stumble back, my hand covering my mouth. Scanning the halls, I make sure no one else is around. What if someone sees them? What if Byron walks in on them? Jesus, they have a death wish. I spin around and rush back toward the elevator.
My heart is racing. I’m so nervous for them. I know how Byron hates secrets, and I am aware of how protective he is of Charlotte, especially regarding his teammates. When I’m far enough away not to be heard, I pull out my cell and call Byron.
“Hey,” he answers. “Where are you?”
“I’m at your second home, hoping to watch the end of your training.” I’m panting, slightly out of breath.
He chuckles. “Serious?”
“I am.” I look along the hallway. Still no sight of anyone.
“We finished early. I came straight home hoping to find you here.”
My heart thumps hard in my chest. “I’m sorry.” I hesitate and decide my news can wait.
“I’ll meet you at yours, Gigi. I’m taking you out.”
“Out? Like on a date?”
He laughs. “Not on a date. We are dating. I’m not sharing you with anyone.”
My heart swells. While I want to add that I’m not sharing him with the hundreds of women who would like one night with Byron, I clamp up, remembering my meeting and the offer of my art expanding beyond the canvas and the fashion world.
“It sounds perfect. See you soon.”
When your family is billionaires,it has perks, like a last-minute lunch booking at Bloom. It also helps if your brother is the owner of said restaurant.
I’m learning more about Byron’s family than he ever shared with us at school. Sure, when we were teenagers, I knew he was wealthy, but the extent of that wealth was never discussed, nor did he care. Byron cared for basketball and trained in classic athletic wear. While I remember he wore a suit well at prom, it was probably Armani, Dior, or Gucci, but he complained about it all night. He never spoke about their riches, and apart from the polite pitch in his tone and the fact he could speak different languages, he didn’t act rich. But I guess that’s the thing with wealthy people—they never talk about their fortune.
Sitting in one of the finest restaurants in LA, I’m surrounded by classy people. It’s evident not only in the way they dress but in the way they conduct themselves—low voices, articulating words slowly and with deliberate pause, every word holding meaning. While I am kind of wealthy—not like Byron—and I’m wearing a beautiful Leto Designs dress and matching purse, I feel like an impostor in a millionaire or billionaire’s world.
“You choose the wine,” Byron says, bringing my thoughts back to the table, red roses in a crystal vase between us. “I’ll order the food.”
“I’m paying,” I tell him. “We’re celebrating today.”
He closes the menu and grins. “Gigi, my brother is paying today.”
“That doesn’t feel right. It was kind of him to secure us a last-minute table.” It’s at the back of the restaurant and more private than the others. If you wanted to be seen here, then you wouldn’t choose this table. Our table is the best for privacy.
He leans close. “This table is reserved for last-minute bookings for family or close friends.”
“Oh.” I inhale sharply, understanding the privilege, only to be hit with his fresh, citrusy scent.
“You smell good,” I whisper. “It’s a shame Byron Hendricks is not on the menu. I could?—”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to get me excited in a public place?”
“Are you easily excited?”
His eyes narrow. “Around you, yes. Easily. So please, let’s focus on food so the owner’s brother doesn’t get kicked out for indecent exposure.”
I giggle. “We can always go back to your pool.”
He sighs loudly. “Now all I’m thinking about is you in my pool. You’ll be the death of me, Giana.” The way he says Giana sounds like he wants to discipline me later, and I’m here for it. “I also think you’re trying to distract me from whatever it is we’re celebrating.”
Byron unbuttons the top buttons of his pale-yellow shirt. The server arrives, and I order a white wine to complement our pasta dish. While we differ in many ways, he enjoys the pasta and the carbs for his energy as much as I love it. And I’ve been thinking about the glorious food and wine I will have this weekend.
“When our wine arrives, I’ll tell you.” We don’t wait long as the waiter returns, opens the bottle, and offers us both a taste of the fine Pinot Grigio.
“It’s perfect,” I tell him. He pours the wine into our glasses and places the bottle in an ice bucket beside our table before leaving us.
Byron holds up his glass and clinks it against mine. “To…”
“A new contract in Italy.” His expression sags. “Isabella called this morning…” I add quickly, “… and Cibo Creativo wants my designs on their kitchen appliances. Can you believe that? My bright colors and floral designs will be on kettles, toasters, stand mixers, and state-of-the-art cookware. Isabella said Arrivederci noiosa cucina, which means Goodbye boring kitchens.” I smile at Byron, still overwhelmed every time I think about it.
He blinks a few times. “Wow. All this from you painting for fun at school. Do what you love, and the world is your oyster.” He stands, rounds the table, and leans in to hug me. His thick arms wrap around my shoulders as he squeezes tightly. “I’m so proud of you, Gi.” He kisses my forehead slowly and deliberately before resuming his seat at the table. He adjusts his shirt. “We should have ordered champagne.”
“I love Italian wine, and it is fitting since I’ll be there this weekend.”
His glass freezes halfway to his lips. “This weekend?”
“Mm-hmm.” I take a sip of wine, avoiding his intense gaze for a moment. “While I was to return on Thursday, Isabella has a grand opening for Leto Designs in a new store, and she wants me there for photographs. The rest of the weekend will be about meeting with Cibo Creativo, except for Saturday night, when I’m invited to some gala.”
Byron takes a slow sip of his wine before placing the crystal on the table and meeting my gaze. “The last time we spoke about your returning to Italy, you sounded apprehensive. I said I would go with you. The offer still stands.”
I reach across the table and take Byron’s hand. “Thank you. While I would love for you to come and share this with me, allow me to check with Isabella first.”
Byron’s brow pinches. Oh shit.
“Isabella doesn’t make the rules. Frankly, if I want to be with you, stay in your room with you, it is none of her business what happens after hours. While you’re in meetings, I could explore the city. At the grand opening, I could be an anonymous customer in the crowd. I could also be warming your bed, waiting for you to come home from the gala. Isabella doesn’t have to know I’m there. I could be your secret.”
I giggle at him. “Okay, I like the sound of your plan. Let me check first, though, in case I can get you a ticket to the ball.” I tilt my head at him. “Can you get time off training?”
“I’ll train. Mostly in your bed.”
Someone, please pass me a fan.
Every stepfrom Byron’s garage to the kitchen, I’m thinking about what comes next. Something has changed. A familiarity. When we are together, it feels right. Natural.
The way my hand fits neatly in his. The shooting side-look of him checking on me. While he’s breathing normally, I’m a little out of breath. My excited heartbeat doesn’t help.
“I’ll fix us a drink,” he says. He lets go of my hand and opens the refrigerator, pours cold water into two glasses, and adds ice. I stare out at his pool, which beckons me to strip and cool down. Suddenly, Byron is behind me, shifting my hair away from my neck and kissing my skin with a tenderness that has me closing my eyes.
“Do you want to swim?” he whispers, his breath sending tingles along my spine.
“Hmm.” I tilt my head for him. “With wine, maybe.” The caress stops, and I feel cheated.
“I need you to drink some water.” He hands me the cold glass.
“You’re the athlete who needs to hydrate more…” I take a sip, even though it’s not my drink of choice.
“And I don’t want you drinking until later.”
“Later?” I take another sip.
Byron removes the water from my hand and places it beside his half-empty glass on the bench. He takes my hand and turns me to the staircase leading to his bedroom. “We have unfinished business, and I need you to remember everything.”
Sex in his bed. A big step forward. He has given me some great orgasms, and we have fucked by the pool in a moment of lust. Heading to Byron’s bedroom could mean he wants to make me his.
I want this. I want him.
Our lives are not woven. If anything, our careers are leading us apart. In a few days, fate will decide if I am to return to Italy. But we have this moment in time—one day and one night for each other. I stop at the base of his sweeping staircase and follow the railing.
His gaze flicks over my face. “What is it?”
I take his cheeks in my hands and pull his face to mine. “We can swim and fuck,” I say against his lips in an attempt to play the moment down.
Suddenly swept up in his arms, I let out a scream. With my arms around his neck, I study his amused expression as he takes each step. Not once does he struggle while carrying me.
“If this is a romantic gesture to win points, then I give you ten out of ten.”
“By the time I’m finished pleasuring you, Giana Monroe, I expect fifty out of ten.”
I giggle. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is, and I’m about to prove it.”