Page 39 of Role Play
“I guess we’re about to find out,” she mutters, as I spin her around. It would’ve been incredibly romantic if Sora’s reflexes weren’t slightly delayed and she wasn’t tripping over her own feet. She collapses back into me, her body solid against my chest.
“Whoops, okay, no more spinning. Just stay close.” I guide her head back to my chest and sway us back and forth. The concrete is rough under my shoes, but I tighten my core to keep us moving in smooth, fluid motion. “And by the way, I think you misinterpreted the song.”
“I didn’t, but go ahead and show your work.”
I rest my chin against the top of her head, not an inch of space between our bodies. I breathe in the faint smell of her perfume that’s faded. “It’s about a woman who hurt someone she loves. But instead of walking away and calling a loss a loss, she wants to go down with the ship. I think the song means it’s still better to have love, even if it’s messy and painful. Real love is worth surrendering to, regardless of the outcome.”
“Fuck’s sake,” she grumbles against my chest, her breath warm through my thin shirt. “Maybe you should write romance books, then.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t give up just yet. It sounds like you’re in a slump. Take a quick break from it all. Back in law school, whenever I was in a studying rut, I’d leave campus for a few days.Go home. Reset. I always came back refreshed, and performed so much better.”
Her feet glue to the concrete when the music stops. With the most peculiar look on her face, she studies me quizzically. “Hold on.” Sora darts back to the bench and snags her phone. After typing ferociously, she returns to my side, heels clicking against the pavement. Two notifications from my phone chime through the pretzel cart’s speakers.
“Go check,” she instructs, her eyes wide and expectant.
After thanking the cart owner for his time, I yank out the auxiliary cable and scour my alerts. Sora’s made two payments to me. One for ten dollars. The second is for ten thousand. Shocked, I turn around to face her, my heart pounding in my chest. “What is this about?”
“The first is paying you back for the pretzel and water,” she says innocently, cupping her hands around her elbows.
“Unnecessary… And the second payment?” I lift my brow, guessing where this is headed. My pulse quickens, blood rushing in my ears.
“Here’s my third question, Forrest…” Sora looks nervous and shaky, like she’s about to commit a crime. Her teeth catch her bottom lip for a second before she continues. “What’s your going rate? Is that enough for you to take me home and…um…stay with me tonight?”
This isn’t how my jobs are booked. It has to go through Rina for legal purposes. But right now I’m not concerned with any of that. I’m more interested in what the woman in front of me is suggesting.
“If I take you home and stay…” I take a step closer to her. “…what do you want to do?”
Nearly trembling, she asks, “What does ten thousand dollars get me?”
I take another step, closing the gap between us. Her chest is pressed tightly against my abdomen as I speak in a growly whisper against her ear. “It gets you anything you want.”
chapter 11
Sora
I’ve made worse decisions in my life. Probably…possibly.
I pace the bedroom floor like a caged tiger, my steps muffled by the plush rug that probably cost more than my entire apartment’s security deposit. Every few seconds, I steal a glance at the man sprawled across the California king, his muscular arm flung over his face, his breathing deep and rhythmic.
An escort.I brought a freaking escort to my dad’s—my—brownstone.
In my cannabis-clouded judgment last night, this made perfect sense. The brownstone was closer to The Plaza than my apartment, and I was in no state to give coherent directions to a cab driver. “Take me to the multimillion-dollar house my famous, rich author dad just gifted me out of guilt” was a mouthful, so I alluded to Forrest that this wasmy place. He didn’t question why the home is so staged—immaculately decorated and devoid of even a speck of dust. To me it’s obvious no one lives here. Forrest didn’t seem to notice.
The memories from last night swim through my brain—scattered, hazy snapshots. Stars overhead. Stars in my eyes.Nerves prickling my body. Me, finally out of my own head, saying whatever came to mind. The pretzel-cart man—our unlikely cupid—transforming his humble food stand into a moonlit ballroom with tinny speakers and a Spotify playlist.
Forrest’s arms were around me, steady and sure. The way his voice dropped, all smoke and honey, as he explained “White Flag” wasn’t about hopeless longing but about glorious surrender. About diving headfirst into love’s messy waters, knowing you might drown but jumping anyway. About refusing to raise the white flag even when the battle’s already lost.
God, the way he looked at me when he said that—like I was the battle he’d gladly lose. Like I was worth the surrender. I know he was merely proving a point by creating a moment…
But it worked. It lingered. The next morning, it’s all I can think about.
This man isexcellentat his job.
And that performance he put on is the reason I momentarilylost my damn mindby impulsively sending him ten thousand dollars and propositioning him like I was Julia Roberts in a gender-swappedPretty Woman.
Except unlike the movies, we never sealed the deal. Somewhere between arriving at the brownstone and me showing him to the master bedroom, I apparently dozed off into an edible-induced slumber. Forrest, being the gentleman he is, just tucked me in and climbed in beside me.
The sun peeks through the blinds, casting stripes of gold across his ridiculously perfect torso. It’s already late morning. Daphne will be here any minute for our book planning session, and I need this gorgeous problem out of my house immediately.
