Page 28 of Almost Paradise

But it wasn’t always that way, was it?

I kiss his forehead and tiptoe out of the room. He won’t wake up for another twelve hours. He’s exhausted. He’s been on an adrenaline rush since his father slithered into his life. He spent an hour on the phone with him tonight talking about nothing and everything. My son giggled practically the entire time.

It’s only nine-thirty, but I’m spent after a long, life-altering week. I slide into my bed and sigh in contentment. I plan on sleeping in until Carter barges in here and jumps on me. I expect sleep to overtake me, but it doesn’t. I toss and turn and ask myself how I got here. A single mother who’s in a cold bed all alone at nine-thirty on a Friday night.

Then

“Mr. Paradise?” I stick my head in his office. It’s about ten times the size of mine. There’s a brown leather couch in the corner, and I wonder why he would need a couch. Does he nap in here?

He stands, bigger than life and towering. He smooths down his shirt before he crosses the room. I crane my neck to look into his eyes.

“Just Drake,” he says. He gestures toward his big desk. “Please sit. Like I said, I’m helpless when it comes to these things.”

Drake Paradise has an engineering degree from Dartmouth and a graduate degree from Stanford. I doubt there is anything he’s not good at, especially something as simple as this database. He pulls the chair out for me, and I’m forced to rub against him to sit. He leans down, crowding me while I stare at his computer screen.

My mind goes blank. I’m consumed by the smell of his cologne. His hand cradles the mouse and I imagine it on a specific part of my body, stroking me.

“So, if you log in, I’ll be happy to add your information for you.” I clear my throat and wait for him to start typing. He reaches over me, crowding me more. He has his arms on either side of me, almost as if he’s going to hug me from behind. He logs into the database and hands me his information.

I hold my breath the entire time as I type. While I’m in the middle of adding his info, he puts his hand over mine, covering it completely. I freeze at the contact. His hand is warm and rougher than I thought it would be.

He puts the index finger of his free hand under my chin and turns my face to look at him. My brown eyes clash with his blue. I can feel a flush spread throughout my body. Not only that, my nipples pebble and I feel a throb between my legs.

“I have a confession to make. I didn’t invite you over here to help me do that. It’s not that complicated.” I want to ask him why he called me here, but the words get stuck in my throat. The truth is, I know why.

I talked myself out of coming a million times since he left my office, but he’s Drake Paradise. You don’t say no to a Paradise.

“Why did you call me here?”

“Because I wanted to see you.”

I push away and stand. “Mr. Paradise, I’m your HR rep, not a concubine.” Even to my ears, I sound stupid. Who says concubine? That’s what happens when you watch too many old movies with your mother.

“Do you want to have dinner with me tonight?” He blurts out, suddenly looking shy. “If not tonight, then tomorrow?”

If this wasn’t happening at work, and if his last name wasn’t Paradise, I would say yes. I wouldn’t think twice about it, but I can’t. Not with this one. Drake Paradise can’t be my first white boy.

“I’m flattered, Mr. Paradise, but that’s not a good idea.” I take a step away from him. He takes one forward. “Have a good day, sir.” I walk out of his office before he can say anything and close the door behind me without bothering to look back. I’ve only worked here six months, and I love it. I’m not going to mess it up for a hook-up. And that’s all it could ever be to someone like him.

The next time I see him changes the course of my life forever.

Chapter 20

Drake

I lean against the wall and look at my mom. My sister Hannah hooks her arm through mine and puts her head on my shoulder. Scarlett is on the other side of the room holding a wine spritzer and giving me the cold shoulder like she’s done all week.

She’s still pushing for us to have a civil wedding ceremony. Every time she brings it up, which is daily, I shut her down. She’s barely said ten words to me today, but not even the silent treatment will change my mind.

Put the girl out of her misery. You know she’s not what you want. She never has been.

My mom looks at the set table, and I know she’s seconds away from bursting into tears. Especially since she insists on making a place setting for Dad. She won’t let anyone else sit there. Even when she’s the only one home for dinner, she has the staff set a place for him.

I’ve stopped by to see her twice this week. She was sober both times, but a disheveled mess, not the put-together woman who raised us. She had no memory of my first visit. When I brought it up, she gave me a blank look, then burst into tears. She confessed she had been drinking and promised not to get drunk like that again.

“Should we have her talk to someone?” I whisper to Hannah.

“I’ve suggested it. She stopped talking to me for five days,” she whispers back. “Leave her be for now. Maybe this is her way of grieving. It’s different for everyone.”

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