Page 32 of Big Boss
Nothing else gets said until the car slides to a stop in front of a three-story modern structure made of glass and concrete. The car stops on a dime, and Tate has the keys in his hand and he’s opening my door before I can gather my composure.
“What do you think?” he asks, his voice soft and somehow shy sounding.
I swallow hard. It’s massive. I’m willing to bet my entire month’s salary that there’s some sort of ridiculous swimming pool in the back of it somewhere, and that each individual item of furniture inside is worth more than all of my worldly possessions put together.
Probably even the welcome mat at the front door is worth more than everything I own.
“It’s certainly expensive looking,” I start but pause as Tate bursts into laughter.
“It’s better inside. I promise.” He twines our fingers together and then lets us in the front door to his massive mansion.
The floor is cool white stone, probably some sort of marble that I would recognize if I were fancier. The staircase has a banister that is actually gilded so it looks like it’s made of gold. And in the three-story living room is a giant wall covered in granite with water running down the sides of it in several streams, each lit by a single lightbulb.
The furniture is all black leather and chrome, of course, and even I can tell it costs more than my monthly salary to sit on anything in here.
“Well?” he asks, watching my face as I catalog his wildly expensive living room.
“I can safely say I have never seen an indoor waterfall before.” I squeeze his hand.
His eyebrows shoot up again in surprise, but he swallows down the laugh that I suspect is brewing inside him.
“Is this really the kind of thing you like?” I wave my hand at the furniture.
Next to me, Tate shifts uncomfortably. “I like the windows a lot. During the day, I feel almost like I’m outside even when I’m stuck indoors for whatever reason.”
I shake my head. “You’re never here during the day. I’ve seen what kind of hours you keep at your company.”
He shrugs. “At night, then. When I look out the window after dark, I can see all the stars.”
He lets go of my hand, but I don’t move toward his floor to ceiling windows. Instead, I turn to Donovan Tate and decide it’s time to be brave.
I swore I wasn’t going to need him to rescue me today, but it turned out that I did. And I’m sure I look a mess—my hair is probably wilder than usual thanks to all the gown fitting stuff and the complete meltdown I had at the salon.
But this is a man who kissed me in front of a bunch of random strangers to protect me from my feelings of shame. And when we were alone with nobody watching, he still made it clear to me that he wanted me.
Me. Regular old Weirdly Ridley. The girl who even now doesn’t know how to take a pretty picture or how to respond to people whenever it feels like they’re getting aggressive with me.
But I’m almost certain Donovan Tate isn’t making fun of me. There was no reason for him to say those things to me or hold my hand in his car. It couldn’t have been for show, because nobody was there to see us.
“I really like you,” I say, the words spilling out of my mouth before I can overthink them any more.
Tate visibly relaxes, his shoulders lowering and his mouth curving up into an easy smile. “Yeah, Erica. I really like you too.”
I nod. He does like me. He likes me enough that he kissed me, even if it was for show. He likes me enough that he held my hand, and that wasn’t for show. And best of all, he likes me enough to accept me just the way that I am.
“I know I must not be the usual type of woman you bring home—” I pause, flustered and suddenly emotional.
At the undercurrent of raw, hurt feeling in my voice, he moves toward me. He’s already reaching out to comfort me, but takes an appraising look at my face and pauses.
Then Donovan Tate takes off his jacket and carefully places it along the back of one of the black leather and chrome chairs. He looks me over again, and ever so slowly rolls up his shirtsleeves so I can stare at his forearms.
My mouth goes dry at the sight. I never knew that someone’s forearms could do that to me, but here we are. Just the three of us in this giant, quiet house.
Me and both of Donovan Tate’s muscled, lean forearms.
He moves closer to me more slowly than I’ve ever seen him move, as if I’m some sort of wild animal that he’s trying not to frighten. But I’m not afraid. He won’t hurt me, and I know he’s done nothing other than keep me safe from the rest of the world.
My pulse beats harder as he approaches, and my breathing quickens. I lick my lips, and his eyes leave mine to trace the movement of my tongue.
