Page 29 of Protégé King

“Of course, you did,” I say shortly.

“I mean it even more now. You look good, Alana.” He motions to the sitting area to his right. “Come sit with me.”

Not a chance, I think and I dig in my proverbial heels. “I want to know what this is. Why did the studio send me here?”

“West Enterprises is the studio,” he says. “We’re now the majority stockholder, and I sit on the board.”

I feel as if I’ve been slapped. Obviously, Google has failed me. “You got me the TV show,” I say, and it’s not even a question. Maybe that’s why I haven’t embraced the show. It just always felt off. I knew it all seemed too good to be true.

“You got you the TV show.” He motions to the living room and tries again. “Come sit and talk to me.”

“What is this, Damion?” I demand softly, determined to repeat my question as many times as I have to until he answers.

“Let’s sit, Alana.”

My name is silk on his tongue. I was too, is all I can think. And while that was a long time ago, ten years ago now, with him this close, it feels like yesterday. Despite all that happened between us, which was so much more than I ever imagined that morning so many years ago, his voice, his eyes, his everything still lights me up and burns me where I stand. It’s an uncomfortable feeling for him to hold this power over me when he holds so much else over me, as well.

He’s watching me, waiting for my answer, and the bottom line is no different than it was a few minutes ago. He owns me, more now than ever. I cannot refuse his request. I nod my agreement when I really want to walk away and leave. I used to crave this insane, wild array of emotions he stirs in me. Now they feel like devil’s candy. Temptingly delicious, but most certainly the end of me.

He takes a step backward and offers me space. He’d have to give me a football field if he expects me to actually breathe when he’s around. He’s the kid next door, I tell myself. He’s just Damion. So what if he’s like a billionaire or something ridiculous like that now? I’ve seen him pee at the side of his house and cry when his mother caught him. How did that boy become this man?

I shake myself internally and walk toward the sitting area and choose a chair. He sits down on the couch, close to the end, close to me. I can smell him, a whiskey and amber kind of scent, warm and masculine. It’s different than “The Damion” I knew but no less delicious.

“I watched the show,” Damion announces.

I tilt my face skyward and then eye him. “I’m sure you did. You’re my boss now, it seems.”

“I’m not your boss,” he replies. “Just an investor.”

“Can you axe my show?”

“Your ratings are through the roof.”

“That’s my answer. You’re my boss.”

“All right, Alana, I’m your boss.”

“Who’d have thunk it, right? From neighbors to where we are now?”

He studies me in a thoughtful, too intent way. “And where are we?”

“You tell me. Why am I here?” It’s like the fourth time I’ve asked. Isn’t he tired of hearing the question?

“You know what surprised me the most about the show?” he asks.

Apparently four times is not enough. I’m a salesperson. I’ll ask five times if that’s what it takes.

As for what surprised him, do I dare ask? I’d rather not, but I do anyway. “What surprised you?”

“You’re still you. You are still the sweet, beautiful, ambitious girl next door I knew so long ago. And that’s why the audience loves you.”

“I’m nothing like the girl you grew up with, Damion. I’m not her,” I counter. “I’ve changed.” You changed me, I want to add, but I bite my tongue.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he comments.

“Damion—”

“I have an idea,” he announces. “Let’s go to dinner and celebrate.” He stands and before I know his intent, he catches my hand in his hand and draws me to my feet.

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