Chapter 11

eleven

Wrenlee

I wake to something soft and dark, startling when I realize I’m in my room in Cash’s condo, alone.

How did I get here?

Last thing I remember is sliding into the passenger seat of Cash’s SUV. I’d closed my eyes because the bright lights of the never-ending traffic of New York had stung the over-worked eyes in my head. But it’d only been for a minute, right?

I search my memory for more, an elevator ride, entering the apartment, dropping down in bed.

Nothing.

What the hell? I sit up in bed and reach for the lamp, flooding the room in light. A quick glance at my phone tells me it’s four in the morning. I’m still wearing my clothes from the night before, but my boots are on the floor beside my bed.

I wore my boots through Cash’s apartment?

Why does my head feel so foggy?

Why can’t I remember coming to bed?

Pushing up, I move into the bathroom and pee. I don’t think I brushed my teeth, and I still have makeup on my face, which is oddest of all. I never sleep with makeup on. Every girl, even ones without mothers, know you don’t do that.

Pulling off my clothes, I tug a ratty old t-shirt over my head. It’s a beer box t-shirt. The ones you get when you buy a case, and the cash guy is feeling generous. Dad likes his Coors and would frequently get the shirts. As far back as I can remember, they’ve been my sleep shirts.

It’s soft and familiar on my skin in this unfamiliar place. I scrub the mascara from my eyes, brush my teeth, roll lavender oil behind my ears and on my inner wrists, and pad sleepily back to my bed. I set my alarm on my phone and snuggle under the covers. Even though I’m confused and a little worried I can’t remember my night, I fall back into sleep easily.

My alarm wakes me two hours later, and I’m so not ready to get up and face the world. With a groan, I slap out at my phone and then wince at the sharp pain in my head. Waking up on a Friday with a punishing headache isn’t fun. Going through the day with said headache is worse. Needing to get ahead of the pain, I push from the bed and move straight for the door. I’d seen a bottle of pain killer in one of the cabinets in the kitchen during one of my snoop sessions. I’m headed for that, not thinking of the fact that I’m wearing nothing but my panties under the beer t-shirt when I smack straight into a hard, naked chest.

“Oomph!” My hands rise to press against hot skin, and I jump back, tripping over my feet and nearly falling on my behind when a big hand reaches out to fist my shirt, yanking me back and steadying me.

Why does this crap always happen around him?

“Mornin’.”

“G’morning.” Peeling myself from his hold, I duck my head and start for the kitchen. “I just need a pain killer.”

“For what?” Cash follows me.

“Headache.” I refuse to look at him as I rise onto my tiptoes, trying to hook the bottle with the tips of my fingers. I can feel it—but it’s just out of reach.

A warm body connects with my back and Cash raises his arm, grabbing the bottle and bringing it down to the countertop for me. Slowly, I lower myself from my tiptoes. I say nothing as I pop the top and take two pills from the container. Then I slip from between his body and the countertop, grabbing a glass and filling it with enough water to down the pills.

Cash settles back into the counter beside me, hands planted against the stone surface, broad, bare chest on display. I avoid looking at him. In fact, he has the nicest wicker chandelier over his rustic looking dining table.

“What is that?”

I can’t help it when my eyes flick to him. “What’s what?”

“That smell.”

I inhale, searching for traces of smoke or natural gas or something equally as not right. I scowl. “I don’t smell anything.”

He leans in, his nose a breath away from my neck as he inhales deeply. I freeze. Oh my. How is it that this man, of all the men in this great big world, is the one to make me tingle?

It’s—wrong.

“You wearing perfume?”

I shake my head. My heart is pounding, the beats unsteady. “I don’t wear perfume. It’s probably my lavender—and maybe my lotion? That’s vanilla.”

“Lavender and vanilla.” Brows knit as he leans in, inhaling me a second time. “I like it.”

My entire body gets warm. I fight the urge to shift nervously away from him. “Um, I use it for anxiety. It—helps.”

Those hard eyes find mine. “Anxiety?”

I pull in breath. “I’ve always had a hard time sleeping. It makes sleep easier, I guess.”

His eyes move down my body, lingering on the shirt. “Nice shirt.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” I chuckle nervously, plucking at the fabric. “Dad likes his Coors.”

“You had trouble sleeping last night?”

“Not really.”

He reaches out to finger the hem of my shirt, the rough pad of one finger touches my thigh and a violent shiver erupts inside me. My breath catches when he murmurs, “This isn’t what I put you to bed in last night. Tells me you woke sometime. That’s telling, considering how tired you were.”

I’m stuck on the first bit. “You—” I sputter. “You put me to bed?”

“Fell asleep soon as we got in my car, Kitten.”

“Yeah but—” I shake my head in alarm and embarrassment. “You could have woken me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

He tips his head to the side. “Just as easily carry you to bed as wake you.”

I literally feel my eyes get big. I probably look like a bug with bedhead. “You carried me—all the way from the parking garage—to bed?”

Someone kill me now.

“Yep.”

I drop my head into my hands and groan. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Why?”

I crack my fingers to glare at him. “Next time, just wake me.”

“Won’t be a next time.” The way he says that like it’s a sure thing has me dropping my hands.

“Why not?”

“Because I told Addy you’re done at the club. Last night was your last night.”

My mouth drops and my heart—it’s losing her ever-loving crap in my chest. “You did what?”

“I’m not having my woman so tired that she can’t function. You don’t need that job. Told you I’d take care of you, and I will.”

Something hot and bubbly forms in my chest. I think it’s anger. “I’m not your woman.”

That darkness in his eyes, it darkens.

I shiver, taking a very quick step back.

He growls, “You are.”

I shake my head and take another step back. “This isn’t real, Cash. I’m your fake girlfriend. It’s not your responsibility to take care of me. I need a job.”

He leans in, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “While we do this, you are mine. Like it or not, Kitten, I take care of what’s mine.”

Glaring at him, the words just fall from my lips. “And what happens to me when this is over? When I don’t have a job and can’t support myself? What then?”

He sucks his teeth, like there’s a whole lot more he wants to say to me, but he’s doing all he can to hold himself back. Then, like the asshat he is, he settles on, “Your job is to show the world I’m off limits. That I’m not interested in them. That you own every dark corner of my beating heart.” The air crackles between us like lightening. Charged. “Your job is to prove to everyone that this, us, is as real as it gets. To show the world that I have all of you. Every inch of you, inside and out, is mine.”

“And what’s your job in all of this?”

“To take care of you. To make sure you want for nothing. To prove to any man who even dares to look that you belong to me.” He catches my chin between thumb and finger when I scoff at that last one, because men don’t look at me. “It’s my job to keep you safe. To make sure you’re not working yourself to death just to eat a hot meal.” His thumb comes up to sweep across my bottom lip. “This mouth is mine. This body—” he grips my hip with his other hand. “As far as anyone else is aware, is mine.”

I shudder, gasping, “We need lines. Boundaries.”

“Lines are made for crossing and boundaries are fun to stretch.”

“Cash.” A small cry spills into the space between us as he grips me by the waist fast, lifting me and setting me on the cold granite of the countertop. He spreads my legs and steps between them—and that charged air that crackled between us before ignites in flame.

“I don’t do lines and boundaries, Kitten. That shit always blurs anyway.” His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into my flesh in a way that has me aching between my legs. I hate how responsive I am to this man. How easily he plays my body with his musician hands. “Get used to me touching you. Get used to my lips on your skin. And fucking expect that I’m gonna whisper dirty shit in your ear, in private and in public, because I fucking love when you blush for me.” I feel his hands pulse possessively. “This is your last chance to walk away from me before this gets real, understood?”

“What do you mean, real?”

“Real as in you stop thinking of this as fake. It’s messing with your head.”

He’s the one messing with my head. “But it is fake.”

“Wrenlee.” My name is a warning.

Meeting his eyes with my own, I whisper, “I can’t walk away.”

He leans in, all smoke and cinnamon hearts. “Why not?”

“Because you gave away my job.” Why do I feel so breathless?

He wets his lips, thinking. When he speaks, the words are reluctant. It’s almost like he’s afraid to say what he’s going to say.

I hold my breath. It burns like fire in my lungs.

He pins me with his eyes. “If you don’t want to do this with me, I won’t make you. I promised I’d take care of you, and I will. You won’t be on the street, and you won’t go back to that shithole. I’ll get you a place to live, make sure you’ve got food while you’re in school. But if you do this with me, you do this. You give yourself over to me and make this look real. Make it feel real.” His large hands on my hips squeeze, as though he’s afraid I might decide to walk away, and he’s not certain he’ll let me go.

The idea that this big, rough man, might not be able to let me go is—seductive.

I don’t know why, but I want him to want me. For me.

This is going to wreck me.

This man is going to wreck me.

Still, trembling with nerves, decision made—soul signed away in blood—I lean forward and touch my lips to his. It’s hesitant and uncertain because I’ve never initiated a kiss, but I whisper against his lips, “I’ll be yours until this is over.”