The First Taste(78)

“You told me he owns it.”

“He does.”

“So f*ck it. Leave it behind. You don’t owe him anything.”

She sits forward to set the mug on her nightstand, clutching the sheet to her chest. “You can’t be serious.”

I can’t be, but I am. Amelia was right that first night—sleepovers are dangerous. It was just great sex until she opened up to me, let me in, showed me her fear. And then slept in my arms. Now it’s real. And I’m more than a little uncomfortable with her living in her ex’s apartment, especially now that I know the extent of his scumbag ways. As long as she’s here, she’s still under his thumb. “Does he have a key?”

“Yes, but the doormen know—”

“Amelia, listen to me. The more I think about it, the more my skin crawls. You shouldn’t be accessible to him at all.”

“I’m not, really,” she says. “We’re only supposed to communicate through our lawyers.”

“But he showed up here recently. How’d he get past the doorman?”

She opens her mouth to respond but pauses. “I’m not sure, actually. I didn’t think about it, but Frank’s not really a fan of mine. He’d probably hand Reggie the keys.”

“Great. So your disgruntled doorman is in cahoots with your crooked ex.” I half-roll my eyes. “Look, I get it. You want to repay him for the pain he’s caused. I’m telling you—the quickest way to do that is to sever all ties, give him what he wants, and find happiness somewhere else. If he feels an ounce of love for you still, it’ll kill him. If he doesn’t, you’re better off getting out before he does even more damage.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Call your lawyer,” I say. “Tell him you’ll give up the apartment and anything else Reggie wants in exchange for regaining complete control of avec.”

“Everything?”

I kick the foot of the bed like I’m testing the air in a tire. “They’re just things, and they’re weighing you down.”

“What about alimony?”

“Do you really want his money?” I ask. “You’ve come this far. You run a successful business.”

“I want the money because he does.”

“Is it about that or about hurting him?” I ask. “If it’s the money, that’s fine, but you need to figure that out before you go any further in the process.”

She readjusts the sheet under her arms and then shakes her head. “No, it’s not about the money.”

I blow out an exhale. I can offer Amelia stability, but I’ll never hit Park-Avenue-apartment status, nor do I want to. “So,” I continue, “imagine his face when his lawyer tells him you’re willing to give up everything—including his money—just to get away from him once and for all.”

“Oh, God.” She curls her fingers into the edge of the sheet. “He’d have a coronary right there. In his world, there isn’t a person who can’t be bought. It’s just about finding the right number.”

I nod slowly. I shouldn’t be surprised she gets it—she’s a smart woman. But I’ve seen other smart women blinded by whatever it is she feels—or felt—toward Reggie. “You can’t be bought, Amelia. Teach him a lesson.”

She straightens a little, as if she needed to hear that, but why? I shouldn’t have to remind someone of her caliber of that. It lights a fire in me that after everything I’ve been trying to teach Bell, one misogynistic, entitled * could potentially destroy her with enough time and skill.

“I—where would I even start?” she asks.

“It’s New York City. You could have a new apartment squared away by the end of the weekend if you wanted. Pick out some new furniture. I’ll get the guys to move it in. Done.”

“I can’t,” she says as she shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re making it sound too easy. There’s more to it than just picking up and moving.”

I hold up my hand and count off the steps on my fingers. “One—choose a neighborhood. Two—see some places in the neighborhood. Three—pay first and last month’s rent, security, whatever. Four—I move you in.”

She opens and closes her mouth. “What would I tell Reggie?”

My jaw tenses just hearing his name. It isn’t like me to react this strongly to someone unless it involves Bell, but as we go, I’m disliking Reggie more and more. Whether or not Amelia and I move forward, I’m ready for her to be done with him. “Why do you have to tell him anything?”

“I guess I . . . don’t?” she says. “I guess I can just . . . tell my lawyer?”

“Good.” I look her over. I’m surprised it took me this long to react to the red tint of her cheeks, her hair tangled from my hands, the thin white sheet hugging her breasts. Sex. I can’t not think of it seeing her this way. I adjust myself in my underwear. “So, uh, let’s get going,” I suggest. “Because I have to pick up—”

She smiles coyly at me, beckoning me with one finger. “Come here.”

I raise an eyebrow. Even though I know I could be hard and between her legs in moments, I tease her. “Real estate talk does it for you?” I ask. “Good to know.”