Reece
It’s Saturday mid-afternoon. After a sleepless night of tossing and turning, I’ve still not made up my mind. I lie awake on my bed, my sheets tangled between my bare thighs, my skin still feeling alive from his caresses. I’ve never met anyone like him. I’ve never felt the way I did in his arms. Safe.
But I’m not, am I?
I mean, the man broke into my apartment. Sure, he cleaned up and left flowers, but still… I finger the little butterfly pendant I found amongst the bouquet. There’s a little bit of bright red on its wing.
I’m playing with fire and I’m going to get burned. I think of his chiseled jaw, his stern daddy tone. He’s not a man who’s used to being told no. Part of me doesn’t even want to say no. I want to run into his arms screaming, Yes daddy! Take me away.
I want to go to London, I want to see the world. I want to be alone with him on a beautiful, romantic vacation. I want him to touch me, whisper his dirty words in my ear, I want him to make me come.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m pacing around my tiny apartment, my bare feet cold against the worn wood.
Do I go? Do I not?
How does one make such a life-changing decision as to hop on the private jet of one’s stalker, who also happens to be twice one’s age? And what about my job? He said he’d take care of it but I’d never jet set without giving my boss a proper heads up and making sure she has coverage for my classroom.
But. I need that key.
I think of him taking the key back from me and slipping it into his pocket. Why did I ever let it leave my hand? Why didn’t I just demand it from him?
His voice rumbles in my mind, saying, Because no one makes demands of Bryant Long, babygirl.
A nervous giggle tickles through me. He would say just that. But damn, I never should have gotten in his car and left without it. I have to get it from him. That’s what this whole thing was about from the beginning, wasn’t it?
If I don’t go to London with him, I may never see that key again.
If I’m being totally honest? This mission has gone off its rails. I’m so far from where I started with my plans. I thought I could do this. I thought I could pull off this facade, get what I need, and get out…
Forgetting all about him.
But I can’t. It’s not only that I can’t forget about him, he’s become the only thing on my mind, the center of my thoughts. And damn…those fingers of his...if he could make me come that hard with just one hand, imagine what he could do with his—
Three sharp knocks on the door stop my pacing, and my dirty thoughts melt away. Who could that be? A little butterfly of hope flutters in my belly.
Could it be my daddy? Already dying to see me again?
“Just a minute,” I call in what I hope is a seductive voice. God—what’s happening to me? I flit to the door, stopping just long enough to check my hair in the mirror. It’s flowing around my face, slightly disheveled but still sexy from my primping for Mattie’s birthday party last night.
Shit.
Mattie.
I need to text her back. She’s probably wondering where I got off to last night. I grab my phone from the side table under the mirror and shoot her a text.
all good was just tired
don't worry about me
happy birthday!
There’s another knock.
“Sorry!” I put down the phone and open the door.
It’s not daddy.
The six-foot-two-inches of muscles and sternness I’m expecting is nowhere to be seen.
Instead, a petite blonde woman stands before me. Short with curves for days. A gorgeous woman with glowing skin and a perfect smile. Bright blue eyes that grab my attention. She looks to be only a few years older than me.
“Hello, Reece! Sooo nice to meet you. Mr. Long sent me.” She stares at me expectantly.
I stare back. Who is she? And my god, she better not be fucking my daddy.
Get a grip, Reece. He’s not yours and after you get that damn key, you’re calling this whole crazy mess off anyway.
Aren’t I?
She clears her throat prettily to get my attention. She blinks her long, perfectly mascaraed lashes at me. “Um. Reece? May I please come in?”
It’s only then that I take note of the white paper boxes clutched in her grasp and the bags that hang from her arms.
“Oh my god!” I say, stepping aside from the door to allow her to enter. “I’m so sorry. Where are my manners? Forgive me—I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
She gives a sigh and a smile. “He didn’t tell you I was coming? Typical Bryant. He does love a good surprise.”
“Can I help you with that?” I ask, eyeing her parcels. What could those pretty white boxes be filled with?
“Yes. Please.” She gratefully hands over the stack of packages, shifting the bags to two hands.
I take in the weight in my arms. They’re light but large. What could be in them? Are they for me?
“Come in, come in.” I usher her in, closing the door behind her. “You can put all your stuff on the couch.”
Breezing by me, I take all of her in. She wears a long wool coat in the perfect shade of purple to complement her expensive icy blonde highlights. And judging by the red on the soles of her shoes—actual Louboutins—she’s used to expensive things and being in nice places.
My apartment is neither.
“Thanks.” She politely but gingerly tiptoes into my apartment like she’s scared to touch anything.
I keep it clean, but yeah, it’s really old and kind of a hovel. I don’t have much money for home improvement.
I hurry over to her, setting the boxes on the couch beside the bags she’s deposited. “Would you like a coffee? Cup of tea or something?”
I can’t tell if she actually wants to stay, but her manners supersede her desires. “Yes. That would be nice. Thanks.” She removes her coat and I have to swallow down my jealousy. This girl has an hourglass figure and is wearing a black silk wrap dress that perfectly shows them off. That dress looks like it costs more than my rent for the month.
Even the graceful way she fold her coat, placing it over her forearm, makes me envious. The woman is pure perfection. I catch a glimpse of my tousled hair and leftover eyeliner from last night. I’m anything but.
I think of Bryant’s grumpy comments about my ‘scrap of a dress’ from last night.
Is the dress she’s wearing what he likes? God, I need to get over myself. I just need the key—I don’t need to obsess over this man and this woman he’s sent to my apartment—wait, what’s her name?
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t get your name.” Did she tell me her name?
She gives a little wave with her perfectly manicured fingernails. “I’m Ashely. Mr. Long’s personal assistant.” She stresses the word ‘personal’ a little too hard.
The couch full, she remains standing, still holding her coat. I’m so used to my friends just showing up, kicking their shoes off and flopping down on my couch. I should take her coat from her. I should offer her a seat.
“Here. I can take your coat. Have a seat in the window. The view is awesome.” I take her coat, putting it on my bed. She settles herself down in my window seat. I hurry back to my pathetic excuse for a kitchen, opening my cabinets.
Bare.
Of course.
I bet her kitchen is fully stocked. She probably even takes her cereal out of the box and puts it in those neat little clear glass containers, perfectly labeled. If she even eats processed foods. “You never did say tea or coffee?”
I reach my hand on the back of my shelf. Bingo! One box of cheap black tea. Please say tea, please say tea. Coffee is so expensive, I rarely buy it.
“Tea is fine,” she says. Her voice sounds distant and I peek around the corner at her. She’s staring out the window, a faraway look on her face. She murmurs more to herself than to me, “Wouldn’t you love to live in The West. God, a life like that…” her words trail off.
What’s up with this chick?
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She snaps to, jumping up from her seat and pasting a bright smile on her glossy lips. “Yes. Yes. Oh my goodness. I’m just so excited to show you what Mr. Long sent. Are you ready to be amazed? He really did go overboard this time. He does love to spoil.”
This time? My stomach drops. Have there been other times? How many girls has he sent his gorgeous assistant to, loaded down with packages to spoil them?
Jealous, jealous, green-eyed cat. No one wants you here, so scat. I focus on my mission and smile like he’s always sending me stuff. “Yes. I know. He does, doesn’t he?”
She hurries over to the couch, lifting the first box. She hands it to me. “Ready?”
Am I ever.
She pulls back the lid. I step closer to get a better look. Nestled in white paper lays a blush pink silk wrap dress. I want to reach out and stroke the fabric but my fingers suddenly feel dirty and I’m worried I’d ruin it. It looks too delicate to touch. Too nice for someone like me. I just stare at it in awe.
Ashely gives a little giggle. “Go ahead, silly. It’s yours!”
“Really? I don’t know.” But my hands are moving towards the box, my fingers delicately wrapping around the silk.
Ashely chatters on excitedly. “I hope you don’t mind, I got you one like mine. It’s a Dior. It’s just so flattering, I figured every girl could use one and when Bryant told me the style and color he wanted, I knew this would be perfect.”
“I love it. Thank you.” The dress flows like water as I lift it from the box. It feels incredible between my fingers. I hold the dress up against my body for Ashely’s approval.
“It’s gorgeous,” she says. “That color is stunning on you. It brings out the rosy tones in your complexion. But to get the full feel, you’ll have to try it on. You’ll need the other things as well.”
I eye the many boxes and bags cluttering my couch and wonder what other treasures they contain.
She holds out the empty garment box. “Here, lay it inside and I’ll get in settled back in the box while you open the rest.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I hate to part with the dress but I want to know what’s in the other boxes.
The next gift makes me blush. Yeah, rosy tones for sure, I can feel the heat rising in my face as I stare down at the box.
More blush pink.
A smooth silk bra with full cups to wear under the silk wrap dress. And a scrap of silk and lace I’m guessing you’d call panties. I crook my finger under the thin string waistband and lift them from the box.
“What,” I ask Ashely, “are these?”
She giggles again, clearly enjoying this. “That’s a g-string. Have you never had one before?”
I shake my head, too embarrassed to speak.
Her gaze smooths over my hips. “Well, with a body like yours, you’re going to stun in those. But,” she leans over, sliding her hand into her large purse. She knows exactly what she’s looking for and where it is. She hands me a shiny piece of paper. “You’ll need this.”
“What is this?” I look over the glossy paper she handed me. Pictures of half-naked women relaxing in fluffy white bathrobes cover the top.
“It’s the spa menu.” Her smile gets tighter as she continues. “After you try on that outfit, we’ve got to get going if we’re going to fit in your full body wax, hot oil massage, and facial before the jet leaves tonight.”
“Tonight?” Massage? Hot oil? The most I’ve ever splurged on is a discounted Groupon mani pedi package. And this Ashely girl seems perfectly normal. She would be warning me off Bryant if he was a bad guy. The decision has been made.
I’m going to London.
I let the idea settle around me like a blanket. My fate has been decided for me. I should be unsettled but somehow I find the knowledge warm, comforting.
“Well, okay,” I say. “Let’s hurry.”
Now that I’ve accepted that fact, I begin to enjoy myself. So many more outfits, all gorgeous with designer labels. There are hair products, skin products, even a cute new travel bag to hold all of my toiletries.
When I’m done there’s a mountain of discarded white tissue and boxes and bags covering my sofa.
“Oh,” says. Ashely. “There’s one more thing.”
From under the chaos, she pulls a forgotten shoebox.
I take off the lid.
No way.
No—freaking—way.
It can’t be.
I lift one of the beige Apostrophe leather pumps from the box and I know before I look to confirm—they’ve got shiny red bottoms. “My very own Louboutins? I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it, honey.” She smiles but the grin doesn’t reach her eyes.
Is she jealous?
I can’t blame her. But I don’t want her to feel bad. I compliment her and shower her with thank yous as I slip the shoes on my bare feet. “You have such amazing taste. Seriously. Thank you so much for going to all this trouble.”
The buttery leather envelops my soon-to-be-spa-pedicured feet. God—the shoes feel as amazing as they look. They are as perfect as I knew they would be. I’m getting a little choked up remembering all those times I admired them from the street, gazing at the display through the spotless glass window of the shop on Madison Ave, a street I didn’t even feel I had the right to walk down in my Target jeans and clearance sneakers.
I clear my throat, reluctantly dragging my gaze up from the gorgeous shoe. “Ashely, seriously, you did a great job. Thank you so much for going to all the trouble for me—”
“I’d do anything for Mr. Long,” she says.
As in… she did this for him, not for me, and she wants to make that clear.
Okay….
“He also wanted me to give you this,” she says. She pulls a white notecard from her purse. It’s the size of a business card, creamy white card stock. Her manicured fingers hold onto it a little too tightly.
It’s mine. “Thank you.” I take it from her and flip it over.
I read the card. My heart drops to the shiny red soles of my Louboutins. The words burn into my empty chest, my face heating with a shame-filled flush.
I read the words again…
Daddy knows what you did, kitten