Page 27 of Sinful Desires
But LeRoy? Completely unfazed, as if he were accustomed to it, his eyes only on me.
I shot him a glare, then turned away to reach for my glass.
Victoria sipped her champagne. “Think he ever gets bored watching you like a hawk?”
I jabbed my risotto with more force than necessary. “God, I hope so. Maybe then he’ll finally quit and I can go back to disappointing people without supervision.”
She laughed, and for a moment, dinner wasn’tentirelyterrible. The risotto was decent, the wine was good enough, and, thankfully, no one had mentioned rehab,Page Six, or arranged marriages yet.
Small wins, right?
An hour slid by, and by the time dessert was served in the second dining room, I was too drained to even pretend I cared about the next round of forced chitchat.
We grabbed our purses and called it a night. LeRoy escorted us out, and the second those doors opened, the swarm of fans behind the barriers hit me like a wave.
Security tried their best to keep them back, but that didn’t stop me from feeling a twist of guilt. There they were, standing in the cold, sacrificing warmth and sleep just for a glimpseof me.
So, I smiled, stepped forward, and bestowed one polite nod after another.
Pictures, autographs, a few hugs—it wasn’t much, but somehow it made me feel a bit less like a performer and more like a person when one of them told me their favorite song and why it mattered to them.
It was brief, it was routine, but it still warmed me in a way I didn’t expect.
By the time I made my way back to the car, Victoria was already asleep, her head tilted back against the seat, her soft snores the only indication that she was still with us.
Cute.
I slid into the back seat quietly, and LeRoy took his place in the front. I gave a quick murmur to my driver, an order to head home. The second we made it back, Victoria bolted off to her place, and LeRoy and I headed to mine.
He punched in the new password, the door clicked open, and he turned on all the lights before stepping aside to let me pass. He closed it quietly behind us with no words exchanged.
Just how we liked it.
No awkward good night or whatever fake pleasantries were expected.
I saw his eyes flicker to my favorite painting on the wall, the one with a naked girl with red hair running through a lavender field, before he quickly looked away.
I made a beeline for my room, shedding the night’s dress. I barely even glanced at it before I was in the shower, letting the water pour over me.
When I finally stepped out, my skin pruned to perfection, I tossed my wet hair into a braid. After tugging on a pajama set with long sleeves and shorts, I padded into the kitchen, flicked on the light, and winced like I’d just stepped into the sun.
Mid-crisis. High alert. Brain fried.
The only logical solution? Unholy amounts of sugar and sodium.
It was the perfect moment for my go-to comfort concoction, a meal so sacred, so objectively disgusting, it should be illegal in at least twelve countries.
I raided the pantry.
Salt and vinegar crisps? Check. Japanese mochi bread loaf? Check.
My next stop was the fridge. I secured the raspberry jam, then fished the peanut butter out of the cabinet.
I slapped two slices of bread onto a plate like I was performing surgery under pressure. One slice got an aggressive smear of peanut butter. The other, jammed within an inch of its life.
Something itched at the back of my neck.
I shook it off. Just paranoia. Or maybe the carbs.
