Page 25 of A Temporary Forever

“I’m just a driver.”

“And a bodyguard.”

He remains aloof, but I swear he growls softly. Since I need his help before I can take the next step in negotiating with Caleb, I get into the car.

I groan as my corset digs into my ribs the minute I dip into the soft leather seat. I didn’t get changed out of my costume or wash my face. I couldn’t stay there any longer with all the emotions threatening to spill out.

The compassion my colleagues showed me swirled warmly in my chest, but a part of me recoiled. I didn’t know how to accept their kindness. I didn’t deserve it.

“What’s your name, driver-slash-bodyguard?”

His gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror as he pulls into traffic. “Peter.”

“How long have you worked for Caleb, Peter?” Something tells me this conversation will be an uphill battle.

“Since he hired me.” The corners of his eyes crinkle, but he looks back at the road immediately.

I smile. “Well played.”

“We should be at your address in half an hour, miss.”

I don’t know if he wants me to shut up, or if he’s giving me an estimate of how much time I have left to grill him.

Based on his initial answers, he won’t share much with me, anyway. And he for sure won’t give me Caleb’s number.

“Actually, Peter, could you get me to Mr. van den Linden’s instead?”

His eyes jerk to the mirror, but he says nothing. As he continues driving, he clicks something on the screen on the dashboard.

“Good evening, sir. Miss Delacroix asked to come to your place.”

I slide to the middle of the seat to see Peter’s profile, and I notice the white earpiece. He has Caleb on the line.

The silence seems to stretch to an unreasonable length. Is Caleb silent as well? Considering my request? Or is he giving Peter an earful for the outlandish suggestion?

“Yes, sir.” Peter nods.

I hold my breath, but nothing changes. Peter continues to drive in silence. Is Caleb still talking to him? The screen on the panel remained black during the call, so I’m not sure if the call is still on.

Peter continues driving toward the East Village, so I guess that’s my answer. Of course Caleb doesn’t want to spend his evening bickering with me.

It’s Wednesday night, but he probably isn’t even home tonight. Or he has a woman there. That’s the most likely scenario. Someoneblushing and less opinionated.

Am I really going to let the whole production down? I slouch into the leather seat, my eyes set in front of me, the corset bruising my torso.

Funny how I don’t feel its constraints when I’m dancing, but the minute I’m off stage, the thing becomes a prison. I should have changed.

“I can finally turn here, but it will take us another hour or so to get there in this traffic. There are water bottles in every door, miss.”

I jerk my head to Peter and blink a few times. “He said yes?” God, can I sound more desperate?

Again, Peter says nothing. He just nods, which is great because at this rate, I’ll be left with no dignity by the time I get to Caleb. And for this mission, I need every little smidge of it.

The drive takes more than an hour, that I spend fidgeting, lifting my hips off the seat to relieve my aching core, drinking all the water in the car, and rehearsing what I’m going to say.

In the depths of a dark garage, Peter escorts me to the elevator, swipes a card, pushes a button, and steps out before the door closes. “Have a nice evening, miss.”

What? The lift jolts up and I close my eyes, breathing to calm my nerves. Why am I even this nervous?

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