Page 70 of Bitter Confessions

“You aren’t dressed for the weather,” he observed as he adjusted the vents for her.

“I was in a rush to leave the penthouse.”

“To meet Sarai?”

She tapped her boot, annoyed he’d managed to remember that tidbit amid her moaning and begging on his desk. “You said Mo texted you that I was going out?”

“It’s protocol.”

“Your protocol,” she corrected him.

He glanced at her. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“With you knowing my every move?” In all honesty, it didn’t bother her as much as it might bother someone who hadn’t spent their life in the public eye. There had always been some sort of security measures in place, but once she got her inheritance, having her own security team became necessary. She liked Mo and Johan better than anyone else, but that wasn’t the point. “You want to be interrupted during your meetings to be told I’m going for a coffee?”

“I want to be kept in the loop.”

“Why?”

He slipped his hand beneath her clothing to grip her chilled thigh. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just a precaution.” His fingers stroked her skin. “I’m surprised you met up with Sarai. I didn’t think anything could make you put down Ballad of Deception.”

She straightened. “You know the name of my book?”

He shot her a level look. “Hard to forget the name of the book I’ve been competing with for the past two days. Besides, I’m a reader. It’s automatic for us to take in details like that.”

Her lip curled. “You read nonfiction.”

His beard twitched as his lips curved. “For the most part. But I do pick up fiction.” He squeezed her thigh. “I’m partial to an author who’s obsessed with me.”

“I’m not obsessed with you, asshole!” she said loudly as she tried to detach his hand from her leg without success. “Speaking of, why do you have my books in your office? They stick out like a sore thumb.”

“So?”

“You want people to notice them?” She couldn’t hide her horror. “Roth!”

“People surround themselves with the books that have shaped them into who they are. Your books are just as much a part of me as Les Nightingale’s. I find myself reaching for them often to read certain passages or chapters I watched you write. It’s familiar and calms me when I’m aggravated. I have a set in each of my offices.” When she said nothing, he continued, “I assume you met with Sarai because you finished the book. What’s the verdict on this second chance, forced proximity, enemies-to-lovers triangle with slow burn, angst, and non-con?”

Her mouth dropped. “Did... did you just recite those tropes in the exact order Sarai mentioned them in Copenhagen?”

“Of course.”

Damn photographic memory. “Do you know what any of that means?”

“Your readers were happy to explain.”

She whipped toward him. She braced her hands on the console, hoping he was joking. “You wouldn’t...”

“I introduced myself as a shy divorcee who was trying to figure out what went wrong in his marriage,” he said without an ounce of shame as he switched lanes. “I told them I thought reading my wife’s favorite series would help me figure out where I went wrong.” When she gaped at him, he added, “Your community was very sympathetic and welcoming.”

“I’ll bet they were,” she muttered. What reader wouldn’t want a man who read the same shit she did? If her readers knew Rex was in their midst, they’d lose their collective shit. “What’s your username?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why?”

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