2. Money is no Problem

CHAPTER TWO

Money is no Problem

I thought I built the Pinnacle Hotel up in my head. It couldn't possibly have been that grand. No. Somehow, it's even more luxurious. Gorgeous opulence and old-world charm combine with just a hint of modernity in its sleek screens.

This is the kind of place I would dream about coming to.

That is, if I were coming for any other reason than finding a man to sleep with, so I can pay for my textbooks.

Again.

Except this time there won't be any lying, betraying backstabbing professor to take my virginity and give me the most incredible orgasm of my life. No, this time, there's going to be some random old guy, and you know what?

"This is for the best," I say, hoping I sound confident.

Daisy surveys the small crowd of elegantly dressed people. "What is?"

"This whole prostitution thing."

A woman with white hair in abundant curls piled on her head looks askance as she walks by. Oops. I probably shouldn't have used that word out loud. Daisy snort-laughs.

"I mean, it's for the best that I have sex with someone else."

Daisy glances back. "And why's that?"

"So that I can move on." It's time that I learned how to get on in this world and stop believing in fairy tales. Like the fact that a handsome older wealthy man like Professor William Stratford might be interested in little Anne Hill.

"Ah." Daisy gives me an enigmatic Mona Lisa smile.

"You don't believe me."

"What I believe doesn't matter."

"Fine. I'll prove it to you."

I hop onto one of the brass and velvet stools as a bartender approaches. "Give me one shot of whatever you have that will get me drunk. Gin, rum, spades—"

"That's a card game, not a liquor." Daisy sits beside me.

"Whatever. I just need it to be cheap. "

"Coming right up," the bartender says.

"Are you sure about this?" Daisy asks. "You haven't drunk enough to have tolerance for liquor."

"Of course I am. I'm serious about doing it, which means I need something to help me through. Ideally, I won't even remember this."

The shot arrives, clear liquid that could honestly be water in a little crystal glass. I hold my breath the way Professor Stratford taught me to. I still remember his velvet voice telling me it's the air that makes it burn.

I put the glass to my lips and tip my head back. It slides down my throat without a burn. Nice. I hold my breath for one more second.

And then finally take in a gulp of air.

There's a slight burn, but not nearly as much as there would be if I'd breathed normally. Though… Wow, that aftertaste. It's not good. It's kind of like I mixed the cleaner I used to clean my parents' house with the bayou where the industrial compound dumps its waste.

"Another," I say, flagging down the bartender. "Give me another one." Another clear liquid shot arrives. How easy.

I drink it carefully, cringing at the taste.

"This is gonna end horribly," Daisy says .

"Another round," I say, but the bartender is busy on the other side. "Another drink. Seriously, where is this guy? I need another drink. I would give all of my fame for a pot of ale and safety! "

Daisy snorts. "You don't have any fame."

"Well, I don't need that much ale."

"If you're quoting Shakespeare, you're already drunk enough."

"I can quote Shakespeare when I'm very, very sober."

The bartender finally returns.

"Another," I say.

"Water," Daisy says. "She'll have water."

The bartender unfortunately listens to her, not me.

"Daisy. I need to take this seriously."

"I believe you, but clients don't tip nearly as well if you vomit on them."

"Holy shit. This is the best water I've ever had."

"Oh my God. We're so screwed."

We're approached by a man in a rumpled business suit. I give him a vague smile, sure that he's here for Daisy, who, as usual, looks like a bombshell. Daisy has to nudge me hard, her elbow in my ribs, before I realize he's speaking directly to me .

"You from around here?" he asks.

"Not really," I say, drawing out the words, trying to think of a lie that sounds cute and flirty and not like I'm awkward as hell. "I'm just here for the night."

"Me, too." A smile softens his severe face.

It's a handsome face.

If I were a 60-year-old woman, that is.

The wrinkles are a lot to take in. I don't think that I'm ageist or anything, but it's different when I'm thinking of going to bed with a stranger. His hair is completely gray, a little silver on the sides. That could make him look dashing, but the stain on his tie ruins the effect.

I tell myself it doesn't matter.

"So what do you do?" This is definitely not the conversation Daisy would make, but she's not helping me at all. And this guy, for some reason isn't on her side of the bar.

No, he's over by me, leaning close, looking down my dress.

This isn't one that I borrowed from Daisy, which means that it actually covers up the girls. The deep V-neck still gives him enough to appreciate. At least that's what I'm assuming, by the way he's been staring at my rack since he got here .

I picked out this little number at Goodwill when I was buying jeans to replace the ones stained with coffee from the diner. The dress was a splurge. A completely unnecessary purchase. It has a spare, elegant top part made of blue silk and a thigh-hugging asymmetrical bottom with large ruffles.

I won't admit to anyone, least of all myself, that I imagined myself wearing this on a date with someone like Professor Stratford. No, not someone like him. Exactly him. The version of him that I believed I knew. Before the night I found out everything was a lie.

Now I'm wearing the dress to have sex with someone.

That should properly destroy any latent fantasies.

"Oh, business analysis and consulting," he says, which tells me nothing. That's the point, I presume, but it also doesn't leave me much to make conversation with. "Crunching numbers."

I force myself to smile. "You must be tired after all that work."

That seems to be all the invitation he needs, and he leans in close.

Close enough that I can smell the sour whiskey on his breath .

"Not too tired to get to know you. You look absolutely ravishing, my dear. A truly beautiful young woman."

I feel my cheeks heat. Why do the words seem so freaking inappropriate coming out of his lips? His wrinkled, eighty-year-old lips? Actually, I have no idea how old he is. I am not good at guessing people's ages, but I can't hold back a small, visceral shudder.

"Thank you?" I manage to squeak out. I go for a sip of water to clear my throat.

"You remind me of my granddaughter."

That sip of water sprays all over him as I try not to choke to death at the shock of hearing those words. "Excuse me," I say, gasping. "Something got caught in my throat."

I take the napkin Daisy thrusts at me, my hands trembling as I dab at the man's shirt, now speckled with my misdirected sip of water. "I am so sorry," I murmur, heat rising to my cheeks, not just from embarrassment but from the sheer discomfort of the situation.

To my surprise, he doesn't react with irritation or dismissal. Instead, there's a flicker of amusement in his eyes, as if he finds me endearing. Maybe it's because his granddaughter shares these same awkward traits. The thought churns my stomach, a queasy reminder of the bizarre compliment he paid me moments ago.

"Don't worry about it," he assures me, his voice a soothing balm that does nothing to ease the unease twisting inside me. There's a warmth to it, a gentleness that's almost paternal—grandfatherly, even. Yet, his smile now carries an edge that feels unsettling, like a shadow passing over a sunlit room. I never knew my grandparents, but part of me wishes they could have been as kind and understanding as he appears to be.

I'm gonna throw up.

"It was a surprise," he continues, seemingly oblivious to my inner turmoil. "What I said. I understand that. It's…" He hesitates, as if sifting through a mental thesaurus for the most precise term. "A little taboo."

A little taboo. His words echo in my mind, a gross understatement that barely scratches the surface of this interaction. A little taboo is the sort of thing you whisper about in hushed tones, like a forbidden romance with someone off-limits, like your supervisor at the coffee shop. That's a little taboo . But this? This is a plunge into uncharted waters, murky and deep with undercurrents I'm not sure I want to understand.

"Yeah," I force out, my voice barely above a whisper. "That's what I meant. Taboo." I offer him a weak smile, hoping it will suffice as a period at the end of this uncomfortable sentence. But as his gaze lingers on me, I can't shake the feeling that this conversation is far from over.

"Taboo can be fun. You don't mind, do you?"

The question hangs in the air like a challenge, and I feel my heart pounding in my chest, a frantic rhythm that matches the chaotic whirl of the hotel bar around us. I send Daisy a glance over my shoulder that I'm sure is wild-eyed. We didn't come up with an emergency messaging protocol, but I'm pretty sure she'll understand this one. It means, please make this stop. But Daisy's face is a mask of calm, her blue eyes unreadable as she sips her drink, her attention seemingly focused on the jazz band playing in the corner.

He takes my hands in his, and oh God, his fingers, they're so cold. Is he dying? Is he already dead? It's possible I shouldn't have had that second shot. The alcohol was meant to be a social lubricant, not a gateway to my own personal hell. "I would love to go upstairs with you," he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine. "I'm going to call you Jasmine. And you're gonna call me Grandpa."

Oh my God. My mind races, trying to find a way out of this, but my throat constricts, rendering me mute. This isn't what I signed up for. This isn't the kind of taboo I've whispered about in hushed tones with Daisy during late-night study sessions.

"Of course," Daisy says from behind, giving my hip a little squeeze that he can't see. Even without an established emergency messaging protocol, I can tell it means, suck it up because you came here to do a job. "It will cost extra."

"The money is no problem," he assures us, a sly grin spreading across his weathered face.

Oh great. The money is no problem. Meanwhile, I have to learn to say, Yes, Grandpa, give it to me harder , in the time it's going to take the elevator to bring us up to a room that feels as confining as a prison cell.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. The thought of escaping into the pages of a Shakespeare play is tempting, but I'm here, trapped in a reality that's slipping further away from the academic dreams that brought me to Tanglewood University. Kill me now, I think, but then I remember why I'm here.

The textbooks, the tuition, the chance to break free from the oppressive chains of my past—it's all riding on this moment. I have to be strong, for Daisy, for myself.

I have to survive this night.

I vaguely sense that Daisy is negotiating some insanely high price for the privilege of having sex with someone who looks like his relative. I can't really understand what they're even saying, because my ears are ringing.

"Let's go," he says, tugging me gently from the stool.

Unfortunately, I'm short, which means I can't glide gently from this height. Instead, I tumble awkwardly, trying to keep my legs together so I don't flash the entire bar. I land splattered against him. And I can feel that he's already hard through his slacks.

Oh God.

"Oh no, did you hurt yourself? We'll go to my room. I'll take care of you."

"I don't think so," comes another voice, this one lower and somehow more powerful even without a body to match it to.