Page 72 of A Billion Dollar Romance
But in her demeanor, I found only softness and warmth.
“It’s not that, James,” she said. “I promise.”
“Saturday, then,” I said. “That gives me time to make reservations at that place you like.” I had reservations for tonight–I’d called and gotten one last minute, not asking who they’d had to bump to make it happen–but I could cancel. They’d just have to bump someone on Saturday instead. They’d do it for me, and I’d tip them a hundred percent for it. Two hundred. It’d be worth it.
“That placeyoulike, I think you mean,” she said, giving me a look.
“I don’t know, Edie.” I pulled her in a bit closer, letting my hands run up and down her sides, from the curve of her hip to her waist, up to the bottom of her bra band and back. “You’ve certainly seemed to enjoy all the conversations we’ve had there so far.”
She hummed, leaning in to me again, tilting her face up for a kiss. I happily obliged. “That’s true,” she said between kisses.
“Don’t distract me,” I said, entirely willing to be distracted by her soft lips, the tantalizing feel of her waist under my hands, the memory of her bent over my desk and the anticipation of Saturday evening’s dinner–and Saturday night’s dessert. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Promise you won’t be jealous?” she asked, smiling against my lips.
“Is this about your werewolf duke again?” I asked. Her bright laugh surprised a smile onto my own lips even as I tried to scowl.
“Sort of,” she hedged. “I’m writing,” she said finally, looking up at me.
I couldn’t help the flare of jealousy that burned through me, like a reflex, but then…
It fizzled.
“Good,” I said, emphatically.
“I thought you might be…” she shrugged, and I nodded with a sigh.
“Jealous.” I had been. But, as I looked down at her pretty face, her hopeful wide eyes, I realized thatjealousywas not what I was feeling at all anymore. “No,” I said, “I’m happy for you. Not happy that it has to betonight,but I get it.”
She let out a deep breath. “I knew you would,” she said, running one hand into the long hair on the back of my head, tangling her fingers in it.
I closed my eyes, leaning into her touch.
“Mr. Martin, your ten o’clock is here,” came Alice’s voice over the intercom. Edie jumped, disentangling herself from our embrace.
“Is it ten already? I need to get back to my desk,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Day job,” she shrugged with one shoulder, already walking toward the door. “You know how it is.”
“I do,” I said. “Go.”
She swept through the door with one last glance over her shoulder, and I heard her cheerful goodbye to Alice through the open doorway before it was filled by Bridget, then Lyle.
I missed the heat of her body against mine already, longed for the soft, close scent of her skin.
Day job, Edie had said, and I’d nodded. I knew what she meant: Ihadbeen treating this like a day job. I’d been doing it for years, and resenting every moment of it, pretending that Verity was what was keeping me from my writing, using it as an excuse to apply myself to neither. I’d never had to work for anything–not Verity, not my writing–and I’d resented that, too, papering over my misery with money and women and parties.
Until Edie.
I had Edie now.
And she made me want to work for something.
“Wait, Bridget,” I said, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Can you say that again? I didn’t catch that figure–”
She blinked, glancing up at me in surprise. “Of course, Mr. Martin.”
This is my life now, I thought as she repeated herself. Edie, and nights in, and Bankworth with my closest friends, and ten-year-olds’ birthday parties, and–
And Verity.
