Page 42 of No Strings Attached
A real one.
A planned, scheduled,mutually acknowledgeddinner date. And I’ve been a mess about it ever since he asked me on Christmas Eve. I’ve tried to play it cool, to convince myself it’s just a meal—but no matter how many times I recite that logic in my head, my body isn’t buying it.
I’ve changed my outfit three times already. Four, if you count the brief and humiliating attempt to wear heels on uneven hardwood floors while my legs still feel like jelly from the thought of what that man did to me three nights ago.
I’m currently standing in front of my half-ransacked closet with one boot on, one boot off, and a sweater in each hand when my phone pings from the nightstand.
I reach for it, expecting a calendar reminder or a message from my mom.
Instead, it lights up with a contact I don’t remember saving.
Mr. Billionaire: Be ready by 7. I’m picking you up.
I squint, then burst out laughing.
“Seriously? Mr. Billionaire?”
He must have put his number into my phone when I was asleep the other night.
Me: Bold of you to assume I’m easily impressed by fancy cars and rich boy charm.
The response is immediate.
Mr. Billionaire: Good thing I’ve got other talents ;)
I bite my bottom lip, trying not to smile like an idiot.
Me: Let me guess. You can open a bottle of wine without breaking a sweat?
Mr. Billionaire: That. And I give incredible restaurant recommendations.
Me: Is this your way of saying we’re not just grabbing burgers?
Mr. Billionaire: We’re getting burgers. But it’ll be the best damn burger you’ve ever had.
Me: So confident. Sounds like someone needs to be humbled.
Mr. Billionaire: You can try. Fair warning, though, Temptress… I tend to leave people speechless.
My cheeks flush, and I toss the phone onto the bed before I can embarrass myself.
I glance at the clock: 6:23.
I have less than forty minutes to stop being a disaster and figure out how to look like the kind of woman who doesn’t get all twisted up over a man who has saved “Mr. Billionaire” under his name in her phone.
17
WELCOME TO NEW ENGLAND
HENSON
Istop in front of the cottage and kill the engine, glancing at the passenger seat where the small bouquet of wildflowers rests. Thoughtful, not predictable. I had them wrapped in parchment paper with a deep green ribbon that reminded me of the sweater Amira was wearing on Christmas Eve.
That night hasn’t left my brain. Probably never will. After she turned down my invitation to spend Christmas Day with me and my family, I offered to go over in the evening—hoping she’d say yes—but I accepted her need to be alone, though my desire for her has only grown in these few days apart.
I grab the flowers, straighten the collar of my black coat, and head up the front steps, giving the door a few sharp knocks.
When it swings open, my heart stutters.
