Chapter 22
Her hands finger the suede box, a look of trepidation on her face.
“I don’t want any presents. I don’t need anything.”
“Happy birthday.”
“That was weeks ago.”
“And I was an ass.”
“Yes. You were an ass,” she agrees coyly.
Her sassy comeback balances a sword’s edge of witty comebacks when wronged, and insubordination.
It’s a line I’ve seen her flirt with, but not cross.
Not yet. Her sharp retorts are some of the brightest points of my day, when I’m not sinking inside her, that is.
“Open it.”
We’re driving out to my parent’s Greenwich residence for Thanksgiving.
Christmas will be at the Montauk house, properties that slip seamlessly into the rotation of picture-perfect upper-class life.
I couldn’t give a fuck where we gather, as long as I have access to a helicopter or car to make a timely retreat.
Case in point, I’m driving my Bugatti Chiron, sandwiched as usual by a fleet of security.
“I really don—”
“It’s yours. I chose it especially for you. Open it.”
Sabrina moves the ribbon and other superfluous decorations to the side, focusing on the box itself.
With deft fingers, she lifts the hinged box to reveal the Cartier cuff I picked out for her, especially for today.
Her sharp intake of breath and wide eyes provide every sign that she’s as enamored with the gift as I am with her.
A pull I’ve been fighting with for weeks now, the amalgamation of foreign sensations taking over me whenever we’re alone.
She may have started out as another secretary I have sex with, but Sabrina Arden Broe took that mold and smashed it to the floor.
She’s sweet and caring, sharp, and possesses an intelligence I thought only came from Ivy League schools and expensive tutelage.
Combine that with her toned swimmer's body and wicked tongue, and I’m in a heaven I never believed was possible.
In my thirtieth year as the son of a billionaire, I’ve vacationed in some idyllic spots.
The secluded islands, the former castles, the one hundred and fifty-thousand-dollar-a-night hotel suites with full staff.
Nothing compares to Sabrina’s smile when she’s still sleep-mussed and dreamy.
A moment in time I wish I could snatch away and set in resin like a suspended insect to immortalize forever.
The burning sensation rising from my gut isn’t indigestion; it’s conflict.
I drew up the fucking contract; I’m acutely aware of every line contained among the pages.
She is the receiving party, yet she is so much more.
She might just be my one hope out of this ever-present darkness, like the light in her new studio bedroom.
She’s the pure, the polished, and the pretty; only she is ignorant.
If only she saw herself the way I see her.
“You might like to wear it today. To cover up your wrist tattoo. No one would even know it was there,” I say factually, my eyes darting to her and back to the road.
Her head dips in a shallow nod, repeated and robotic. “Your family isn’t a fan?”
“Fuck no,” I laugh, taking the corner with one hand, the other reaching for her knee.
She looks fantastic in a navy dress and caramel boots.
Only the sleeves of her dress are three-quarter style, finishing between the elbow and wrist. The Cartier cuff will showcase her delicate hands and hide her ink simultaneously.
“Do you like it?” I venture, my gaze dipping from the road to her again.
Her reply is devoid of tone. “It’s everything I never knew I needed.”