CHAPTER NINE

RILEY

“Shut the fuck up.” Kendall smacks my arm and plops herself next to me on my living room couch. “I can’t believe you waited three days to tell me you not only saw hottie McWalker again, but you fucked him. Twice. I still don’t get why you didn’t stay the night in his hotel room.”

“I had an early Pilates class.”

“Girlfriend.” Kendall hugs a pillow close to her chest. “That fine piece of ass is worth canceling a class. You only teach it for the workout, but I bet you and Walker burned more calories than you did in that class.”

“Only because I don’t get the full workout when teaching.”

“Stop sidetracking. Tell me more about his dick.”

I laugh and kick my foot out at her. “I’m not telling you anything about his dick.”

“You would if it was small and unimpressive. Which means he’s hung like a fucking stallion.”

“Seriously, Kendall.” I heave out a deep sigh. “What am I going to do?”

“Fuck—”

“For real.”

Rowan’s the better one to talk to about serious matters, but her schedule is opposite ours right now. Until she finishes her nursing degree, she’s pulling a lot of late-night shifts at the hospital.

“Jackson doesn’t mind.”

“I get that. It’s not Jackson I’m worried about.”

“Well, fuckadoodle. You’re worried about Walker. And you’d only be worried about Walker if you had feelings for him and if you thought he could have them for you.”

My silence is more telling than me trying to argue with her.

“He feels the same?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? It doesn’t really matter, though. He lives in California. That’s not the kind of relationship I want.”

“What does he do for work? He’s been in New England twice in the past month. Maybe work has him here more than the west coast.”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?” Kendall leans forward. “I thought you guys talked a lot. Spent hours together at dinner and walking the city before you turned into sex monkeys. What did you talk about?”

“I don’t know. Nothing and everything. I didn’t bring up Dad or much about my past because I was trying to keep things casual. He didn’t mention any of his family. I know he went to school in northern New York, and he lived in Arizona and now in San Francisco.”

“And you don’t even know what he does for work?”

“Something sports related, I think.”

“Girlfriend. You need to thank your lucky gods for sending you this gift. I would give away my Dolce Gabbana heels to be you.”

“Seeing how your Dolce Gabbana heels are missing a very important ampersand, that’s not much of a trade.”

“They’re knock offs, sure, but they’re knock offs that still set me back two hundred bucks.”

“So you’re saying my life is only worth two hundred dollars?”

Kendall shrugs. “For a night with Walker? Fuck yeah.”

She may not offer me comfort with hugs and sweet talk, but she knows how to lighten the mood and distract me.

We settle into the couch, and for the next hour, we laugh about silly things while we watch meaningless reality television. Getting lost in stupid drama is a welcome distraction.

The following evening, I slip the four-carat engagement ring on my finger and inspect my reflection in my floor-length mirror. The fitted, deep-purple dress hugs my curves without appearing too sexy. It only set me back fifty dollars at T.J. Maxx, but being on Jackson’s arm, people will assume it’s vintage or custom made. It’s ridiculous how much people care about labels.

This isn’t the first time I’ve attended a charity event with Jackson, but it’s my first as his fiancée. I shouldn’t be nervous. It’s not like he’s the center of attention or needs to introduce me to all his business associates.

Those he works closest with know me from previous events. I don’t go with him often, only when he says it’s expected he’ll have a date. After years of being his plus one, our engagement shouldn’t surprise anyone.

I don’t feel like making small talk tonight and hope it’s not a late evening. The buzzer by my door rings and I slip into my long coat as I buzz Jackson up.

“Hey, gorgeous fiancée.” He greets me with a hug and kisses my temple, the same way he has for years.

“Hey.”

“Ick. Please don’t tell me you’re PMSing. I have too much ass kissing to do tonight to deal with your girly problems.”

“Watch it, future husband, or you’ll find yourself in the doghouse before we even say ‘I do’.” I smack his arm and pretend to go for his hair.

Jackson shields his hair and jumps away from me. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Jackson spends more time in front of the mirror than any female I’ve ever met. How he has time to make sure every hair is in place, that not a wrinkle can be found in his Tom Ford suits or on his face, and still find time to be the CFO of a multi-billion-dollar company always surprises me.

“Come on, Cinderella. The chariot awaits, and I know how quickly you turn into a pumpkin if you stay out too late.”

“Excuse me.” I make sure my keys and phone are in my purse before leaving with him. “Cinderella and I don’t turn into pumpkins. We’re overworked, tired women who don’t have men who truly appreciate us.”

“I appreciate you.” He opens the passenger door to his Bentley and waits for me to buckle up before closing the door. When he slips behind the wheel, he picks up my hand and holds my engagement ring in the dim light of the car’s overhead light. “I four-point-two-carats-princess-cut-and-perfect-clarity appreciate you.”

“Still trying to buy my love.” And diamonds aren’t the way to do it. I don’t wear much jewelry, and, up until a few years ago, was a tomboy. But Kendall likes to dress me up and show off the rack I prefer to hide, so I’ve slowly gotten used to being a little more feminine.

“I’ll make this as comfortable for you as I can, Riles. You have no idea how much I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.”

I do, and I wouldn’t give up my life for anyone else. “It’s nothing compared to what you’ve done for me over the past ten years.”

We met when we were both coming to terms with our lives. Jackson had accepted his own sexuality, and I was the first person he came out to. It in no way, shape, or form impacted our friendship. If anything, I became more comfortable around him, not worrying he’d see our friendship as anything more than platonic.

I love Jackson, but I’m not in love with him. He’s my best friend, a brother, a protector all wrapped into one. He’s an affectionate man and wards off women on the daily since they often perceive his touches as sexual. With his cropped blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and runner’s build, women fawn over him.

I would too if I was into the wealthy business suit vibe. While I love to read billionaire romances, I’m not attracted by the tailor-made suits and luxury dates men woo women with. Jackson has tried too many times to impress me with his corporate helicopter and expensive bottles of champagne.

Honestly, I can’t tell the difference between Dom Pérignon and the twelve-dollar bottle Kendall and I get at Costco.

“Nervous?” He reaches across the center console and rubs my leg.

“It’s not my first rodeo,” I tease.

“It’s your first time as my fiancée. I can’t promise we won’t get bombarded, but I’ll do my best to keep the chatty Cathy’s away.”

“Please. You’re a chatty Cathy.”

He gives my thigh a squeeze. “Exactly. No one takes airtime away from Jackson Bankes.”

We make pleasant conversation on our way to the hotel where the private function is being held, and true to his word, Jackson accepts the plethora of congratulations and answers all the wedding questions, promising to send an invitation to the grand event.

My stomach churns at the thought of the wedding. Not only have I never fantasized about the ring or the dress, but a big wedding was never important to me either. It could be because I come from such a small family, and with very few relatives and friends, I didn’t see the need.

What I’ve dreamt about was having a family. Lots of children running around, clinging to my legs as I make dinner. Pushing them on the swings in the park. Watching them play sports for their schools.

I smile and nod at our tablemates while Jackson and his business partners talk over dinner. I pick at my food and make polite conversation with the wives and girlfriends, giving them our canned responses about the engagement and wedding.

After we’ve finished dinner, Jackson grabs my hand and hauls me to my feet. “Come dance with me. Two songs and then we can blow this popsicle stand.”

Grateful for the break from being fake, I loop my arms over his shoulders and sway to the music. “Thanks for saving me. If Tina asked one more time how much my ring and dress cost, I was going to punch her in the throat.”

“My violent bride. I’m almost turned on.”

I snort and rest my head on his shoulder. “How’s Taylor doing?”

I glance across the dance floor where he holds a woman in his arms. Not too close, yet not so far from his body where it’s obviously awkward. As the Bankes Corporate attorney, he comes to these events regularly, with a different woman every time.

Not only is dating your corporate attorney against policy, but Taylor was worried about losing his partnership if they found out he was gay. His firm is owned by two traditional sixty-five-year-olds who have a diverse staff, but they’ve dropped too many homophobic comments around Taylor for him to feel comfortable coming out.

Even though Bankes Inc. is an equal opportunity employer and has never had any complaints about bias, race, gender, equality, Jackson isn’t confident his father will accept or support him if he comes out.

If that’s not telling about what kind of man Sebastian Bankes is, the treatment of his wife and other son, who not even Jackson mentions, is eye-opening. Jackson doesn’t bad talk him, but he’s an ass. He loves his company and his portfolio more than people. He’s groomed Jackson to be just like him, which he is, minus the douchery and treatment of his wife.

Jackson has this weird respect for his father. He admits Sebastian is an ass but looks up to his work ethic and management skills, which are reputable. The rest of him is not.

“He’s holding up. I suggested he find himself a woman like you, but they’re hard to find.”

“I think that’s a compliment?”

“Sure the fuck is.” He kisses my forehead. “Your sacrifice means I can inherit Bankes Inc. and gain access to my trust fund.”

“Do you really think your father would keep you from your trust fund if you didn’t marry?” We’ve had this discussion many times over the past few years. Five years ago, we made one of those stupid pacts twelve-year-olds make. He asked me to marry him if his father was going to hold true to the conditions of the trust, and I said I would if I wasn’t in a relationship.

Once we’re married, he offered to pay the rent on Boston Strong. He actually offered to pay now, but I’m too prideful to accept a handout. Kendall and Rowan have reminded me repeatedly, it’s for the kids. And I’m sacrificing five years of my life for him. Still, I don’t feel right about taking his money until we’re married.

Jackson scoffs. “Absolutely. He’s a shrewd businessman who is fair, but he doesn’t go back on his word. Ever. He wrote that trust when I was born, and not even thirty-five years is going to change his mind. Until the contracts are signed, I’m staying in my Valentino-Gucci-Tom-Ford-Armani-BrunelloCucinelli filled closet.”

“It’s so archaic.”

“Calling me old, sweetheart?”

“Please. You’ve got Botox, facials, massages, and the best tailor in the city at your beck and call. You’re never going to age.”

“And this is why I love you.”

Jackson may have pretty boy looks, but he doesn’t act the spoiled rich trust fund child part. He’s well-liked by his staff and fellow management team, even though he’s all business at the office. Serious with a touch of humor, unlike when he’s with me and the girls. All humor and zero seriousness.

Taylor comes over and taps me on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in? Griffin wants to talk to you about the Hong Kong meeting on Monday.”

Jackson kisses my temple. “I won’t be long. Don’t steal my girl.”

“You look stunning,” Taylor says as he takes Jackson’s place.

“Thank you. You’re looking mighty fine yourself.”

He holds me closer than he did his date, but not in a way that will make people talk. Most know he and Jackson are best friends. What they don’t know is how much in love they are with each other. I’m the beard, and I’m okay with that. They’re both good men.

While Jackson has the preppy blond Ken look down, Taylor is more serious and stoic. His dark hair has a few streaks of silver on the side, which he does nothing to hide. At forty, he looks amazing, and he catches just as many looks as Jackson. They’re a beautiful couple, inside and out.

“How are you holding up? This has to be a lot on you.” He moves us around the dance floor seamlessly.

Where Jackson likes to cut loose at bars, Taylor was made for ballroom dancing.

“I won’t be in as much debt once I’m Mrs. Jackson Bankes.”

“You’ve never cared about money before.”

“I’ve never been in this much debt before.”

“You don’t have to do this, Riley.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of it?”

“No. But I don’t want you to be a martyr either. I love Jackson, but that doesn’t mean I agree with him all the time.”

Taylor’s made it clear how he feels about this situation. They both have enough money to retire today and live comfortably for the rest of their lives. But they’re also both workaholics and would go crazy without working a sixty-hour week.

“I’m not going back on my word.”

“Anything you need, anything , you ask, and we’ll make it happen.”

“Anything, hm?” I grin up at him. “Kendall keeps talking about taking a trip to New York City. I hear the dance clubs are amazing.”

“I’ll gladly escort you two.”

“That’s not the anything I was thinking about.”

He breathes in deep and lets out a sigh. “Me making a fool of myself on a dance floor is your idea of fun?”

“After you’ve had a dozen Jell-o shots, you’ll think it fun too.”

Taylor chuckles. “Doubtful.”

We stay on the dance floor for another three songs until Jackson comes over and calls it a night. Taylor gives me a brotherly kiss on the top of my head while he and Jackson do the best friend handshake-hug they have mastered for public appearances.

Twenty minutes later, we’re back at my apartment and I’m already changed into sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt, curled into my favorite corner of the couch while Jackson makes us snacks in the kitchen. Popcorn and wine are our go-to after schmoozing with his people.

He’s shucked his coat and tie and his sleeves are rolled up, exposing his defined forearms. If only I was attracted to Jackson, and if only he wasn’t gay, we could both have our happiness. He plops himself on the other end of the couch and reaches for my ankles, yanking them onto his lap.

“How long are you going to keep your secret from me?” He presses his thumbs into the arch of my foot and I let out a low moan. Anytime I go out as his plus one and wear heels, he treats me with a massage. “And no distracting me with those sexual noises. Spill the beans, Riles.”

“Like my moans are distracting to you.”

“They make me think of Taylor waiting for me at home. If you weren’t holding out on me, I’d have dumped your cute little ass at the door and would be in my bed wrapped around my boyfriend instead of rubbing your feet.”

“Cry me a river. You see him every night.” They each own a penthouse on the top floor of their building and typically stay at Jackson’s.

“Stop distracting me, woman.” He drives his knuckle into my arch and I tense.

“Ouch. Stop being mean.”

“Stop getting fucked by a stranger and not telling your best friend about it.”

“Freaking Kendall.”

“Freaking Kendall, who is about to knock you down from my best friend status.” He takes my other foot and rubs it. “Why didn’t you tell me your hunk of junk showed up at work last week?”

“Hunk of junk?”

“According to my new best friend, Kendall, yes. Tell me how he ended up there. I thought you didn’t exchange numbers, unless you’ve been lying to your future husband?”

I close my eyes and tip it back on the arm of the couch. “We didn’t. I mentioned Boston Strong and I guess he remembered.”

“You guess he remembered.” He tickles my foot and I pull it back. “Honey, you rocked his world in the sack. More than that, you’re a beautiful, sweet, intelligent woman. Of course he was enamored.”

“I was a booty call.”

“Your booty is stunning, but I doubt that’s why he remembered where you worked.”

“Maybe,” I sigh and curl my knees to my chest.

“Why the long face?”

Where do I start? That I finally found the man of my dreams, but I can’t pursue a relationship with him because I’m engaged to another? Or that he lives three thousand miles away and I’m not interested in an only sexual relationship? Or that I’ve lied by omission to a man who has been nothing but kind and caring to me? Or that we had unprotected sex—twice—and I’m not even mad about it?

“I’m just tired. Work is stretching me thin and wreaking havoc on my brain cells.”

“It’s your stubborn pride that won’t let you accept financial support until we’re married. I can write a check right now and pay your rent for the rest of the year. And next. And the next.”

“It feels wrong.”

“Your morals and high standards are commendable but ridiculous. Let me at least give you a hefty donation for the 5K.”

I tilt my head and narrow my eyes at him. “Like you haven’t already.”

“You said you’d chop off my balls if I threw my money at you. My balls are as precious to me as your pride is to you.”

“You didn’t accidentally donate fifty thousand dollars?”

“Accidentally?” He coughs. “It may be a drop in the bucket for me, but it’s not a small chunk of change I’d accidentally do anything with.”

“Honestly?”

“Don’t ever question my honesty to you, Riles.” He leans forward and raises his brow at me. “You’re telling me you snagged a fifty K donation? That’s fucking huge!”

Jackson jumps off the couch and leans over me, smacking a loud kiss on my lips. “You did it, honey. All on your own. Swear on my Tom Ford and Tag Heuer collection, I had nothing to do with it.”

“And you didn’t tell any of your rich friends to make a pity donation?”

“A. No. And B, it shouldn’t matter where the donation comes from. It’s for the kids.”

True. And I haven’t minded him donating to the events that raise money for the kids, but he’s never given fifty thousand dollars. I’m sure if I asked Jackson for that much, he’d give it to me without question. That’s not how I roll though.

“You had banged-hard-against-the-wall-sex and got a fifty K donation. The only thing that would make this better is if you got knocked up and had quadruplets like you’ve always wanted.”

“I’ve never wanted quadruplets. I wanted four kids.”

“I’ll be a terrible father, but a kick ass uncle. Did you and hung-like-a horse use protection or did you let him ride you bareback?”

“I never said he was hung like a horse.” I don’t mention we had sex without protection. It was only for a minute, and Walker pulled out. The evidence of him doing so in time was smeared all over my stomach.

My cheeks burn at the memory.

“Those purty cheeks of yours say he is. Good for you.” He polishes off his wine and kisses the top of my head. “Speaking of stallions, I’ve got mine waiting at home. Enjoy yourself guilt free, Riles. You’ve sheltered yourself for too long. Be wild and reckless. It looks good on you.”

My cell lights up on the coffee table and Jackson glances over at it.

“Oh God?” He picks up my phone and tries to open the text but doesn’t know my passcode.

“Give that to me.” I snag my phone from his hands.

He gives me a shit eating grin. “Tell me that’s him.” I glare at him and he bends over laughing.

“I’m second guessing my best friend status as well. You and Kendall are not good influences.”

He stands and wipes the tears from his eyes. “Is that what you call him when you—”

“Shut it.” I chuck a pillow at him.

“So you did exchange numbers,” he says with a grin.

“The other day. I haven’t talked with him since.” I promised myself I wouldn’t call or text him. It would only send mixed signals.

I tried not to be upset that he hadn’t messaged me. Until now. Why is our timing always off? The right thing to do is ignore him. It’s not right to pursue a relationship, even a long distance one, when I’m going to be married in a month. Even if my future husband approves, I don’t think Walker will.

Jackson shrugs on his coat. “Love ya, babe. Four weeks until you're my Mrs. Keep sowing those oats and make me proud.”

After he leaves, I crawl into bed with my book and charge my phone, setting it on my bedside table. I’m two paragraphs into my book when my phone vibrates. There’s no way I can focus on the storyline or the characters when I have Walker’s name lighting up my screen.

Or rather, God’s.

I put my book down and pick up my phone, reading the two messages he sent.

OH, GOD: The bruises on my hips have gone away. I’m a little sad about it.

OH GOD: That’s a lie. I’m a lot sad about it.

I should pretend to be asleep, it is almost midnight, and return his text in the morning when he’ll be asleep. I don’t often have my phone on me at work and can use that as an excuse as to why I don’t respond right away.

Unfortunately, the champagne from the party and the glass of Chablis I had on my couch have me tapping the keypad on my phone.

ME: Bruises?

There. I kept it simple. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t tell him how much I miss him and that I go to bed every night thinking about him. Or how I can still taste his kisses. Or how I can’t look at the table in my office without thinking about him between my legs. His mouth. His fingers. His delicious cock.

OH GOD: Your heels dug a little deep. I liked that you marked me.

I gasp and fan myself with my hand. This man burns me up inside and out. We were quick and rough in my office, and I liked it too. He didn’t mark me last week, but he did last month. I don’t know how anyone could have the amount of sex we had, in all the positions, with all the thrusting, and not leave the hotel room unmarked.

I was thankful it was cold out and I had a reason to wear hoodies all the time. My hips, thighs, and breasts had faint bruises where he had loved me. Marked me. Never hurt me.

How the hell do I respond to his text? I can’t lead him on, but I can’t be standoffish either. I’m not a bitch. I’m no good at this. Kendall is the queen of brushing off men, but if I tell her about these messages, she’ll only encourage me to sext Walker and send naked selfies.

I decide to be honest.

ME: I’m not sure how to respond to that.

OH GOD: You can say, “You’re welcome.”

ME: You’re welcome.

I hit send and reread my message. Short and to the point, but read with the wrong tone, it could sound bitchy. I curl my bottom lip between my teeth and tap out another response.

ME: I’m sorry as well. That the bruises are gone.

There. Polite. Not leading him on. Not sexual but not bitchy. Maybe a tad funny.

OH GOD : Does that mean you plan on marking me again? Because I’m okay with that.

Now I’m in trouble. But we’re three thousand miles apart. There’s nothing wrong with a little text flirting. I won’t do it often. Just tonight. Then I’ll politely ghost him. If that’s possible. I’ll figure out a way.

I miss him too much and am a little tipsy, so I ignore my voice of reason and play along.

ME: Where would you like me to mark you?

Shit. Did I really just hit send?

OH GOD: Anywhere.

OH GOD: Everywhere.

OH GOD: Yes.

OH GOD: Does that make me sound desperate?

ME: Not at all. It makes me feel desirable.

OH GOD: Sweetheart. You’ve witnessed first hand how fucking desirable I think you are. Don’t ever doubt yourself.

ME: I liked being marked by you too.

OH GOD: Can you hear me groan right now? If I wasn’t afraid of scaring you off, I’d tell you how hard I am right now.

ME: I’m not scared.

OH GOD: Are you wet?

I bite my lower lip.

ME: Drenched.

I slide my hands under the elastic band of my sweats and stroke my finger through my wetness. I’m soaked with desire.

OH GOD: Fuck.

He doesn’t say anything else, and I continue to pleasure myself, picturing his beautiful eyes, his strong arms, his amazing tongue. I find release too soon and pull my hand from my pants as I sink into my pillow.

My heartbeat is still coming down when I lift my phone, sad to see he hasn’t texted anything else. I go to the bathroom and wash my hands. When I’m back under my covers, I see another text from him.

OH GOD: Sorry. Hard to text left handed when my right hand was busy thinking of you. TMI? If so, ignore and carry on.

ME: I was busy too. All better now.

Three dots appear and disappear over and over again until my screen finally lights up with a message.

OH GOD: Sweet dreams, Riley.

My dreams are anything but sweet. Torturous. Sexual. Passionate. And Walker is the star.