Page 10 of Promise Me Forever

His driver? Who the hell has a driver? It’s an odd concept, and one I’m not entirely comfortable with. It’s not like he handed me a wad of dollar bills, but being handed off to a member of staff still makes me feel a little cheap. What did I expect? For him to walk me home, for us to stroll hand in hand through Central Park like we’re in some rom-com? This was a one-night stand, and we promised each other nothing.

He starts to get dressed after pulling clean boxers from a full drawer and a shirt from a crowded closet. “Wait,” I say, frowning. “Do you actually, like,livehere?”

He pulls on the white dress shirt but leaves it unbuttoned. Damn, the man is built. Amused, he quirks an eyebrow. “Like, uh, yeah? I told you last night, I’ve just moved back. I’m in the process of buying somewhere, but these things take forever to go through. Damn lawyers slow everything down.” He grins at his own comment like he’s just made a joke and carries on getting dressed.

Before I can reply, there’s a knock on the door, and I tug the sheet right up to my neck. In case, you know, the person knocking has x-ray vision and can see through doors and walls.

“Relax,” he says on his way out of the bedroom. “I promised you breakfast, and I thought we both might prefer to eat in private rather than in the restaurant.”

Well, yes. Especially in last night’s bridesmaid’s dress. That wouldn’t be a good look for either of us. Speaking of which, I realize that it’s in the other room, along with breakfast. A sudden rumble in my tummy lets me know that my body needs sustenance, and I cast my eyes around, looking for something else to wear.

When he walks back into the bedroom, he catches me scrambling back under the covers. “Don’t be coy.” He smirks at the one bare leg that’s still exposed. “It’s not like I didn’t kiss every inch of your body last night, is it, Scarlet?”

I feel myself blush brighter than my alter ego’s name, and he seems to be trying to hide his amusement as he passes me a shirt. It’s the one he had on last night, and it still smells of his cologne.

“Come on, let’s eat. Get your caffeine fix. Whatever. I don’t know about you, but I need to work.”

I slip on the shirt, glad that it at least covers my ass, and follow him through to the other room. There’s a tray laden with fresh fruit, pastries, and pancakes, and the dining table is set for two. He grabs himself food and a coffee and watches me as I hesitantly do the same. This feels beyond weird, and I’m kinda desperate to escape now. He seems different this morning. More distant, colder. Too polite.

He’s still drop-dead gorgeous, but somehow less approachable. Last night, before all the mind-melting sex, we talked. Really talked. About our childhoods, our families, our moms. This morning, he seems more interested in his phone. I tell myself I’m being an idiot and pour myself a cup of coffee. The smoky aroma of top-quality coffee automatically makes me feel better.

“You’re working on a Sunday?” I ask, grabbing a flaky croissant and sitting down opposite him. I bite into it, sending a shower of crumbs all over my cleavage.

He stares at my chest, and his jaw twitches. I suppress a smile at his reaction, but then a healthy dose of humility bites me in the ass. What if I’ve read this completely wrong? Maybe he’s a neat freak and he’s having a meltdown about the mess. “I am, yes. I work every day. What about you?”

I brush the crumbs away, noting his eyes following my fingers, and shrug. “I’m not important enough to work on a Sunday. I am starting that new job tomorrow, though.”

“The one with the asshole boss?”

I cringe when I recall our conversation from last night. I gave him some scant information about my new job. Nothing about the kind of work I’d be doing or who I’d be working for—I am neither indiscreet nor an idiot—but I definitely told him stuff that I should have kept to myself. Scarlet was way too chatty.

“Well, I feel bad for saying that now. I mean, that’s just repeating gossip. When I met him during my interview, he was okay. Nice even. And maybe it’s not weird that he has this reputation—you don’t get to be the boss of a huge firm without being a bit of a ball-buster, do you? People say he’s a crazy perfectionist with super-high standards. But again, maybe not a bad thing given how many people work for him.”

He nods and lays his phone down on the table. “No, it’s not, and as long as he expects the same high standards from himself, it probably doesn’t qualify him as an asshole either. But if he turns out to be one, you don’t have to keep working for him.”

I shake my head and sip my coffee, smiling at how simple he seems to think it is. “What’s so funny?” he asks, frowning slightly.

“That comment. Only a man like you could say something like that.”

“A man like me?”

“Yeah, you know.” I wave my hand, indicating the grand room. “Guys who live like Bruce Wayne.”

“You think I’m Batman?”

“Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised. Is your driver’s name Alfred?” I’m at risk of babbling now, and I need to shut up. It’s only because I’m nervous.

“It’s Constantine, actually.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, ordinary people—people like me—can’t just walk out on a good job because their boss is an asshole, you know? We need little things like healthcare and money for groceries and to make our rent.”

He stares at me, and I feel a flush creeping over my neck. I suppose he might consider what I just said as rude, even if it is true. Since my split from Chad, cash has been tight, and my limited experience in the world of work has meant I’ve had to do a lot of temporary jobs. Nobody cares if you went to Harvard when they want someone to manage an office. I suppose it’s made me more aware than ever of the importance of being self-sufficient, especially with my mom’s health needs.

“I have heard of things like rent,” he says slowly, his tone calm but also frosty. “Of course, up here in my ivory tower, I’ve never been concerned with such trivialities. My life is, naturally, completely perfect in every way and totally free of all stress and worry. How is your croissant?”

I blink at him. I guess being rich doesn’t automatically mean you don’t have problems, but men like Drake have no idea about the cruel hardships of the real world. And that isn’t his fault; it’s simply a fact of life. “It’s good. Uh, I think I’d better go. Leave you to build your empire or buy Arizona, or whatever it is you have on your to-do list today.”

He nods and gazes at me over the steam from his coffee mug. “Okay. But that’s my favorite shirt you’re wearing. I’d like it back before you go.”

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