Page 25 of Pretending I'm Yours

“Thanks,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

“What?” he asks, arching an amused brow. “Not a fan of ‘kid?’ Compared to the old geezer you’re with, youarea kid, you know.”

“You’re not a geezer. And if you’re worried about a possible power imbalance, don’t be,” I say, lifting my chin. “Our age difference is balanced out by the fact that I’m basically your boss.”

He laughs, looking delighted by my chutzpah. “You’re right. Youaremy boss.” He makes a sexy, growling noise low in his throat as he squeezes my hip. “And what a tyrant you are. So demanding and hard to please.”

I roll my eyes, blushing as I grin. “Right. So hard. I think it took…what? Five minutes?”

“Maybe six, but yeah, you’re pretty incredible.” He exhales with a shake of his head. “But let’s not talk about that now, or I’mgoing to get hard again.” He leans down, kissing my forehead, making my entire being glow—body and soul—before motioning toward the street with his cell. “Just tell me where we’re going. I’ll call the car. Looks like there are a few drivers in the area. I’ll tell them to pick us up in front of the museum.”

I give him the name of my hotel and he types it in. A beat later, the ride is accepted. We reach the front of the Brooklyn Museum, with its façade illuminated in red and green in honor of the holiday, just as our driver pulls up.

Casting one last glance over my shoulder at the scene, not wanting to forget a single thing about this night, I slide into the door Anthony’s opens for me, ready for whatever comes next.

chapter 7

ANTHONY

The city slidespast the windows in a blur of holiday lights and gently falling snow, the roads uniquely traffic-free on this chilly Christmas night. But inside the cab, we’re toasty warm. The driver blasts the heat while a jazz station plays softly from the speakers, making the back seat feel cozy, intimate.

Maya’s head rests against my shoulder, her fingers laced through mine, making me think about how perfectly she fits against me. About the way she gasped my name in the garden.

About how badly I want to hear that sound again, this time while my mouth is between her legs, devouring her sweetness.

I’m thinking about all that, but I’m also thinking about…Dave Mackey.

Dave, who gave me my first real job in construction when I was sixteen and desperate to earn extra money for college. Dave, who taught me everything I know about building codes and load-bearing walls. Dave, who helped me flip my first property while I was still an undergraduate at Columbia.

Dave, who knows exactly who I am and exactly how much money I have and who might be the man inspecting Maya’s building on Wednesday. He has employees, of course, but he still does a lot of the on-site work himself.

What if I’d volunteered to join her at the inspection without checking who she was working with first? I would have some seriously uncomfortable explaining to do, and Maya would have felt like a fool.

Or worse, betrayed.

The last thing I want to do is be on the dealing side of betrayal.

The closeness of the call sits like lead in my stomach. I haven’t been a regular visitor in Red Hook in years—I’m too busy for more than a quick dinner with my family every other week or so—but the old neighborhood operates on an unchanging code. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone looks out for their own.

And everyone talks.

Anthony Pissarro showing up with a girl half his age, who’s looking to buy an apartment building in the neighborhood, would be gossip fit for spreading all the way from my uncle’s bar down to the pier by IKEA, where my friends and I used to gorge ourselves on cheap Swedish meatballs from the snack bar back in high school.

“Everything okay?” Maya asks, lifting her head. Her breath is warm against my neck, tempting,dangerousnow that I know our paths might very well cross again outside our week of pleasure.

I hum and force a smile. “Great,” I lie. “Why?”

“You’re quiet,” she murmurs. “You’re usually pretty chatty for a guy.”

My smile is real this time as I curl my hand around her thigh and squeeze. “Yeah? For a guy? Is that good? Or should I work on being the strong, silent type?”

“It’s good. Great. It’s so much easier to get to know someone when they’re chatty.”

The reminder that I can’t let her know me, at least not all of me, makes my stomach twist. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

“Thanks for coming back to my hotel,” she says. “I know it’s a longer drive and probably not nearly as nice as your place.”

“Not a problem,” I say, kissing the top of her head, relishing the lightly floral scent of her shampoo.

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