7. Petra

Chapter seven

Petra

I spend all afternoon on autopilot. I should be angry with Reed, or embarrassed that he read something incredibly personal. But I’m…empty.

There are short moments when I remember Reed’s voice in my ear, or his fingers on my jaw, and they make the gray of the grocery store less gloomy and more panic-inducing. The memories make my skin tingle. It’s unsettling after being numb for years.

The end of my shift doesn’t come quickly enough. I clock out, tucking my book deep into my bag to protect it from the rain. I’m distracted—searching for my keys as I walk out the doors—and run smack into a warm, hard body.

“Shit!” I exclaim as I dip toward the sidewalk. A steadying arm wraps around my waist, and my face brushes against soft petals as I peel myself away. “Oh no, your flowers—”

“They’re actually yours.” When I glance up, it’s into warm, amber eyes. He’s not Thor, but my stomach still clenches at the sight of him. Reed isn’t much taller than me, but his confidence makes him appear that way, and his square face is undeniably handsome up close. It’s like loving a book character and seeing a film adaptation that’s entirely different, yet somehow even hotter.

“You’re here again? How many groceries do you need?” I ask. He half-smiles until his dimple appears. He steadies me, and when his hand slips from my waist, heat flashes through me. I hope it’s not displayed all over my face that I wrote a fantasy of him pressing me against the cold wall of the loading dock last night.

He straightens up and clears his throat before offering me the bouquet. “An apology. Or a reminder that someone cares. Or both of those, plus an additional apology for overstepping further this afternoon.”

His skin has a green tinge to it, as though he’s going to be sick over it. Maybe I should be angry about what he did, but Reed only knows me through my own words. This town treats gossiping as a career and avoiding mention of my depression as a hobby. He’s not taking part in either of those, and it’s refreshing.

The bouquet is gorgeous, and there’s no lasting damage from where my face smashed into it. Blossoms of hydrangea and ranunculus in subtle creams, vivid oranges, yellows, and pinks, remind me of summer sunsets over LA beaches. I take a deep breath, and the soft scent of hydrangeas mixes with the rain. I love them, but I pass them back. “You already apologized. I don’t know why you keep coming back, but I’ve got too much baggage to jump into bed with you because of a bouquet—obviously. It’s nothing against you.”

He smiles, but it’s sad, and refuses to take back the flowers. “I have an entire house full of baggage. I’m not trying to sleep with you, Petra, but my baggage is lighter when I talk to you. You make me forget all about it.”

I snort, but he’s worming his way into my good graces. The tingling sensation is back, reviving dead parts of me. “If you’d told me that this afternoon, rather than scar Mrs. Fitzgerald by discussing my vagina—”

He smiles, and this time it’s more real. “You did that all on your own.”

“Then I might’ve been more receptive to flowers.”

He nods as he stuffs his hands in his coat pockets. “What about now? Too late?”

I size him up. Guaranteed, he’s trying to get in my pants, but I can’t deny that’s flattering. Especially when the ranunculus in my arms bring color to my gray world. “How long are you in town? ”

He shrugs a shoulder in a failed attempt at nonchalance. “I wasn’t planning on coming back when I drove through the other day.”

There it is. “I’m going to make this crystal clear. If you’re trying to hook up with me, I’m not doing that.”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, and tries again. “I want to know more about you. That’s all. The woman who listens to my scenes and laughs about being found out. A single adult who still worries about what people will say if she lets loose. A soul who writes like she’s bleeding onto the paper.”

That he’s seen to the heart of me is terrifying. Intriguing. He sends my pulse racing. “I don’t do sex with strangers.”

He nods. “I respect that. How about coffee with strangers?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he says, stepping back. “I can take a hint. Night, Petra.”

I should walk away, but every cell in my body is screaming to go with him. I want to peek behind the curtain. If he’s curious, I’m doubly fascinated. What made him start his brand? How did he come up with his Daddy Knight persona? It’s undeniably a persona—his glimpse of vulnerability showed me that much.

Turning off my brain, I lean into an intuition I haven’t trusted in ages. “Wait. I meant no to coffee. I’m starving, and I’m going to need a glass of wine with this conversation.”

Reed smiles, flashing a hint of a dimple. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

I’m not giving up my getaway car. “Are you staying here in town?” His hotel is less than five minutes away. I swallow my pride. “I’m going back inside for wine and food. I’ll meet you there.”

Reed freezes. “I’m getting mixed signals here, and honestly, I’m not interested in sex with strangers either.”

I laugh, embarrassed as hell, and clutch my flowers in an effort not to cover my face with my hands. “Good. No mixed signals. I’m just not talking about this in public.”

Reed’s eyes crinkle, delighting in my awkwardness. “I don’t mind paying. ”

My heart is racing too fast for this to be a good decision, but I stick to it. “Don’t you need time to tidy?”

“I’ve been there all of five hours,” he protests, but he’s already walking backward. “Room 218!”

The group of people entering and exiting all stop and stare at me. I glare at Reed, my cheeks hot. “Seriously?”

He winks— winks , with an audacity I can’t believe—as he crosses the parking lot. I clutch my bouquet awkwardly while half a dozen people stare, before stalking inside to buy two bottles of wine. I might need both.

One bag of groceries later, and I’m climbing the stairs to the second floor of the hotel. I hesitate at the door. What if he’s a serial killer? What if he doesn’t know how to take no for an answer? My brain cycles through a hundred more scenarios. The increasingly heavy bag in my arms decides for me, and I knock.

Reed swings open the door with a smirk that emphasizes his dimple. “Petra.”

Jesus. Two seconds in and I have to fight my blush. “Do you normally greet people solely with their name?”

“No, but yours is fantastic,” he says as I pass him the bag. I try not to gawk at his enormous suite, complete with kitchenette and living room. It’s all beige colors and dark wood—a far cry from my ancient, creaking, water-stained furniture.

“I brought sushi. I don’t know what your favorite is, but thought we could share. They have eel sauce at the counter, by the way.” I can’t help the grin that sneaks out when his eyes flit up to mine in surprise. “You should’ve said it was only for one meal.”

His face morphs into a smile full of secrets. “You’re cheeky. I wondered what else was underneath the blush.”

Compliment or not, it warms me from my hair to my toes. I’ve missed being called something playful. “I’m a lot of things.”

“Unexpected things,” Reed notes, as he puts the flowers in water. He opens the boxes of sushi to divide up the rolls while I pour us both a generous glass of wine. I take a gulp to ease the coming interrogation .

“Okay,” I say after a few large sips and bites of sushi. “Lay it on me.”

“What an offer,” Reed’s voice is deep, decadent, and goosebumps run down my arms. “But it’s more polite to let you eat first.”

It’s part of the suave persona, but that’s not who interests me. “C’mon, put Knight away. Do you try to hook up with anyone who recognizes your voice?”

Reed frowns but smooths it away. “No. But I’ve made some connections that way in the past.”

I don’t doubt that women throw themselves at him. I already know he can give me an orgasm without touching me—his voice is the catalyst.

“I’ll bet,” I choke out. “But I haven’t been with anyone in a while, and I’m not about to break that fast for someone who’s going to compare me to three hundred other women.”

I’ve made a mistake, because his eyes sparkle with challenge. “One: I don’t compare, and two: three hundred women? Really?”

“More? Less?” I ask.

He laughs, and the sound of it has my stomach fluttering. “I’m impressed you went that high. What constitutes a while? Don’t you miss it?”

I roll my eyes, abandoning my sushi for more wine. “I get myself off just fine.”

“With my help.” His grin is so smug that I want to wipe it off his face. Preferably with my mouth. But I can’t, and worse, I’m agitated that he’s caught me staring.

“They’re my hands!” I protest.

He pushes his plate aside, focused on me—playing with me. This is the part of dating I missed. “No vibrators? How interesting. Sex is a mental game, Petra. Each one of those orgasms was mine.”

Mine.

My mouth drops open in indignation, though my breasts grow heavy and my thighs squeeze together. “You— no! They were mine. I don’t know how to be with a man anymore. You’re just a recording, not a real person.”

Something in his eyes shutters and dulls. He picks up his hardly touched plate and carries it to the counter. “Ouch.”

“Shit. I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” he sighs. “You’re right. I’m not myself on those recordings. I’m an actor. It’s the nature of the business that I’m used as an object. At least you don’t assume you know me because you’ve listened to my scenes.”

“Do people do that?” I reach for my glass, but it’s empty.

He laughs without any humor as he leans against the counter. “You have no idea. At least I have some sense of anonymity. Holly, my best—my old friend—is famous in adult films. She’s recognized often, mostly in a good way. Sometimes not.”

As awkward as it is that Reed knows I’ve listened to him, I can’t imagine a world where I’m routinely recognized for my sex face. Am I any better? Focusing only on his job and not on who he is as a person? Writing about him in the middle of the night?

Guilt squirms in my stomach. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with what I was doing. I didn’t consider—”

“Please don’t apologize.” He sighs again, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re not doing anything wrong. It’s a service I offer. You pay me for it. You’re not snooping through my phone—you’re getting a curated experience sent to your email.”

“Oh.” It hits me, and my whole world shifts sideways. “ Oh. I’m paying you for sex.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that news? At least you’re paying for it, not pirating it.”

I wince. “I equated it to…buying an audiobook or something.”

He snorts, bringing the wine with him to pour us both another large glass, draining the bottle. “An explicitly sexy, updated weekly, the-reader-is-the-star audiobook.”

I’m horrified at how I dehumanized him. In my scene, he had whatever personality I wanted him to. “I objectified you. ”

“Not the way some people do. Plus, I stole your journal. We’re more than square.” He frowns, tapping his finger against the glass. “You caught me at a time when this is a sore subject. I wouldn’t have cared a year ago—wouldn’t have given it a second thought. And I would’ve tried to sleep with you the minute you recognized me.”

I want to ask what’s different, but he avoids my eyes. “I’m sorry, for whatever happened to change that.”

When his eyes flit to mine, there’s something unreadable in them. “You’re not the person I want an apology from, but thank you anyway. Are you done with dinner?”

Truthfully, I’ve lost my appetite. I help him clear the table and uncork the second bottle of wine. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

“Not really.” He leads me over to the sofa and we take opposite ends. My toes wiggle in protest to be let free, but it would be overly familiar and impolite to take my shoes off. “Opening up to someone who knew about DKP screwed me over last time.”

“Then I’m doubly sorry. Was she—they—” I trip over my words. “ Oh, I didn’t consider it would be more than women—”

“Oh, yes, all genders.” His smirk is at my expense, but it’s better than his melancholy. He leans forward, until each inch of him strains to crowd my space. “You had a question?”

“It was too personal.”

His eyes roam over me—evaluating. “I’ll trade you one.”