Page 14 of Reputation (Tempt)

Emerson lifted the lid, gasping when she saw the brand-new Hermès Birkin in Rouge. The bag cost almost twenty grand, which wasn’t a big deal. But the waiting list often stretched for months. Even my celebrity status and offer to pay above the asking price weren’t enough to secure the bag in such a short time frame. At least, not until I’d called in reinforcements.

Sloan—an Hermès collector herself—and Jay, my stylist, had been able to pull some strings. Though their assistance had come at the cost of revealingwhoI wanted the bag for. Magically, two days later, the bag was mine despite the popularity of the color.

“Wow.” She looked at the purse but didn’t remove it from the wrapping. “It’s beautiful.” She blinked a few times then shook her head. “Thanks, but I can’t—” She pushed it toward me. “I can’t accept it.”

“Why the hell not?” I barked before I could stop myself.

She let out a heavy sigh. “It’s too much.”

“If you ask me,” I said, pushing it back to her, “it’s not enough.”

Her eyes lingered on it, the longing clear even as she looked as if she was going to refuse again. Before she could say anything, I said, “Take it, Thorne. You know you want to.”

“I—” She dropped her head. “Yeah. But I can’t.”

I stepped closer, ducking to meet her gaze. “You can, and you will. Now say thank you and enjoy carrying it.”

“So bossy.” She smiled despite herself. After a pause, she seemed to give up the fight. “Thank you. I absolutely love it.”

“Good.” That filled me with more satisfaction than it should’ve.

“I’m surprised you’re home so early. I thought you had a meeting at the studio today.”

“I did, but I left early so I could be home in time to get Brooklyn.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything is more than okay. I’m giving you the rest of the day off as well as tomorrow.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “Yes. Really. Happy birthday.”

“But how’d you—” She glanced toward the garage then back at me. “Traffic is awful this time of day. Well, it’s LA, so it’s pretty much always terrible.”

“I took the helicopter.”

“Oh, right.” She scoffed, affecting a blasé expression. “The helicopter.”

“What?”

“Sometimes I still can’t wrap my head around your life. Around the fact that you take a helicopter regularly, just to avoid traffic.”

“It’s notthatunusual.”

She barked out a laugh. “Maybe not in your world.”

“What are you talking about?You’repart of my world.”

She scrunched up her face. “Um. No. I’m not. Not really.”

She’d never outright said it, but I knew her family was well-off. One of her dads, Declan Cross, used to play pro hockey for the Hollywood Hawks. And her other dad, James Thorne, was one of the most sought-after plastic surgeons in LA. They’d had twins—Emerson and Astrid—via surrogacy, an expensive process. And their Aspen vacation home had been featured in a prestigious design magazine.

“So you’ve never taken a helicopter to avoid LA traffic?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No. I’ve never taken a helicopter, period.”

“Are you scared?”

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