Page 42 of Only for Tonight

I start the car and drive home. The radio stays off. I don’t need noise right now.

I need to think.

Chapter Eleven

Ryleigh

When I finally get home, the first thing on my agenda is a long, hot shower to wash the grime off me. The body glitter alone takes three rounds of scrubbing, and I swear it multiplies in water.

Alexei gave me the code to the parking garage, and as I ride the elevator up, I catch myself smiling—this stupid, involuntary smile at the thought of seeing them. Both of them. The doors slide open, and I’m hit with two things at once.

Classical music. Soft, something with strings, drifting through the apartment.

And the smell of roasting chicken.

“Alexei?” I call out, not seeing them in the kitchen or living room.

“In the bedroom,” he calls back, and then he’s coming down the hall toward me, Ella nowhere in sight.

“Where’s Ella?”

He grins and presses a kiss to my forehead when he reaches me. Soft. Lingering. My eyes close on their own. “Sound asleep.” He chuckles. “I want to get her on a real schedule eventually—one that doesn’t include a nap right at dinnertime—but for now, it is what it is.”

I follow him into the kitchen, a little amazed he’s even thought about her schedule, let alone that he has opinions about improving it. “She’s been awake most of the afternoon, though,” he says, checking something in the oven. “As she grows, the awake windows should stretch out.”

I accept the wine glass he hands me like this all makes sense. Like this is just what happens—I come home from work and a professional linebacker serves me chilled white wine while classical music plays and a roast chicken cooks in the oven.

When did this happen? When did my life become this?

“Welcome home,” he says, and his smile is warm, but there’s something underneath it. Something I can’t quite place. A tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there this morning.

My insides twist. This isn’t my home. Ella isn’t our baby. None of this is real, and playing make-believe is dangerous.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“You want to take a shower before dinner? There’s time.”

“Sure.” I take another sip and set the glass on the counter. He remembered. He remembered that I like to shower when I get home from work, that I feel grimy and wrong until I’ve scrubbed the club off me.

My knees are trembling as I head down the hall, and it’s not from the wine.

What am I going to do when it’s time to leave this fairy tale and go back to the real world?

I don’t want to think about that tonight. If I’m being honest, I don’t want to think about it ever.

I take my time. Shower, moisturizer, a little makeup—just enough to look like I’m not trying, which of course means I’m trying. I dry my hair so it falls in soft waves, and I pull on leggings and a fitted top that hugs my curves in a way that I pretend is accidental.

I want to feel clean and pretty and worth something after six hours of men looking at me like I’m an item on a menu. I want to feel like the version of me that Alexei sees.

I check my reflection one last time, fluff my hair, and head to the kitchen.

Alexei is leaning against the counter where I left him. When I round the corner, his eyes find me immediately, and something shifts in his expression—dark, focused, intent. He tracks me across the room the way he probably tracks an opposing player on the field, and it sends a shiver through me.

“Hi,” he says. His voice is a little tight.

“Hey.” I’m going for casual. Breezy. Not remotely affected by the way he’s looking at me right now.

I’m failing.