Page 51 of Filthy Rich Temptation
‘I wish. There hasn’t been much…’
My eyes flick to Lottie, but my mind flashes to Danny. His face, his sneer:Look at you. Desperate for attention. Parading it about.
And then Theo. The way he looked at me. The way he’sstilllooking.
Maybe Danny had a point.
The thought knocks the air out of me. Not because of Theo’s reaction – no. Because ofmine.My behaviour. God. I’m doing exactly what Danny always accused me of.
Flaunting it.
Asking for it.
My stomach twists as my face drains cold.
Slut.
The word slaps me hard – cruel, familiar.
Only his time… it’smyvoice saying it.
‘Much what?’
Theo’s quiet prompt tugs me back.
I blink. Shake my head as I try to shake loose the shame.
‘Opportunity,’ I say, my tongue too dry.
I reach for my iced juice and instantly regret it as the cubes jingle like a telltale bell.
His eyes narrow, tracking the sound. Trackingme.He leans back in his chair. ‘You didn’t fancy running with a buggy?’
‘Have you seen how kids get jiggled six ways to Sunday in those things?’
He smiles, but it’s small. Too small.
‘A human rattle, no doubt.’
And I think that’s it – that I’ve dodged the deeper question – when he adds, quieter now, ‘He didn’t like it, though. Did he?’
My throat tightens under the weight of his gaze. I can’t lie. Not to him. What would be the point? He already knows enough – knows the most, even.
‘No,’ I admit. ‘He thought my videos were attention-seeking, so you can imagine how he felt about me jogging in public. All that “showing off” in running gear…’
His hand curls into a fist beside his plate. His jaw tics, tension radiating off him like heat.
‘Forget the treadmill,’ he growls, voice a dark, commanding burr. ‘Get outside and run, Sadie.’
I huff out a laugh. ‘I don’t think weaving through homicidal cyclists and double-decker buses with a buggy qualifies as cardio. It’s more like an extreme sport.’
‘I don’t mean with Lottie.’ He softens his tone, but his eyes remain tight. ‘I mean on your own. When’s the last time you did somethingjustfor you?’
I stare at him. Blank. Like the concept doesn’t compute.
He tilts his head, eyes flicking to my plate. ‘You’ve barely touched your breakfast. Why not go now? You might come back with an appetite.’
I haven’t had much of an appetite in longer than I care to admit – unless you count the one I have for him. The thought alone makes my pulse skip. Dangerous. Stupid. Still true.
