Page 9 of Lie With Me

Who am I to turn down a dinner that cost over three hundred dollars a person?

“Do you want the short, polite version? Or the long-winded version that will make you run for the hills because I brought up my ex on a date?”

Raising an eyebrow at him, the corner of my mouth pulls up in a smirk. “Is this a date?”

“Well, we are engaged now, aren’t we?” he teases, his open-mouth smile showcasing two perfectly lined rows of teeth so white he looks like he belongs in a Colgate commercial.

“I suppose, as yourfiancée, I should know the long-winded version.”

When we were under the bright lights of Bergdorf’s, his hazel eyes looked more green, like moss in the forest after it rains. Now, with the candlelightreflecting on them, they look like two pools of jade with glittering gold flecks.

He’s beautiful.

“She’s my ex-fiancée,” he responds dryly. “We were together for four years. We met through our parents when I was in college, and I knew I wanted to marry her within the first hour I knew her.”

He gets a nostalgic look as he stares at a random spot on the table. “We had a long engagement. Almost two years. She kept putting things off, and I was busy working, so I didn’t really think anything of it. Our parents were being pushy, and we both liked rebelling against them, so I thought we were just partners in crime, sticking it to our families. Little did I know, she was seeing someone else.”

What a fucking idiot. Why the hell would anyone cheat on this man?

“She broke things off on New Year’s. Lied to me about seeing the other guy for weeks before she finally caved and told me the truth.”

“What a fucking bitch.”

His eyes snap to mine, and I feel my cheeks warm as I realize I just said that out loud. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re absolutely right. She is.”

We fall silent while the server sets down the next course and takes our empty dishes away, but as soon as the man turns his back, I lean into the table. “If you don’t mind me asking, what was her reason for breaking it off?”

Ken freezes like he’s been caught with his hand inthe proverbial cookie jar. I wait patiently for him to figure out how to answer my question, doing my best to shove my sashimi into my mouth in one bite without looking like a starved dog who hasn’t eaten in a week.

“Let’s just say we didn’t see eye to eye on certain things,” he finally answers cryptically.

He doesn’t want to tell me the real reason his ex broke things off. Rich men guard their secrets the same way they guard their money.

“So, Bianca, I feel like we’ve been talking about me for too long. Tell me, what do you do?” he changes the subject.

That’s okay, because I have my secrets, too. No way in hell am I going to tell him I work at a sex-positive club where I get paid to make people’s dreams come to life.

Some might call it prostitution.

I call it art.

And I’m a regular fucking Van Gogh.

Not justanyonecan wear lingerie, stilettos, and a pair of angel wings and get men—and women—to spend thousands in a one-hour block.

It’s why my boss and I get along so well.

There are three tiers at Désirer—the club where I work: gold Angels do the Confessional, black Angels are the Dreamers, and platinum Angels are the Desires.

Confessional Angels only talk to the clients, maybe put on a show if they want. It all depends on the mood, and the workers get to call all the shots. We’re never forced to do anything we don’twant to, or work in a wing we’re uncomfortable with.

Dreamers can touch the clients, and they can touch you, but you’re not allowed to have sex.

And Desires is where anything goes, as long as everything is consensual.

“I’m in the entertainment industry. Just a low-level assistant. Nothing special.”

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