Page 62 of The Wicked

“Kamp?”

“Garrett Van de Kamp?”

He burst out laughing.

“What? The concierge at your apartment said you were Mr. Van de Kamp.”

“Try Garrett Dorsey. D-O-R-S-E-Y.”

Oh. I typed the new name into my phone, and holy crap. Words jumped out from the screen:billionaire, playboy, eligible bachelor, elite, party lifestyle, mysterious. There was Garrett in a tuxedo, Garrett in a suit, Garrett in a military uniform. I dropped the phone, and it landed in a pool of maple syrup.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” I scrolled farther. “Wait, your father is the secretary of state for Oregon?”

“Would it have made a difference?” he asked as he rescued my phone and wiped it with a napkin.

“Duh, yes? I couldn’t… I mean, I wouldn’t… You’re abillionaire?”

“No, that’s Dad. And maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you. I wanted you to see the real me, not my reputation or my family or the bullshit the media writes. I’m just a man, Sara. A man who’s very much into you.”

“Well, you were last night.” A slightly hysterical giggle escaped. Thankfully, we were sitting in a quiet booth at the back, an old-fashioned circular one with high walls. “And this morning.”

Garrett checked his watch. “And roughly an hour from now. Are you going to finish those pancakes?”

“Yes.” I took another mouthful. “Who’s Mr. Van de Kamp? Is that an alias?”

“He’s a friend. A friend who’s currently screwing his way through Europe’s beau monde, so the apartment’s ours for a week. I have a few meetings, plus a commitment on Saturday I can’t change, but I’m yours for the rest of the time.”

I nearly choked on the pancake. “A week? What are you planning to do, keep me there as your sex slave?”

“Why? Are you offering?”

Instinctively, I opened my mouth to sayno way, but the words stuck in my throat. Would it really be so terrible to spend days in the huge bedroom with the couches and the en-suite and be fucked into submission by a living god every night? Garrett would feed me, right? He’d done a reasonable job with the spaghetti bolognese last night.

“More coffee, sir?”

The server’s arrival brought me back to reality. I needed to find a new job, map out my future, and probably seek therapy. Of course I couldn’t spend a week naked in Roseburg.

“My girlfriend would like more coffee too,” he said, and I caught the edge in his tone.

“Uh, yes, yes, sure.”

The flustered waitress topped off my mug, and I wanted to sympathise, to say I knew just how she felt in Garrett’s presence. But…wait a second.

“Girlfriend?” I asked the moment she was out of earshot.

“What else would you call this?”

“Illicit sex?”

“Right here, right now? I’m game, but we might get kicked out of the diner.”

That morning, I learned an important lesson. Never sit next to Garrett Dorsey in a restaurant. I’d just forked another piece of pancake into my mouth when his hand slipped into the front of my leggings, and maybe that “playboy” tag wasn’t bullshit because he knew exactly what he was doing. I nearly sucked the pancake into a lung.

“Hey, warn me next time!” I hissed, coughing.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He barely gave me enough time to take a mouthful of coffee before his finger resumed its dirty dance. I pressed a hand over his, trying to stop him, but that only made the sensation more acute.

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