Page 18 of The Deal with the Playboy

“You look dashing in your suit. What’s the special occasion?”

“I’m proposing to my girlfriend soon.” I turn to walk into my closet, and she trails behind me like a dog with its tail between its legs. I open the drawer where I keep my watches and put my Rolex on, then I put on my Italian loafers.

She raises a skeptical brow and grabs the lint roller to brush against my shoulders. “You have a girlfriend?”

I nod. “It won’t be a problem since I’m not a single man anymore?”

She shakes her head, and her smile deflates. “Of course not. I thought we had something more.”

She confirms what I already suspected—that she’s clingy. Those types of women are the worst kind. They call nonstop and don’t leave you alone. I have to be more careful about who I stick my dick in.

“A night of sex isn’t something more, Rose. It was just sex.”

“You don’t think the sex we had was mind-blowing?” she asks, her eyes telling me she needs the validation and hope. I can barely remember what happened, I was plastered as fuck that night. But I have to work with her, and she’s a great stylist.

“It was good,” I lie.

She swallows thickly and smiles. “But… you flirt with me.”

When she’s finished removing all the lint from my suit, I waltz to the hallway and grab my keys and wallet, sliding them into my pockets. “I flirt with every woman I find attractive. Well, after tonight I won’t be because I’m going to ask my girlfriend to be my wife.” I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth, and I can’t believe I said that shit again. Me and propose shouldn’t even be in the same sentence, and the wordgirlfrienddoesn’t belong there either. Normarriage.

Fuck my life.

“It’s fine. I’m not mad. I read you wrong.” Her doe eyes glance at the dark marble floor then back at me. “Why did you never ask me to be your girlfriend?”

“I don’t see myself in a relationship with you, Rose,” I answer her honestly.

I don’t see myself in a relationship, period, but she doesn’t need to hear that. She needs to believe that I’m happily in a relationship so she can back off and I don’t have to fire her. Because she’s good at her job and it’s hard to find a stylist that knows what they are doing.

She watches me through the oval-shaped mirror in the entryway as I fix my tie. “What?”

She leans against the table. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“What?”

“To be a one-woman man. I thought you would be the type to sleep around and be a cheater.” She shrugs. “If you had asked me to be your fiancée, I would have allowed you to fuck other women on the side, as long as I got a credit card and allowance.”

It doesn’t surprise me. Most women think this way. That it’s okay for men to demean them and treat them like shit as long as they are given what they want—money. That is the reason I don’t date. If I were in a relationship, I wouldn’t sleep around, and I sure as hell wouldn’t want my wife or girlfriend to fuck other men. That’s something I’m going to discuss with Poppy, because I have a bit of a jealous streak when it comes to her, and the thought of someone touching what’s mine… it drives me apeshit.

I shoot Rose a glare. “I’m capable of keeping my dick in my pants, and I don’t want a woman who thinks it’s okay for me to sleep with other women.”

“I’m just putting my two cents in. The offer still stands.” She shrugs. “Good for you, I’m glad you found love.” Her tone bleeds sarcasm, and it pisses me off.

I roll my eyes, heading to the door.

Love? I want to laugh at her last statement. Love isn’t in the picture for me. The last thing I need is love. I need my uncle’s business and some good food. And pussy. I plan to fuck and touch every inch of my future wife and business partner, because that’s all Poppy is. Everything is going to be transactional. Just the way it is supposed to be.

Poppy

Islide my mask over my heart-shaped face as the Uber pulls up to the sleek building that’s made of glass. Expensive foreign cars that normal people don’t drive litter the lot. I used to have a car, but my mother took that away from me too. Public transportation is not bad, but it is something I have to get used to. Depending on people to get where you’re going is time-consuming, and I hate wasting time.

When the driver comes to a complete stop, I step outside, anxiety skating across my skin. Hopefully, I will find a potential suitor to be my fake fiancé, then I can reconcile with my family, and the emptiness in my chest can finally disappear. Hopefully, my suitor will want something reasonable in exchange.

Slowly, I trail to the front entrance and a heavily built man stands at the door. His gray suit is tailor-made, and his eyes are the same color as his mask, midnight black. I hand him my invitation, but he shakes his head and tells me I need to turn it in at the front desk. Before he pats me down, he points to the glass door.

I nod and as I open the door, I’m greeted with cool air and the scent of lavender burns my nostrils. I glance around and see a gigantic lion statue and an expensive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. This place is magnificent. My heels kiss the white marble floors as I approach the front desk. A young woman flips her platinum blonde hair over her shoulders and plasters a smile across her face, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s dressed in an elegant gray gown and the rest of her hair is pinned up in an updo. Her face is covered with a mask that matches her dress.

I slip the invitation and my ID to her. She grabs them and types on the computer.

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