Page 50 of Bona Fide

? Addicted — Saving Abel ?

I would’ve never agreedto come here if Emmy didn’t threaten me with more Post-it Notes on my car or the dozens of text messages full of begging and promises of a great time. The blocking feature on my phone has been looked at more times this week than ever before. But her “famous” New Year’s Eve party was all she’s spoken of since Thanksgiving, so I caved.

I thought it’d be a rented hall or her house, but instead she booked a full penthouse, and it is absolutely stunning. The dark hardwood floors are pristine like they’ve never been walked on before. Ceiling-to-floor windows surround the whole front room with a skyline view of the city. Soft tan couches with a sixty-inch TV over a fireplace with real wood. The kitchen is immaculate, white marble with gray and brown swirled countertops, all ivory cabinets, and an island with modern-styled stools.

I’m in love with this place.

It’s a few towns over from home, far enough away to drive here without too much traffic and no signs of work. There are only three bedrooms and about ten of Emmy’s girlfriends, but they are all bunking together, where I was forced to stay at Emmy’s side all night.

Her little party was in full swing for most of the evening, jamming old 2000’s hits of R&B and Hip Hop, champagne and food abundant, but it was a tad too much for my tastes.

It must be because I’m a party planner, always around hundreds of people, always with music, food, guests who want to dance and have a good time—not sure I know how to do that anymore.

When midnight hit, half of the girls were already passed out drunk on the couches and the other half rang in the New Year with cheers and a few more dances, then they hit the sack. They all have busy jobs, some with kids, so staying up past midnight was like pulling an all-nighter.

Now Emmy snores softly next to me in the California Queen bed we’re sharing as I glance over at the alarm clock on the bedside table. The red numbers tell me it’s past two in the morning, and I’m restless, the penthouse is eerily quiet besides Emmy’s soft snores.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet hit the cool floors as I make my way out of the gray paneled bedroom. Inside the kitchen, I grab a bottled water out of the fridge, glancing back over at the windows. Some buildings have lights on, others are dark, the moon casts a bluish-black shadow over everything that touches it.

I walk towards the edge of the penthouse to look down at the street when a voice startles the absolute shit out of me, almost ripping a scream from my lips.

“If I would’ve known how beautiful you looked under the moonlight, I would’ve brought you here sooner.”

Twirling on my heels, a tall figure slowly strides toward me. My eyes etch his features—the broadness of his shoulders, the suit that looks navy blue, and the gold watch on his left hand.

Then the tone of said voice sinks into memory, and I relax—a little.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” I yell-whisper, clutching my water bottle.

“Came to see you,” Wade replies nonchalantly, still making a path in my direction.

“How did you know—” I stop myself because the answer is obvious—Emmy. “Are you trying to kill me? Geezus...”

“Whose place do you think this is?”

I shrug. “I don’t kno...oh shit…” My decompressed state ramps back up to tense as he stops two inches in front of me, emitting his own shadow on me.

“It’s mine,” he alludes softly. “I let Emmy have it for her little party.”

I straighten my shoulders, wishing I would’ve thrown a sweatshirt on because it’s cool in here, my nipples are hard because of it—not because of him.

“Why would you do that?” I ask.

“Because she’s been asking me for over two years, and I finally caved.”

“Where were you then?”

Motherfucker.

The words slip from my mouth before I can even catch them and shove them back down my throat.

I want to leave now. I can’t believe that I partied and slept in one of his beds. I’m mortified actually. This—this space is HIS.

He probably wanders around here half-naked all the time or maybe in cashmere robes or a silk pajama set. I have no clue, he was always—always—naked when we were together. Like he has a thing about clothing in the bedroom or something.

Oh my God, am I staying in his bedroom? Am I in his WIFE’S bedroom?

Wade steps closer, the lapels of his suit brushing against my chest, making me peer up at him. I can feel the tremor of a panic attack trickle up my spine.

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