*The car ride is awkward, to say the least.
Honestly, I’m still a little aroused, but I know that this is no longer the time or place to tease Calder into some naughty misdeeds. He’s distracted, and his knuckles are white around the steering wheel. I want to break the silence, but what do you say to someone in a situation like this? Oh, no one reads those gossip rags anyway! I’m sure it will all blow over soon! Ugh. It just sounds condescending.
We’re halfway back to my place when his phone goes off. Calder doesn’t seem to notice at first—or maybe he’s just ignoring it. Maybe he’s afraid they found his number and are calling to harass him some more. The phone is sitting in the center console, and its vibrations rattle the plastic cup holders and the loose change he’s started collecting there. On the third ring, I glance down at the screen.
“It’s not one of them,” I assure him. “It’s Tim Renley.”
Tim—that’s the guy helping him with all the financial stuff, right?
Calder lets out a long breath. He reaches down and grabs the phone just as the fourth ring is about to cut off.
“Tim, hey,” he says. He listens for a moment, and though I’m trying to pretend I’m not interested in the call, I’m hyper-aware of the way Calder keeps glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Listen,” he says after a moment. “I have some thoughts, but can I call you back later?”
Apparently Tim agrees. Calder thanks him and hangs up, but this time he slides the phone into his pocket instead of dropping it back into the console.
I don’t know what to think. This is the second secretive phone call he’s taken in as many dates. I know his money issues are none of my business, but this goes deeper than that. I can sense it.
I look over at him. “Do you want to talk about anything?”
“Not really.”
I lean my head against the window. I understand, I guess. But I hate that he’s dealing with all of this alone. If his sister were around, or if he had some sort of support system in place… dammit, I’m not going to let him suffer by himself.
“Calder…”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Probably all the more reason you should talk about it.”
He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, and I’m afraid he’s going to explode. But after a minute he sighs and tugs a hand through his hair.
“Look, I know you’re trying to help, but I need to deal with this on my own.”
Neither of us says anything for a few minutes. I sense him look over at me.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He sounds exhausted. “I knew this would happen eventually. I was just hoping I had time to sort a few things out before the press started hounding me.”
“What things?” I prompt.
“Please,” he says. “Please, Lily.”
“But—”
“You’re not ready to share parts of your life with me, either.”
I blink, startled by the accusation.
“You won’t tell your father about us,” he reminds me.
“That’s completely different.”
“Is it? I’m not trying to barge into your family affairs. I’m only asking the same courtesy of you.”
His words are like a slap across my face. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong—but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
He sighs. “In light of this recent development, do you mind if I take a rain check on dinner? I—I’m not sure I’ll be very good company tonight.”
I shake my head, even though I’m reeling on the inside. “Take all the time you need.”
This is a fight, isn’t it? Not our first fight—we had our share of disputes back at his estate—but this is different. The fights back at his manor, in their own funny way, actually brought us closer together. This—I don’t know what this was, what this is—but it leaves a sour taste in my mouth and a hollow feeling deep in my gut.
I wish he would say something.
I pick at a loose thread on my dress. This is ridiculous. What am I, some sort of angsty sixteen-year-old falling in love for the first time? We had a disagreement. We’re adults. It happens sometimes. We’re still trying to figure out how we work together. If we work together. Relationships aren’t cupcakes and puppies one hundred percent of the time.
Calder won’t look at me, but maybe he’s just trying to keep his eyes on the road. I wonder if he notices me looking at him. A bit of his hair curls around his ear. On a different day, on a different car ride, I would reach out and touch it. I’d twist it around my finger, maybe, and then when I’d coaxed a smile out of him, I’d gently trace the side of his jaw. It doesn’t look like he’s shaved in two or three days. Maybe he knows I like him better this way, that I like the rough, scratchy feeling of his facial hair against my bare skin.
I want everything to be okay between us. If I could touch him, he’d know. I’d know.
I reach out tentatively, but if he notices, he doesn’t flinch or pull away. I capture that errant curl between my thumb and forefinger, revel in the softness against my skin. My hand brushes against his cheek as I tuck it behind his ear, and though it’s only the lightest of touches, I still feel the shiver move through his flesh. His jaw loosens.
“Lily…”
I don’t know if he’s even aware he’s said my name out loud. I want to make this right. He’s pulling onto my street now, and I need to make this right.
My caress is delicate, a stroke along the neck. The pad of my thumb slides along his jaw. My pinky twines itself in the hair along his nape. His skin is warm beneath mine.
We’re going to be okay, I tell myself.
He pulls into the parking lot of my building, and I drop my hand, reaching for my purse again. But Calder won’t have any of that. He slams the car into park, grabs me, twists me toward him. I don’t have time to gasp before he kisses me. His fingers dig into my scalp, drawing me nearer, while his tongue explores my mouth as if he can’t get enough of the taste of me. I can’t get enough of him, either. It’s like this is the only way we can express our pain, our fears, our everything.
I grab a fistful of his shirt, but I’m not going to take off any of his clothes. I’m not going to push it. This is enough, right now. This brief, passionate meeting of mouths and minds.
I pull away first. I feel like I’m going to float away.
“Goodbye,” I tell him. “I had a wonderful time today.”
He gives a small smile, runs his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, for—well, for the way things ended today. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“I’m counting on it.”
He pulls me close again, kissing me softly, sweetly this time.
And for the moment, that kiss tells me everything I need to know.
*
“Have you seen this?” Morgan says. “Is it true? Did you have any idea it was going on?” It’s Monday morning, and I haven’t even had the time to settle in yet, but Morgan’s here, waving a magazine as she approaches my desk.
My stomach sinks. I’m afraid to look, but I suck it up and take the glossy weekly from her hand.
It’s even worse than I expected. There it is, in huge block letters across the cover: “RUINED! THE CUNNINGHAMS LOSE EVERYTHING!” And below, in only slightly smaller letters: “The Downfall of a Family!” I don’t want to see the actual article. It’s probably full of lies and rumors. But I find my fingers fumbling through the pages, flipping to an image of Calder and his late father. They don’t look happy, but it’s a random candid shot. The magazine probably chose the moodiest photo of the Cunninghams that they could find. It’s disgusting.
“So?” Morgan says, leaning toward me over the desk. “What’s going on? Did they really lose all of their money?”
She doesn’t mean badly, truly she doesn’t. Morgan’s sweet, and I know she’s asking out of mere curiosity rather than pure schadenfreude, so I resist the urge to throw the magazine back in her face.
“These tabloids always exaggerate everything,” I say. “His father made some poor financial decisions, but it’s not like Calder is living on the streets or anything.”
“The article says he sold the family estate.”
I shrug. “It seems silly for him to live there by himself. It’s just him and his sister now, and she’s on the other side of the world.”
“Ah, yes! Louisa!” Morgan flips the page in front of me to reveal the following spread. This one features a photo of a bright-eyed, smiling Louisa, her dark hair spilling out of a bandanna and her arms around a child. The headline on this page reads, “A Sister with Heart: Louisa Cunningham’s Life of Philanthropy.” This one makes me almost as angry as the previous article. Look: I admire anyone who dedicates their life to the service of others, anyone who recognizes their own privilege and decides to use it to make the world a better place. But Louisa left her brother to handle all of their family troubles alone. Calder had to deal with the estate, the finances, the damage control—everything. On top of his grief. Aren’t families supposed to get through this stuff together?
And he has this tabloid shit-fest to deal with, too, now that the news has broken. He shouldn’t have to face it by himself.
He’s not alone, I remind myself. You’re here with him. Not that he’s letting me help him.
“What’s that look?” Morgan says. “You know something, don’t you?”
I’m saved from having to respond by the sudden appearance of my dad.
“And what are you two ladies gossiping about?”
I freeze, unsure of what to say, and Morgan’s eyes widen as if we’ve just been caught conspiring. I think about pushing the tabloid aside, playing it off, but Dad’s already at the desk. He looks curiously down at the magazine.
“You don’t read this junk, do you?” he says, plucking it up from the scattering of registration forms I’d hoped to file this morning. His gaze scans over the page, and I watch the recognition flicker in his expression at the sight of the Cunningham family.
“Hm,” he says, his eyes skimming over the article. After a minute, he tosses the magazine back on my desk. “Have you heard anything from the Crasters? We’re still waiting on their final payment.”
“I’ll give them a call.” Of course, what I really want to do is ask him what he thought of the article he just saw. How he feels about Calder Cunningham now that’s he’s seen the truth.
But my dad’s already halfway out the door again.
“That reporter fellow called early this morning,” he says over his shoulder. “He said he had a couple of follow-up questions and wanted you to call him when you got in.”
“Okay, Dad!” I call after him. I don’t remember where I stuck Asher Julian’s card, but I add it to my already-overflowing mental to-do list for the day.
Morgan seems to sense my shift in mood.
“I’ll be back later,” she tells me. “With coffee. And cookies.”
It’s not until after she’s gone that I realize she’s forgotten her magazine. I know I should push it aside—that it’s only going to piss me off—but I can’t help myself. I flip back to the first page of the article.
The photo of Calder and his father makes me feel no less stabby the second time around. This time, though, my eyes skim past the photo and on to the piece itself.
You don’t want to read this… a little voice in my head warns me.
But since when have I listened to those reasonable little voices?
It’s not pretty. I read the entire thing twice because the first time I’m too angry to absorb everything. This article doesn’t just revel in the Cunninghams’ financial troubles. It hints at deep-rooted family issues, illegal business transactions, and the sort of ridiculous activities you only ever see on soap operas. The late Wentworth Cunningham gets the worst of it, but the article speculates about Calder’s involvement as well. One anonymous “source” claims that Calder tried in vain to keep his father out of trouble, while another “friend” suggests that Calder was, in fact, the one responsible for most of Wentworth Cunningham’s poor decisions.
I pick up the magazine and hurl it against the wall.
Where the hell do they get all of this? I only hope that Calder has more sense than I do and doesn’t let himself read this garbage.
But maybe it’s not all trash. I remember, quite vividly, what he told me in his car: I was just hoping I had time to sort a few things out before the press started hounding me. What things? When Calder told me about his situation, he said that his father had made some poor financial decisions. But what if it was something far shadier than a few bad investments? What if the late Wentworth Cunningham had been caught up in something illegal? I think of the strange, secretive phone calls I’ve seen Calder take. What is he up to?
Calder’s proud, and I suspect he’d do a lot to protect the memory of his father—not to mention his family name. How far would he go to bury this scandal?
I don’t know what’s going on, but I know this tabloid storm can’t be easy on him. We haven’t talked since our date on Saturday, but I pull out my phone and shoot him a text.
How are you?
He doesn’t respond right away, so I get back to work. The reply finally comes through just when I’m about to force myself to stop for some lunch.
I have to leave town on business for a couple of days. Dinner when I get back on Thursday?
He’s leaving town on business. Is that code for “I have family things to take care of” or “I need to get away from this mess”? It takes all of my willpower to refrain from asking him for further details. I’m a grown-ass woman. I can be patient and respect his desire for a little privacy.
Sure, I reply. Dinner on Thursday. Can’t wait.
Still, the whole situation gnaws at me. As I nibble at my peanut butter sandwich, I find myself clicking through the gossip sites on my computer. I don’t let myself read any of the articles—just the headlines. But that’s enough to make me sick to my stomach. A lot of people have latched on to the idea that the late Wentworth Cunningham was involved in something shady, but no one seems to know exactly what—drug hustling? Gambling? Some sort of pyramid scheme?
I force myself to click away before my temper explodes.
The phone on my desk rings as I’m dumping my half-eaten sandwich crusts into the garbage.
“Frazer Center for the Arts,” I say cheerfully into the receiver. “Lily speaking.”
“Lily! Just who I was hoping to speak to. It’s Asher Julian from the Intown Voice. We spoke last week.”
Crap. I was supposed to call him back this morning.
“Of course,” I say, hoping I sound less scattered than I feel. “Mr. Julian. Forgive me for not getting back to you earlier. I’ve been swamped today.”
“Asher,” he corrects. “And I hope this isn’t a bad time. Should I call back?”
“No, I have a few minutes. Fire away.” I don’t want to do anything to compromise this article.
“Great. I imagine you know what I’m going to ask you.”
I frown, confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”
“The news about the Cunninghams.”
Oh. I should have seen that coming.
“Do you have any comments?” Asher prompts. “How do you feel about your situation, now that you know the truth?”
I want to defend Calder, explain that the “truth” portrayed in the magazines might not reflect what really happened. But I have a feeling that if I even hint at the fact that I know more than the general media, I’ve lost.
“There are so many different stories out there right now,” I say, “that I’m not sure we know the truth just yet. Either way, it doesn’t affect the Center. We’ve learned to stand on our own two feet.”
“That’s a very diplomatic answer.”
“It’s an honest answer.”
He laughs. “I must say, I admire you more and more every time we speak. Most people are all too eager to spill their dirty secrets for a few minutes of fame.”
“Some people don’t have secrets to spill.”
“And now you’re just being coy. Everyone has secrets, Lily.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m sure you have a few stashed away. A girl like you has a hard time staying out of trouble.”
I’m not sure whether I’m insulted or intrigued. “What do you mean by that?”
He lets out another laugh. “A few years in this industry and you learn to how to read people. But don’t worry—I know better than to press a woman to reveal her mysteries. I just wanted to see if you had anything to share now that the Cunningham situation has become national news.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” I say. “But hopefully it doesn’t affect the article. You’re writing a piece about the Center, not the Cunninghams. Unless I’m confused?”
I can hear the smile in his voice when he responds. “Of course. But every story needs a good villain.”
“There isn’t always a villain.”
“But most of the time there is, if it’s a story worth telling. I understand your desire to appear sensitive and tactful in this situation. The last thing you want is for anything you say to reflect poorly on the Frazer Center. But I assure you, Lily, you’ll win more people over if you embrace your role as the victim. It’s the truth, isn’t it? The Frazer Center has suffered because of the Cunninghams’ irresponsibility. Trust me, people love rallying behind a sympathetic cause.”
“The Frazer Center isn’t a victim of anything but this economy,” I say. “And we’re doing everything we can to change that. Isn’t that enough of a story for you?”
My growing annoyance only seems to amuse him.
“Forgive me. I should’ve known my usual tactics wouldn’t work on you. But I hope you don’t blame me too much for trying.”
“I hope I didn’t disappoint you too much, Mr. Julian.”
“Quite the opposite, actually. In fact, I rather enjoyed this little chat.”
“If you have any further questions about the Center, please feel free to give me a call,” I say.
“Believe me, I will. Thank you, Lily.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up quickly. It’s pretty clear to me from my brief acquaintance with the man that Asher Julian is quite skilled in the art of charming information out of people, but I won’t fall victim to his ploy.
I can’t blame him, I guess. He’s only doing his job, and the Cunningham news leaked at a very opportune time for him. Still, I’m pissed. Why does every article have to revolve around some scandal? Why can’t anyone just write a piece about a small but dedicated organization pushing through a difficult time?
I hope I haven’t screwed this up for us. What if he decides that it’s not worth running our story without some juicy Cunningham gossip thrown in? Dad will kill me if he finds out.
But I don’t have time to worry about that right now. My phone rings again almost immediately, and it’s the woman who rented the gallery for this upcoming Saturday. She’d been planning to use the facility for an engagement party for her son and his fiancée, but apparently the happy couple is no longer… happy. She wants to cancel, but she’s pissed that she’ll lose her deposit. And so, of course, she takes out her frustration on me.
Just another fun day at the Frazer Center.
An hour later, when I finally get her off the phone, I’m done. Between the tabloids and Asher Julian and my last call, I’m ready to call it a day.
I need to fix something. Anything. I pull out my phone. I don’t care if Calder’s on his way out of town. I’m desperate to make something right in my life.
Hey, I text. I have a proposition for you.
I force myself to work on the stack of registration forms while I wait for his response, and I lunge for the phone as soon as I hear the beep.
What sort of proposition?
I smile to myself. The sort he won’t be able to refuse.
A game, I type. Something to make sure you miss me while you’re gone.
I still have a lot to learn about Calder, but one thing I do know: he can’t resist a little friendly competition. Things have been shaky between us recently, and if he won’t let us have sex, then there are other ways for us to connect.
What game are you proposing? he asks.
I can’t help but grin as I type. I was thinking Truth or Dare.
He doesn’t respond for a long moment, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. But then, finally, my phone beeps again.
You aren’t allowed to dare me to have sex.
I almost laugh out loud. Still, I have to admire his stubbornness. It will make victory that much more enjoyable.
Fine, I respond. But everything else is fair game.
There’s another long pause, but this time I know I have him.
You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, my dear, he texts.
Bring it on, I reply.
He takes my challenge to heart, launching right in.
Him: Right now? Where are you?
Me: At work. Being very productive.
Him: Sounds like it. So which will it be? Truth or dare?
Me: Who said you get to ask first?
Him: I did.
Me: Fine. But we have to name stakes first.
Him: Aren’t there already stakes in Truth or Dare?
Me: I mean if someone refuses to do something.
Him: I’m guessing you have something in mind? And then: Sex is still not allowed.
I bite my lip. I know what I want to say. I want to help him, want to chase the darkness away from his mind, and I can only comfort him if I know what’s going on. But demanding outright that he reveal his family secrets is pushy, even for me. I have to play this carefully.
Me: If you refuse to do something, you have to tell me about that call you took during our first date.
Something shifted between us the moment he took that call. If I can get to the bottom of that conversation, then I can help him. Help us.
Calder doesn’t respond for several minutes. I start to grow anxious, afraid that I went a step too far.
But then: If you refuse to do something, you have to tell your dad about us.
Damn. He knows what he’s doing. But there’s no backing out now.
Agreed, I text him.
Him: Let’s go then. Truth or dare?
Well, then. I guess he’s ready to go. Let’s start this game right.
Dare, I text back.
I force myself to start working on the class registrations again while I wait for him to come up with an appropriate challenge. Needless to say, in spite of my best efforts I don’t get much done before my phone beeps again.
Him: Are you at your desk?
Me: Yes.
Him: Alone?
Me: Yes.
Him: Is your door open?
Me: Yes.
I’m a little nervous now, but good nervous—the kind that makes my heart beat faster and my skin prickle in anticipation. But I’m still not prepared for his next message.
I want you to get yourself off, right now.
I stare at the screen for a long time. I’m still contemplating how to respond when my phone begins to buzz again, but it’s the call tone this time.
“Hello?” I breathe.
“Well?” Calder sounds far too amused. “Not backing out already, are we?”
“For someone who’s insisting we hold out on sex, you’re sure heating things up right out of the gate.”
“You said that everything else goes.”
Ah, I get it now. He’s trying to scare me off from the start, knock me out before we’ve even begun to play. He knows he’ll never be able to maintain his no-sex plan if we continue this game, but he’s too proud to refuse to play along with me. And so he’s trying to get me to back out on the very first round.
He should know me better than that.
“All right,” I say.
I can’t tell whether he’s more surprised or excited by my answer.
“You have to stay on the phone with me,” he tells me. “So I know you’re doing it.”
“I’m not going to moan or anything. This isn’t a porno.”
“You don’t have to make a sound. I’ll know.”
I shiver at the surety in his voice. He’s probably bluffing, but I don’t mind keeping him on the line. If I’m going to do this, I want him to hear it. I want to get him so worked up he’ll have no choice but to jump me the next time he sees me.
I’m wearing a dress today, so it’s easy enough to reach down and pull up the hem of my skirt. And if anyone walks by my open door—please don’t let them walk by my door—my desk should block the exposed skin. It will simply look like I have my hand in my lap—or so I tell myself. Thank God classes haven’t started yet. There are only a handful of us staff members around.
I slide my fingers slowly up my thigh. It won’t take much, at least. In spite of everything, my body is already responding, my nerves prickling at the sheer wickedness of it all. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
I press my finger against my underwear. There’s already a small damp spot, and even that light, indirect friction sends a tremor through my flesh.
On the other end of the line, Calder is completely silent.
“Are you going to help me?” I ask.
“No. I want it to be all you.”
All me. As if I don’t imagine him when I touch myself, as if I don’t remember the way his hands and lips and cock feel. As if I haven’t relived it over and over again in my mind these past few weeks. He caught me touching myself once, back at his mansion. It preceded the first time he and I ever had sex—rough, amazing sex in the backseat of my Honda while the rain fell around us.
If I’m going to do this, then I’m going to make sure he gets as hot and bothered as I do.
“I bet you wish you could see this,” I whisper into the phone as I slide the edge of my panties aside. “You like watching me, don’t you?”
He doesn’t respond.
“How long did you watch me last time? How long did you wait before you dove into the car and fucked me?”
I let my middle finger slip down between my wet folds, and I suck in a breath as the heel of my hand brushes against the sensitive nub at my crest.
“I’ve watched you, too,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted it out loud. “From the secret passage outside your room.”
Calder chuckles deep in his throat. I’ve always suspected that he knew, but he seems to enjoy the confirmation.
“Naughty girl,” he says, his voice husky. “You liked it, didn’t you?”
God, did I ever. I start to respond, but suddenly Morgan bursts into my office.
“I’m running down the street to grab some coffee,” she says. “Need an afternoon pick-me-up?”
She speaks loudly enough that Calder hears.
“Don’t stop,” he growls.
I shake my head frantically at Morgan and point helplessly at my phone with the hand that isn’t currently moving between my legs.
“Oooh,” she says, finally seeing the cell wedged beneath my ear. “So sorry!” But then her mouth curls up in a smile and she takes a step forward, mouthing, “Is it him?”
She’s close enough now that she’d be able to see what I’m doing if she decided to look down. I slide my chair forward, hiding what I can beneath the desk.
“I’ll talk to you later?” I say. My voice sounds strained, panicked. In my ear I hear Calder chuckle again, but Morgan doesn’t seem to notice my distress.
“Of course,” she says. She turns on her heel and moves back down the hall, and I let out a sigh of relief.
“You aren’t done yet, are you?” Calder asks.
No, but I want to get this over quickly before anyone else decides to stop by. I shift slightly, spreading my thighs and slipping my finger inside. I increase the pressure on my clit as I begin to work my finger in and out.
As much as I’d like to think I’m being completely silent, I know Calder can tell exactly how close I am.
“Tell me about this time you watched me,” he says. “I want to hear all the details.”
I’m too preoccupied to hold much of a conversation, but I try.
“The first night I was at your estate,” I say breathlessly. “I went into the secret passage. I wandered along until I found your room. You were naked.”
There’s a long silence on the other end, but I’m emboldened by this wicked little confession. I slip another finger in along with the first, moving them roughly, quickly. I’m close now. My breathing is shallow, fast, desperate. Beads of sweat dribble down my back, and my cheeks are flaming hot. If anyone walked by now there’d be no hiding what I’m doing.
“You watched me from the passage?” Calder prompts.
“Yes…” I bite down on my lip to keep from breathing so loudly.
“Just watched?”
Crap, I’m so close… “I… touched… myself…”
Calder groans, and that nearly pushes me over the edge—but not quite. It’s his next words that do it.
“Come for me, Lily. Come, now.”
Pleasure tears through me, and I gasp and clutch the edge of the desk. My head falls back against the chair, my eyes drop closed as I follow ecstasy to its peak and back down again. I’m still panting when Calder speaks.
“Well, I should leave you to compose yourself,” he says, sounding far too pleased with himself. “You probably still have work to do, don’t you?”
It takes me a moment to put together a coherent response.
“What about your turn?” I ask.
“I’ll be waiting.”
Oh, I bet he will. And after what he just put me through, he better be ready for something good.