Page 4 of Expensive

He nods. We walk through the studio’s hallway toward the collection of offices at the end. The studio is in the warehouse district. Most of the rooms are modular, and there’s an entire storage room of props to switch up the setting for each scene. Even Davey’s makeshift office is a cubicle with movable walls. I follow him inside and sit on the stool he rescued from the prop room. He sits at a wooden desk I’m pretty sure I’ve had sex on a few times.

He pushes the folder across the desk. “A Blue Blood omega wants to commission a video, and he insisted that you be the star.” Davey’s voice is too upbeat, like he’s trying to sell me on this. If it’s a straightforward scene, why the sales pitch? Something is off.

I open the folder. Inside is a photo of a shirtless man. The lighting is dramatic and highlights the hard lines of his chest. He doesn’t look at the camera but at the floor. The effect is seductive. This man isn’t smiling for the camera. He doesn’t have to. He’s the kind of man you can’t help but look at even if he’s too shy to look back.

“Who is this?” I ask.

Davey bites his lip. “Uh, that’s the client.”

“Why did he include a shirtless photo of himself?”

Davey gestures to the folder. I turn to the next page where there’s a letter addressed to me. It’s not from the man but from his employee. In it, she tells me a story about an eighteen-year-old boy, a terrible choice, and a seventy-year-old almost-mate. Then she details the aftermath five years later: an unbearable ache that will never go away.

I flip back to the photo. I’m not sure I can do this. I’ve had omegas request my services as a hired knot before, and I’ve always turned them down.

“One point two million dollars,” Davey says.

I look up from the folder. This omega is offering to pay me over a million dollars?

“But he only wants to hire me for a few days.”

Davey nods slowly. “Think about it, Timber. If this guy likes your time together, he’s probably going to want you again. His bond ache isn’t ever going away. This could be a gold mine for you.”

Or it would be a gold mine for someone else if I don’t accept the job. My stomach sinks. Andrew Sullivan is far more vulnerable than he or his employee realize. I scan through the next few pages, which are his STI test results. Then I get to his list of “desired sexual acts.”

The list is standard if a little kinky in places. It’s almost an exact match to the ‘sexual interests’ page in my own contract with Scalene Studios, which is strange. Did Davey share that information with a client?

At the end of the list is a request that tugs at my heart.

I want to call you ‘Daddy.’ And if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to call me ‘baby boy.’ If you’re feeling it, that is.

I close the folder and pull it close to my chest.

How am I going to tell this man no?

I’m not sure I can.

3

Andrew

Marjorie said I should meet Timber in the library. Try to impress him with the grandeur of it all just like I did Davey. But he hasn’t agreed to the contract yet. If he’s simply coming to tell me no, I don’t want that to happen in the library. It’s my favorite place. My sanctuary.

Instead, I wait for Timber out on the veranda. Marjorie and I make some tea and sip it while we read together companionably. She’s readingOne for the Moneyby Janet Evanovich, and I’m reading a beautiful copy ofLes MisérablesI found in the library last week. It has a green hardcover with gold-edged pages thin as a Bible’s.

Victor Hugo’s words are as beautiful as I remember. I’m completely lost in Fantine’s tragedy when I hear footsteps approach. I set my teacup down and glance up to see Timber in front of me wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. I stare at him, dumbfounded. I didn’t see Marjorie leave, so I didn’t have time to mentally prepare. And yet here he is. Tattooed, muscled arms. Short red hair with silver flecks. Kind green eyes. He stands there, holding my blue folder, with a calm confidence that’s magnetic.

“Good morning. I’m Timber,” he says, holding out his hand even though I’m still sitting down. The implication is clear. He expects me to stand and come to him. I can’t help myself. I stand, knocking my tea. Luckily, it sloshes harmlessly inside the saucer. I walk over to him, and instead of giving him the firm handshake Marjorie taught me, I place my trembling fingers inside his large hand.

“Andrew Sullivan.”

He grips my hand hard while he shakes it. I don’t normally interact with alphas. It intensifies the bond ache. Even a simple handshake is enough to make my body warm and tingly. He releases me, and my hand feels cold.

“I see you’re drinking tea. Perhaps I could have some as well?” His voice lilts up at the end of the sentence, but it’s not really a question. It’s a demand.

“Yes, Sir.” My cheeks grow hot as I realize what I just said. “I mean, yes. I mean—”

“You may call me Sir.”

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