Page 38 of Make Believe

The fact that I’m realizing this should be enough to send klaxons off in my brain. Instead, I actually feel relieved that we’re on the same page.

Except he said he’d understand if I want him to leave.

Absolutely fucking not.

He’s damn straight that he has no right to criticize my business practice. Especially when he has the audacity to be spot on the nose with his observations. But he definitely doesn’t get to tell me how I feel or when I should relinquish him from our deal. That’smychoice. If he wants to leave, that’s different. But he’s not telling me how I feel.

I’ve spent too many decades with a spouse already doing just that.

No, we’re not done with this discussion, and that little brat needs to understand that he’s going to have to try alotharder if he wants to scare me off.

Time to go find him and spank some sense into that perfect butt of his.

CHAPTER 15

Kadence

Good god.How did I go from trying to convince myself that I don’t care how this man lives his life to climbing up on my soap box and giving him an earful? I’m so done. All I can hope is that he pays me for the time I’ve spent so far here and gives me a referral like he promised so I can get another job quick enough to not miss paying any bills.

I rub my chest as I storm through the house. I feel like a cat that lashed out with their claws and then exposed their belly.

I told him too much. I never meant to whine about being a sad little rich boy whose parents never loved him. That’s not who I am. I am more than their rejection.

I never meant to take a dig at the fact that he’s discovering a new part of his sexuality, and I certainly didn’t want to point out how precarious the queer situation is in my town—or any town. All it takes is one group with pitchforks to run us out if they want to. It almost happened last year, for crying out loud.

And I should never,everhave confessed that I care too much about him. We made an agreement. He told me upfront that this is not and will never be a relationship. Why does it bother me so much that he’s a heartless bastard? Hello? Millionaire? I always knew he couldn’t be this rich without stepping on people.

I don’t have the right to want better from him.

Right now, though, I feel like the power imbalance has spiraled wildly out of hand. He’s always been in control, but at least it was on my terms.

Without being entirely aware of what I’m doing, I find myself stomping past my room on the second floor, venturing farther into the house than I ever have before. Farther than I’m supposed to be. But I just have to go, to walk, to push, to…

Slowly, I stop by a door that’s ajar. From what I can see, it’s another bedroom.

Rafferty’s bedroom. It’s got to be.

Feeling reckless, I step closer and ease the door open. Yes. It smells like him. I see his Harvard hoodie draped over an armchair.

I shouldn’t be in here. But a savage part of me doesn’t care. He pushed and I broke, exposing myself like a frightened animal in the wild, begging for mercy from a predator.

Now it’s his turn.

I don’t really know what I expect to find in here, but just stepping over the threshold feels like a rebellion in itself.

The silk bedsheets are cool to my touch as I silently make my way around the room. It’s about twice the size of mine, so it’s not entirely surprising that there are two chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. There are so many closets and chests of drawers it makes me wonder how much clothing his wife brought with her and how much is still left here. Several large potted plants sit on the wooden floor, their foliage complementing the same sage green paint on the walls that I saw in the entrance hall and corridors. A thick rug lies under the enormous four poster bed. The view from the balcony is spectacular, looking out over the grounds for miles and miles. The whole place screams opulence.

And it’s all fake.

Aside from the Harvard sweater, I don’t see any of Rafferty’s fiery personality in here. There are no photos, no artwork, no collections of knick-knacks or whatever else you’re supposed to have in the room in which you sleep. It’s all so neat and tidy and…

What’s that?

There’s something folded up on the nightstand closest to me. It looks like tattered paper that should be in the trash. I know I shouldn’t, but it’s so out of place I just have to step closer and pick it up and…

My heart skips a beat. Nothing in this room is messy or personal or passionate, as far as I can see.

But Rafferty McKenna has the napkin I wrote my number on by his bedside.

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