Page 30 of Sweet Nothings

Her stern expression softens.

I drop her conditions on my desk and take a step closer, bringing the toes of my shoes to the tips of her bare feet. “I don’t have a problem with your conditions.”

Surprised, she jerks back, and her brow creases. “You don’t?”

“Nope.” I lift my hand and feather my finger down her cheek. I’ve lost all resolve. I need to touch her, and it seems she’s surprised I’m not acting like the monster she clearly believes me to be. The one she’s seen me be in front of society.

Little does she know she was there for me on the worst night of my life. For her, I’m never the monster.

Focusing on my path, I watch my finger as it follows the curve of her jaw and across her chin. I drag my finger across her lip. She stays still, never taking her eyes from mine.

I drop my hand.

“But I have a few conditions of my own.”

“Okay,” she breathes, her cheeks flushed pink.

“You can keep your apartment and everything you own inside it, but you’ll be living with me at my place here in Boston.”

Her eyebrows knit. “So, we’ll still be staying in the city? I figured you’d want us to be in one of your other houses. Like the one where your father’s funeral was held.”

Caught off guard, I bite the tip of my tongue and fight the image of seeing Laurel anywhere outside of my apartment.

“No,” I simply say. “My apartment in the city is where I spend most of my time. It only makes sense we live there.”

The corner of her mouth lifts into a small smile, and I know she’s satisfied with my answer. I can sense she wants to press me for more information, but thankfully, she doesn’t. “Agreed, then.”

“Good.” I nod.

“What’s the next condition?”

“You have access to my accounts, my drivers, and all the perks that come with bearing the Harding name.”

Her eyes light with humor. “The Harding name holds that much power, does it?”

I lean closer and drag my nose along the length of her jaw. The longer we stand here, the harder it is for me to keep my resolve. It’s as if all this pent-up frustration over the last few days, being forced to wait out Laurel’s silence, has finally burst.

A wall has been broken down, and I can’t explain how or why.

I breathe her in. My head grows dizzy from the perfume peppered along her neck and embedded in her hair. I tuck the loose strands behind her ear. Her chest stills beneath me. Her skin prickles with goosebumps as I bring my mouth to the hollow of her ear.

“I told you, Mrs. Harding,” I growl. “When you’re my wife, our marriage will mean more than money.”

Several seconds pass before she pulls away. I look into her eyes as if I’ll figure out what it was that caused her to changeher mind and agree to marry me. There’s a faraway look in them again. Is she running from something? Or someone?

Does she feel for me what I’ve always felt for her?

She still believes I don’t remember our night together. At least, that’s how she acts. She may not have said it to me yet, but I can see it in the way she looks at me as if she’s waiting for the moment I’ll prove her and everyone else right. I’ll prove that I’m the cold, black-hearted asshole they all believe me to be. I’ll prove I’m just like my father.

“I’m not so sure,” she whispers. “All of those conditions have to do with money, Lennon. Let’s not pretend this is something more than what it is.”

Her words are like a sharp dagger to my chest. She only sees me for who she believes I am. As does everyone else.

Maybe that’s my own doing. I’ve spent most of my life looking up to my father. Even when he would force me to go on his so called ‘business trips’. Sure, the first part was always spent with a client, going over contracts and signing multi-million-dollar deals, but then we’d spend the next twenty-one hours in a strip club, and I’d watch as my father snorted lines of coke and drank himself into oblivion. Often, my father’s driver would end up taking me back to the hotel just before I found him passed out on the floor with a stripper digging through his pockets for cash.

Living a life such as that and being the eldest son of a billionaire doesn’t afford you the privilege of determining your own image. Society does that for you.

I was known as James Harding’s clone, made to follow in his footsteps in every way.

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