The Two Week Arrangement (Penthouse Affair #1)(17)

Well, shit.

This dinner was incredibly successful on the business front. Not exactly a personal victory for the front of my pants, however. I’m still as horny as fuck, if not more than before. Goddammit.

We pull up to her apartment complex. I climb out of the car, walk around, and open her door. She quietly steps out. The distance between us is maddening, but I maintain it all the same.

“Have a good night,” she says softly, almost breathless.

Am I making you nervous, Presley?

“You’re not done with me yet.” I offer her my arm.

“Oh, I’m not—”

“Don’t worry. I just want to walk you to your door.”

“Oh. All right.” She bites her lip, stifling a soft laugh, as she loops her arm through mine.

I can’t remember the last time I walked a woman to her door. It’s certainly not something I do when I’m out with an escort. It should bother me that this feels much more like a date than It should. Presley’s my employee, for Christ’s sake. But I guess I’m still riding a high of how well she did winning over Roger.

We walk in silence up to her apartment door. It reminds me of where I lived in college, an old brick and mortar with a buzzer next to the door. Nostalgia fills me with a thousand memories of the younger me. Bold. Reckless. Carefree.

It seems like a lifetime ago.

I hold her hand up the steps until we reach the top, enjoying how soft her skin is as it rests lightly against my palm. At the door, she turns back to me. I’m on the stair below, our eyes at the same level. For a moment, we just take in the sight of each other. She really is beautiful with her high cheekbones, wide eyes, and full mouth.

“Thank you, Dominic. I had a nice time.” It’s almost a whisper. She isn’t quite looking in my eyes anymore, but rather her gaze rests on my lips.

Interesting.

“No. Thank you,” I say softly.

Her hand is still in mine, and I lift it to the lips she’s been staring at to press a chaste kiss to the back of her hand. I swear I can feel her take in a breath. With my lips still touching her, I meet her eyes.

A blush spreads across her cheeks. “See you at work,” I murmur.

Moments later, I climb into the limo. I settle into my seat, watching as Presley unlocks her apartment door and steps inside.

“Home, sir?” my driver asks.

“Yes, home.”

? ? ?

“Poke him.”

“I did.”

“Again.”

A tiny finger nudges my Adam’s apple. My eyes open, still hazy with sleep.

God, how long was I out?

I squint against the morning light streaming through my bedroom window. Lacey’s honey-colored curls float into view. She and Emilia are on their tippy-toes, reaching for me with their chubby little arms.

“You better not poke the bear,” I grumble. “In the morning, the bear is hungry!”

I launch out of bed with a growl, sending my toddlers scrambling away with yelps of joy. With the blanket wrapped around my shoulders, I stomp down the hall.

Lacey yells, “Run!” and Emilia cries out, “Hide!”

I chuckle as I follow them. God, they’re fucking cute. Even if I’m not ready to be awake yet.

They both scramble into the kitchen, hiding in plain sight under the dining table. I make an effort not to look, sniffing the air and circling around them with big, loud steps.

“Where are my little cubs? They must be so hungry . . .”

“We’re hungry! We’re cubs!”

They both crawl out from under the table, grasping at my legs. I let them pull me to the floor where I sit cross-legged and wrap them in my arms. Their familiar smell . . . their familiar weight against my chest . . . this is all I need, right here in my arms.

“You know what? You smell like . . . pancakes!” I snarl into Emilia’s neck, who screams with excitement.

Lacey’s eyes grow wide. “Pancakes!”

Pancakes, it is.

The rest of my morning will consist of making pancakes the way my mother taught me—one at a time, with a little butter in the pan. After breakfast, I’ll spend a good twenty minutes wiping maple syrup off their chins and fingers. Then when I take them to the park, Emilia will inevitably find some way to hurt herself. But that won’t be a problem, because I’ll carry her home.

After that, we’ll eat lunch. Mac and cheese, their favorite. Then it’ll be board games and a nap before dinner, and finally story time. Something about a princess, I’m sure.

It’s another full day of just another kind of work. But I wouldn’t trade it for all the free time in the world.





Chapter Eight


Presley



Poking her brush at the paper, Bianca mutters, “This looks like ass.”

I glance at her perfectly decent watercolor landscape. “Hey, you’re doing better than me. My trees clearly have some kind of disease.”

She’s always been the more artistic one. It was her idea to spend our lazy Saturday afternoon sipping cheap wine at a nearby painting studio that offers classes. Not that I objected—after the week I’ve had, the instructor’s hypnotically calm voice is more than welcome, and the act of painting is also soothing, despite how much I suck at it. Plus, Bianca’s mother bought her a gift card here last Christmas, and so this little excursion doesn’t hurt my pocketbook.