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CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 10

NEENA

With the phone pressed to my ear, I rounded the far end of the lake and glanced at the Winthorpe building, the reflection of water and sky glimmering against its all-glass facade. The first floor was retail, the second Winthorpe Capital. Tech occupied the third and fourth floors, and the top was under construction—rumored to be the future home of Winthorpe Development.

Matt was in the third minute of a long and drawn-out story about propane-tank relocations. I cut him off as I entered the north section of the trail, and the view of Winthorpe disappeared behind the row of cypress trees. “I have to run. I’ll call you in a few hours. I love you.”

He returned the sentiment, and I ended the call and worked the cell phone into the side pocket of my bag.

I did love Matt. No matter where our marriage and relationship would eventually go, I would always love him—if for no other reason than the fact that he was heartbreakingly in love with me. I could screw William Winthorpe on the middle of Matt’s desk and he’d still take me back. Beg me to stay. Bring me flowers and believe that I deserved them. With that sort of unwavering loyalty and security, why wouldn’t I stray?

My first affair was so innocent. Lust plus opportunity equals sex. It was quick, dirty, and pointless, the excitement fading as soon as the man returned to his twenty-two-year-old girlfriend.

The next lasted longer. A series of midday meetings, my enjoyment heightening as the affair grew deeper. When it ended, I immediately returned to the hunt, addicted to the tumultuous risk.

Matt’s younger and better-looking brother was next, and the close proximity fueled my arousal to new levels. After our first time together, he cried, dismayed at what he’d done—and I’d never felt so empowered. After all, what better ego boost than to know that a man had risked his most crucial relationship to be with you?

I watched as William Winthorpe rounded the bend in the trail, his head dropped in thought. He was a man of habit, and I quickened my pace, wanting to meet him before he moved past the services center that housed, among other things, a restaurant.

William was a man with everything to lose. The perfect wife. The perfect life. The reputation of the community, of his businesses, and of his charity foundation. Would he risk any of it for me?

Mark had been a feather in my cap. Ned Plymouth, a million-dollar payday. An affair with William Winthorpe would overshadow them both by leaps and bounds. At just the thought, my thighs tightened, my breathing shallowed, and I struggled to walk slowly, casually, as the distance between us shortened.

“Neena.” He came to a sudden stop. “What are you doing out here?”

“Needed to clear my head.” I glanced around, pleased to see that the path was empty. “The fresh air helps.”

He chuckled. “Yeah.”

I nodded to the sleek glass building beside us, a smaller version of the Winthorpe tower, and one that contained a small bistro. “I was actually about to stop in and grab something to eat. Have you had lunch?” I knew he hadn’t. His schedule, like everything else in his life, was precise. A long walk at eleven thirty, followed by lunch. Afternoon meetings, then home by seven. Tick. Tock. Every day. Was the monotony killing him yet?

“Not yet.” He glanced at the building, hesitating.

“They have a killer grilled-cheese sandwich,” I offered. “You have to try it.” I took a few steps backward toward the entrance and gave him a teasing smile. “Come on . . .”

“Grilled cheese?” He squinted at me. “I thought you were no carb.”

“I like to cheat every once in a while.” I winked at him and could tell the moment when his resolve wavered. The fun side always got to them. Dark and tempting was intriguing, but light and happy paired with breathless admiration was the strong cocktail that fed bad decisions. An unexpected combination of the two and I’d have him naked in my bed within the month.

He glanced at his watch, and I turned away, striding up the hill and toward the building, my best asset showcased to perfection in my three-inch heels. “Come on!” I called out, not giving him the chance to decline.

By the time I reached for the door handle, he was there, his hand on the small of my back, ushering me inside with the manners of a true gentleman. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried to hold back my grin.

My father once held a drinking contest with me. Death in the Afternoon was the drink. Getting to leave the bar was the prize. Winning was accomplished by continuing to drink until the other passed out or vomited. I was thirteen, and the bartender liked my tits. He told my father that on our third drink, and a meaty grope of them paid for our fourth. I vomited ten minutes later, my hair held back by that same bartender as his hands squeezed each tiny breast as if pumping them for milk.

Breast implants were one of the first things Matt paid for, my second augmentation and size upgrade footed by Ned. I had lost all sensation in my nipples from the surgeries, yet I could still remember the rough pinch of that bartender’s hands.

“Did you want to sit in the bar?” William followed my gaze, which was stuck to the bar, the memories of the drinking contest still raw in my mind.

“Ah, no.” I ripped my gaze away from the dark space and quickly nodded at a table by the window. “How about that one?”

“Works for me.”

We settled in, an awkward silence falling, and I forced a self-deprecating wince. “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”

“Nervous?” He laughed, the rigid tension leaving his posture, and smoothed down the front of his tie. “Why?”

“I don’t know. You’re very powerful. And, quite frankly, brilliant. I didn’t realize how much so until I had a chance to see you in action, at the office.” I picked at the edge of my menu, then blushed. “It’s intimidating.”

“We’ve had meetings before. You never seemed intimidated then.”

“Well, I don’t know.” I laughed. “It’s different outside the office. No glass walls to hide behind.”

He smiled. “The walls were actually Cat’s idea. She liked the open feel that they created.”

“The open feel?” I winced. “I’m not sure that’s how the staff sees them.”

He raised an eyebrow in question.

“There’s just no privacy. It feels like they’re under a microscope.”

“They’ve told you that?”

“Yes,” I lied. “Several have mentioned it. I’m sure Cat meant well, but it’s hard to develop a feeling of intimacy and trust when everyone can see what you’re doing, all the time.” I met his eyes. “Don’t you ever want to . . . I don’t know . . . relax in your office? Kick off your shoes? Loosen your tie?” I let my voice grow husky, and he dropped the eye contact, his focus moving to his menu as his jaw tightened.

The waiter approached, and I sat back in my seat, letting William off the hook as we placed our orders.

He liked the grilled cheese. I could see it in the way he relaxed into his seat, a grin widening across his handsome face as he ordered a beer. The sun streamed through the window, lighting up our table, and I felt, for the first time since we moved into the Atherton house, deeper possibilities. He could fall for me. This could be more than just a game. This could be real. This could be my future, the one I’d been dreaming of. For a moment, I let myself sink into the potential scenario.

Vacations in Tahiti.

Second homes in Aspen.

A full-time staff, dedicated to fluffing my pillows and fetching my coffee.

“I’m glad we did this. You were right. The grilled cheese . . .” He nodded in approval, and I fought not to wipe a crumb off the edge of his mouth. “It was amazing. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve had a grilled cheese in a decade, maybe longer.”

I stretched, sticking out my chest as I ran a hand along my flat stomach. “I know. It’s the butter they use. It’s lethal.” The buttered bread was one of the reasons I’d be vomiting it up as soon as I returned to Winthorpe Tech. The number of calories in that sandwich would take three hours of intense cardio to burn off. But for now, I played the cool and carefree woman, grinning playfully at him over my own bottle of beer, as if twelve hundred calories weren’t justifiable grounds for panic. “Sometime I’ll have to make you my french toast. It’s hard to say that it compares with that, but . . .” I tilted my head. “It kinda does.”

“Well—” His phone rang, and he glanced at the display, then swore. “I’ve got to take this. Here.” Sliding to his feet, he hurriedly pulled out his wallet and withdrew some cash and placed it on the table. “I’ll see you back at the office.”

“Sure, I—” I abandoned the sentence as he walked away through the tables, the phone to his ear, his voice too low to hear. Was it Cat? Irritation burned through me at the abrupt interruption to our meal, to the first real conversation we’d been able to have.

I stood and moved toward the bathroom, the grilled-cheese sandwich already fighting its way up my throat.

It didn’t matter. I had plenty of time.

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