Page 45 of Burn

“Yeah.”

“Yes, that’s him.” And then I notice Tom’s holding a romance novel in his hand. “Are you reading that?”

He tosses it on the floor beside him. “Nope. Scarlet was and I took it from her. Those books give women unrealistic expectations about what a relationship should be like.”

“How do you know anything about a relationship?”

He points to his chest, clearly offended. “I have emotional depth you can’t see.” His voice may sound irritated, but the smile on his lips says differently.

“Uh huh. Sure you do. And maybe those books just prove men are unreliable.” I’m talking about Judah and he knows it.

But he won’t let me get away with saying men are unreliable just yet. “That’s bullshit,” he mutters under his breath and then laughs.

“Is it? I don’t see how romance novels would give us a false representation of what relationships would be like. And while we’re at it, I’ve watched porn, Tom. Pornos give men false representation of what women will do for them.”

A beaming smile spreads over his ridiculously charming face, excited we’re talking about porn. “Is that so?”

“Yes. It is. I don’t know many women who want a cock stuck up their ass and then in their mouth. That’s unsanitary. You’d get a stomach flu from hell by doing that. And I sure asshit”—yep, totally threw that in there by design—“don’t want a man coming on my face while he tells me what a good girl I’ve been.” Unless of course his name is Caleb and he’s a firefighter. If that’s the case, he can come wherever the fuck he wants to. “Have you ever gotten semen in your eye, Tom? It burns like a motherfucker.”

Tom’s laugh echos through the break room. Why wouldn’t he laugh? This conversation has gotten way out of control. Even for me.

My phone rings again. Thankfully. This time it’s Nixon Shaw, an investment banker and son of a man who owns stock in our hotel. That translates into me needing to take this call. “I have to go.”

Tom grabs my hand before I leave. “I’m sorry about Judah. He’s dumb.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks for telling mebeforeI moved in with him and wasted six months of my life.”

As much as I want to blame Tom for Judah, it’s not his fault. It’s mine for believing a drummer was capable of loving someone.

NIXON SHAW IS like I said, an investment banker. His dad owns Shaw Investments and partners with my dad on probably more deals than I know about. Most of their business meetings take place in our hotel. They rent out the fifth floor for their clients, show them Seattle and get them to invest. Or something like that. I don’t know. I manage a hotel, not a bank.

I’ve known Nixon since I was a kid and though he’s a nice guy, he’snotmy type. He’s very . . . banker. He wears a black suit most of the time and slicks his hair back like Nick does. It makes me want to run my hands through it and mess it up because it looks ridiculous.

If you’ve seenThe Matrix, he’s straight out of those movies.

I’m just about to call him back when I enter the hotel lobby and see him talking to a group of men in suits, his eyes on me walking toward him.

My throat tightens. He makes me nervous. The kind of nerves that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Stopping at the front desk, I make sure the front desk staff don’t need anything and then make my way over to Nixon. He quickly excuses himself from the men he’s talking to and smiles my way like he hasn’t seen me in years.

I literally saw him last week.

He reaches inside his suit jack and pulls out a long black box and hands it to me. “I didn’t see you on Christmas,” he says, the rough tone of his voice sounding like a haggard old man who’s spent a lifetime smoking. Nixon doesn’t smoke though. He’s just got one of those gravelly voices, but it’s not sexy. It’s like trying to have a conversation with Darth Vadar and having to repeat everything in your head hoping you heard him correctly.

“Oh, well Merry Christmas.” Awkwardly I slip my phone into the pocket of my black pants and take the box from him. I’m really strange about gifts. I don’t like to open them in front of people, but I know he’s expecting me to.

It’s a bracelet. A diamond fucking bracelet. Told you the dude is strange. Who gets a friend of the family a diamond bracelet for Christmas?

Nixon Shaw does. Told you the dude is weird.

“Here,” he says excitedly, motioning toward the box and then removing the bracelet. “Try it on.”

He’s trying to buy my love. I know it.

After the bracelets on, his hands linger. “Do you like it?”

I smile, attempting to be nice. “It’s beautiful, but you really didn’t have to get me anything.”

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