Page 6 of No Strings Attached
DON’T SLEEP WITH HIM
AMIRA
Don’t sleep with him. Don’t sleep with him. Don’t sleep with him.
I keep repeating the mantra to myself as Henson pays for my first-class ticket. Normally, I’d never accept charity from a stranger, but I must get out of the city. The past few weeks have been a nightmare, and I’m just trying to find some sense of normalcy again.
The last thing I need is to get tangled up with anyone, especially not a playboy billionaire with charm sharp enough to cut through common sense. And of course, it doesn’t help that he has a smile that looks custom-built to ruin women.
I wasn’t lying when I told Henson I was running from a shitty breakup.
And now, I’m stuck at the airport, heartbroken—and really fucking angry—trying to make it to a last-minute job in Nantucket.
“Here you go, ma’am,” a voice says, snapping me back to reality. I blink and see the agent trying to hand me my passport.
“Oh, sorry,” I mutter, taking it.
I feel a light poke on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” Henson asks, his voice filled with concern.
“Uh… yeah,” I lie, not wanting to get into it. “Thanks for this.”
He gives me a skeptical look, clearly not buying my answer, but he doesn’t push.
“Of course. It’s the least I could do for someone so concerned about my bathroom habits,” he jokes.
A loud cackle bursts out of me. I quickly try to stifle it.
Somehow, I’ve smiled more with Henson in the last twenty minutes than I have in a long while, and the sound of my laughter is almost foreign. That realization is both comforting and terrifying.
My ex and I were together for four glorious years—or so I thought. We met at the tail end of college during a hospitality management seminar and were inseparable. I really believed we’d be together forever.
That’s what he always told me, at least.
Everything was great… until it wasn’t. One day, we’re discussing future plans, and the next, he’s breaking up with me because our “goals aren’t aligned”—whatever that means.
Deep down, I knew that wasn’t the real reason.
His parents never accepted me, and he knew mine would struggle to accept him. The difference is, I was willing to fight for us. And I did.
“Why’d you stop?” Henson asks.
“Stop what?”
“Laughing,” he replies, narrowing his eyes as if trying to get a better read on me.
I look at him, and my brain short-circuits for a second.
Tall, tailored, with a smile that looks like it comes with terms and conditions, Henson is a walking, talking Armani ad. And the worst part is he knows it.
No wonder I’m nervous.
I step away from the desk, letting out a sigh, and he follows.
“I didn’t mean to. I guess I’m a little surprised I’m even laughing. It feels a while since I last did.”
Henson’s expression softens, and I pray he’s not pitying me. I’ve had enough self-pity to last a lifetime.
Regretting my honesty, I quickly add, “I don’t know why I told you that. Let’s just pretend I didn’t, okay?”
