He glances down at our connected knees then drags his gaze up my body, lingering on my l*ps before landing on my eyes. “I don’t believe in telling people what they want to hear.”
I let out a short laugh. “Ever?”
“Never.”
“What if what they want to hear is the truth? Do you lie just to be a dick?”
He studies me while he considers, and my pulse picks up for no reason that I can explain. “No one really wants to hear the truth,” he says.
I start to tell him that I do and pause with my chin dropped, words about to tumble out, because I realize that what I actually want to hear is that he needed me in the city for personal reasons, not business reasons.
And I want him to say that he picks on Elvis because he thinks I’d be better off without him.
And I don’t even want to think about what I wish the truth was behind our relationship.
If he’s not going to say those things, there’s no reason he should say anything at all.
I can’t find a way to honestly refute him.
“See?”
“Yeah, I see.” What I don’t see is why I feel so confused about him. I might be having fun, but that doesn’t change the fact that Hadrian has used his power to coerce me into a sexual liaison. I have to keep my head straight about that. This isn’t anything more. I can’t let it venture into anything else.
Purposefully, I move my knee away from his. The tingle lingers for several seconds after disconnecting, and I fight against the urge to r*b my joint and make it better.
Thankfully, perhaps, the car turns onto my street and slows in front of my building.
But as soon as it stops, Hadrian issues an order to the driver. “Take the block a few times, Emilio. I’m going to walk her up.”
“You don’t have to do that.” I’d rather he didn’t.
I think.
Hadrian doesn’t respond in words, but he climbs out of the back seat with me, and follows me into the building. He checks out the environment, nodding at the doorman and scrutinizing the security desk.
While we wait for the elevator, I try once again to dismiss him. “I make the trip up alone all the time.”
Hadrian’s eyes narrow. “You usually arrive home alone?”
There he goes again. Always digging about Elvis. “I’m an independent woman, Hadrian. So yes.”
“The man must not realize how dangerous elevators are. What if you were stuck in one with some depraved stranger? Who knows what could happen?”
The callback to our meeting at the Seymour Center on the night of the awards makes my inner th**hs buzz and my head cloud. I don’t have a comeback, and when the doors open, his hand p**sses soft and ghost-like at the base of my spine, nudging me in with him.
He drops it as soon as we’re inside, and I decide I’m thankful. But now I’m too busy obsessing over the fact that he knew which floor was mine without asking to be thinking about anything else. He’d only know that if he went looking for the information. Why would he care?
Again, the difference bet**en what I want to hear and the truth is likely very stark.
We don’t speak again, until we’re exiting on my floor. “Will you move to the city?” Hadrian asks.
“Not right away. Elvis has an apartment there already that we can use if we get tired of the commute.”
“Elvis has an apartment?” There’s a knowing in his tone, and I’m sure that nothing I say now can dissuade Hadrian from thinking my husband has a f**kpad. Which, technically, he does. I just don’t like to think about it.
I make the correction, despite its usefulness, keeping my eyes straight ahead. “We have an apartment. He’s the only one who uses it.”
Hadrian nods. “I have a place, if you need one.”
“Thank you.” Why does the prospect of earning that make me so aroused?
And now we’re at my apartment, and I want to feel relieved, but my p**sy feels electrified and empty. I’m all of a sudden imagining ways I could sneak Hadrian to my bedroom, the same way I snuck my high-school boyfriend past my mother.
“Is he…?” Hadrian asks, as though he knows what I’m thinking.
“Home? Yes. I think he is.” I avoid the use of my husband’s name in an attempt to lessen the impact of his nearness. “He hasn’t messaged me otherwise.” Not that I’ve been paying attention to my phone. I have new appreciation for how well Elvis keeps his trysts from me. He’s always so good at keeping boundaries. He’s fairly aloof, but he answers my calls and texts, even when I’m pretty sure he’s with one of his side pieces.
As I pull my key out of my purse, I wonder if he’s ever stood in this hallway with one of them, the air crackling with energy, wishing I wasn’t inside. There are several nights that he comes home after I’ve gone to bed. I suppose I’m not entirely certain he hasn’t snuck someone in then.
This line of thinking is unproductive, obviously. I’m not inviting Hadrian inside. I wouldn’t even if I knew Elvis wasn’t home. That’s not what we are. I’ll tell myself that until I get it through my thick skull. I’ll make it my mantra, if I have to. Chemistry or not, it doesn’t mean anything.
It occurs to me that Hadrian with his privileged expectations and lack of boundaries might need clarification. Key in hand, I turn back to face him. “It’s not a good idea to invite you inside.”
“I’m only here to make sure you get inside safely.”
“Okay. Thank you.” My insides flutter because I’m so unused to chivalrous gestures. “Thank you for the rest, too. Not just the job, but tonight. For taking the time to talk me through everything. I know that on-air personalities are often left out of the major decisions, and I don’t have the rank or status to demand otherwise. You didn’t have to be so accommodating, and I really appreciate it.”
Elvis had certainly kept me in the dark. In this handful of hours, Hadrian has brought me into the discussion more than my husband has over a period of weeks.
Hadrian doesn’t say anything. Just nods once, and even though I highly doubt many CEOs are this hands-on with their talent, I have no sense whether this evening was business as usual or not. Part of me longs for him to say that he’s only given me this kind of attention.
But then I remember the retreat at his country house, and how Jessa Jones made it sound like in-depth collaboration is routine.
For that matter, this whole arrangement might be routine for him. I am not special. I have to get that through my head.
Which will be a whole lot easier if I’m no longer in his presence.
“Well, good night.”
“Good night.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.
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