Page 32 of Cruel Offer
I pull up short, brows drawing together. “Yes…”
“I’ll wait here until you’re inside.”
What?“So you’re not…”
“I have plans,” he cuts me off. “Hurry up. You’re going to make me late.”
My fingers shake a little as I punch in the code. My whole body is still weak and tingly from the orgasm. Glancing over my shoulder at him one last time, I push open the door and go inside.
Alone.
Once I’m in my apartment with the lights on, I sink onto the couch with a disappointed sigh. A moment later, I hear the garage door rolling up and then down again, and then the sound of an engine revving as the car drives away.
He just left me.
I’m an idiot. What was I expecting? Windemere wasn’t going to spend the night with me. He’s probably off to meet some other woman who has actual experience, who can please him in bed without being told how to do it. He probably got so turned on by what he did to me that he needs to work it off, and I’m not worth the trouble of the beginner lessons I so clearly need right now.
Leaning back on the couch, I take in my surroundings. Everything is so unfamiliar. All of the little thrills of the evening are gone, leaving me tired and lonely.
I get undressed and drape the silk dress over the back of the couch. Shower. Towel-dry my hair while I sit on the edge of my twin bed. I’m not much of a TV watcher, so I don’t even bother trying to figure out how all theremotes work. Instead, I take out my laptop and type Nate Windemere’s name into the browser.
I’m tempted to go to the gossip sites to see what they might say about him, but it will crush me if I have to read anything about myself right now, so I don’t. The search returns pages and pages of hits, but the first tab I click is images.
A variety of photos pop up, both professional headshots and candids from networking events, social outings, and fundraisers he’s attended. Most of the images in the society pages were captured at clubs, trendy restaurants, Wall Street bars. In each of them, he has a different woman on his arm. All of them are flawless.
If I actually cared about this thing I have going with Nate, I might be jealous. But what we have is nothing more than a business transaction. Which is why I’m not jealous at all. I barely give the other women’s faces a second glance.
The most recent photo I find shows him standing in front of a wall of ivy at night at some rooftop bar in Williamsburg. Twinkle lights on the backdrop blend with some perfectly staged studio lighting to highlight every beautiful inch of him in a midnight blue velvet suit, which should be ridiculous, but it looks perfect on him.
His dark hair is slicked back and there’s a whiskey glass in his hand. He’s not smiling, but there’s a twinkle of self-satisfaction in his eyes that you can’t help but notice. This is a man very comfortable in his skin, and he should be.
Another shot from the same night takes my breath away. He’s flashing a rare smile, his arm around a blond man about his age who looks just a bit too serious in his all-black ensemble. A friend? Colleague? One of The Quattuor Group’s clients?
Forcing myself to focus, I scroll back to the text results and read the headlines. There are a handful of stinging headers about his mother, but all of them lead to varied gossipy socialite pages and I don’t take the click bait. I search for The Quattuor Group next and hit a minor jackpot of factual information. Nate is QG’s Chief Financial Officer, and a co-partner of the company along with its founder “Wall Street Whiz Kid” Becker, Theodore Matson, and Sebastian Argos. The Group owns not just The Regent Hotel, but also The Quattuor Club in the Bahamas. They have a bunch of investments in stocks and smaller companies that I don’t look too deeply into, mostly because I’m distracted by the other partners. They’re all ridiculously good looking.
One of them, Sebastian Argos, recently married the daughter of the New York Rockets’ owner. Or former owner, I guess. The daughter apparently took over as owner of the MLB team after her elopement to a tropical island. Elopement? How romantic. There are tons of photos of Argos and Blair Tisdale at baseball games, whispering to each other and sharing smiles. They’re an undeniably cute couple.NowI might actually be jealous.
Closing my laptop, I dig my phone out of my clutch with the intention of texting Cleo, but there’s already a message waiting from her.
You never texted me back about when you wanted to raincheck our night out. Hope you’re ok?
Shit!
I type back.
I am! Sorry, I got busy. Did you go out solo? Hope you had fun!
Am I okay? I don’t really know. Okay is subjective, and I was feeling better before Windemere dumped me at home by myself and then took off.
Why do I feel so dejected right now? This kind of thing is going to be par for the course as long as my agreement with Nate lasts. He’s going to use me as he sees fit—and teach me things, of course—and I’m going to learn as much as I can and keep my feelings out of the equation, just like we talked about. The last thing I need is to start crushing on the guy.
Realizing that I have another text, I open it and a smile curves my lips. It’s from Nana.
We planted flowers in the community garden today. How are you, dear?
She isn’t much of a texter, but sometimes she’ll remember to send me a random message or two. She loves the community garden, and she’s always loved to plant flowers.
Setting the phone down, I flop back onto the couch and look up at the ceiling, silently making myself a promise. No matter how I feel about anything, I’m going to keep moving forward and do whatever Nate Windemere says.
