9. Grant

Chapter 9

Grant

What the hell was I thinking? That's the problem. I wasn't thinking—at least not with my brain. A deep sense of regret washes over me as I lie in bed watching the first glimmers of sunshine beam through my heavy curtains. My mind races with confusion and disbelief. There are a dozen reasons I should feel guilty or at the very least embarrassed, but I swear I can't think of any right now.

There's no denying that I want to be with Ella March. As much as I've tried to fight it, even sought therapy to figure out how I, a reasonable man with a good head on my shoulders, would be so attracted to a woman half my age. The logical part of me knows pursuing her is wrong on so many levels, but in this moment, my heart is the one calling the shots.

If I were Gareth, it might make sense. To him, women are commodities and their only importance lies in their outward appearance. I'm not like that. Or I wasn't like that until I got an eyeful of Ella March in a tight-fitting red dress that showcased every voluptuous curve she'd somehow developed between the ages of sixteen and eighteen. It felt impossible not to fall in love. I should have never attended that damn party.

With a deep, exhausted sigh, I slowly roll out of the bed and stretch my arms high above my head. I can't help but wonder what happens next, but I assume it begins with a phone call. The club provided me with her phone number, a scrap of paper now crumpled in my hand. According to one of the men who frequents the club, I should wait a few days before reaching out to her to avoid looking eager. But that tactic sounds utterly ridiculous to me. After all, I just paid two million for a date. I can only hope Ella knows how much I want to see her.

As I wait for my coffee to brew, I find myself gazing at Ella's phone number. My mind races, trying to come up with the perfect opening line that will win her over. But as usual, my thoughts are jumbled, and my tongue feels heavy with nervousness. I've never been one for smooth words or romantic declarations. But I want to do better for Ella.

"Can we talk?" I practice my words, sounding as dull and unappealing as a sales pitch. I wince at my lack of charm, feeling like a telemarketer trying to sell a product no one wants.

"May we discuss what happened last night?" The words came out in a frustrated tone, the sound of my own voice grating against my ears. I smash my palm against my forehead, producing an audible smack as I pace across the kitchen floor.

Maybe I'll text. I'm far less likely to say something offensive if it's written out. Staring at my phone, I tap Ella's number onto the screen and begin typing a message.

Me: Good morning, Ella. Are you available for dinner tonight?

As the saying goes, a watched phone never rings, and I couldn't agree more as I anxiously stare at my device. To distract myself, I pour a second cup of steaming coffee and take a bite of my bagel, slathered with an excessive amount of cream cheese. But my mind keeps drifting back to Ella, wondering if she's asleep or reading my message with disdain. Time seems to slow down as I wait for a response, the tension building in my chest like a tightly coiled spring.

With a deep sense of frustration and regret weighing on my chest, I carefully place my dishes in the dishwasher and make my way toward the bathroom. The tiles under my feet feel cold and unforgiving as I step closer to the shower, trying to shake off the lingering disappointment. But if she won't respond to my message, I'll have no other option but to sneak into her building and confront her face-to-face. As I reach the halfway point, a faint buzzing sound catches my attention, and I quickly dash across the room to grab it.

Ella: What time were you thinking?

Me: I can pick you up at 7:00. Will that work?

Ella: Yes. That's doable. See you tonight.