Trillion(30)

TREY WESTCOTT: So she could talk some reason into you and tell you what a horrible mistake you’re making.

SOPHIE BRISTOL: You don’t know her. She’d probably give me a gold medal for saying no. I’m one hundred percent positive she would be against your proposal.

TREY WESTCOTT: Give me an hour of her time and I promise I can change her mind.

SOPHIE BRISTOL: Your confidence is impressive, but you have no idea what you’re up against. If you think I’m a hard sell, wait until you meet her.

TREY WESTCOTT: So you’re saying I can meet your mother?

SOPHIE BRISTOL: I didn’t mean it like that … it’s a figure of speech.

My cheeks ache, and it takes me a second to realize I’m grinning.

Weird.

And more importantly, why?!

I wipe the ridiculous smile off my face and check my email in an attempt to distract myself with actual work. Despite seeing him in a new light yesterday, my answer is still no. Friendly conversation isn’t going to persuade me otherwise.

TREY WESTCOTT: Fine.

TREY WESTCOTT: What are you doing tomorrow night?

SOPHIE BRISTOL: Meeting some Basics at Starbucks for our weekly meeting.

TREY WESTCOTT: Liar.

SOPHIE BRISTOL: ;-)

It doesn’t matter how much my brain screams at me to disengage with this man, my fingers type lightning-fast responses before I have a chance to talk myself out of them.

TREY WESTCOTT: Come over. We can hang out. As friends.

The offer is tempting. I secretly enjoyed last night. That and his place is amazing and I haven’t seen a fraction of it. Not to mention, I’m only human and his attention is gratifying …

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t having a little bit of fun with all of this. I imagine myself old and gray, playing bridge in some Floridian retirement village and telling my friends about that time in my twenties when I was relentlessly pursued by a trillionaire.

SOPHIE BRISTOL: What time?

I bury my face in my hands, shaking my head because I know better.

Last week one of my friends told me I was in a slump. She insisted I remedy that with a weekend of casual sex with her hot neighbor who keeps asking for my number. But I don’t know … this sounds more appealing in its own weird way.

Not saying I’m going to hook up with Trey. But sometimes the fantasy of hooking up with someone is the best part of getting to know them. I have no shame in dirty little daydreams …

TREY WESTCOTT: I’ll send someone to pick you up at seven.

For the remainder of the afternoon, concentration evades me and getting into my work flow is impossible.

It’s the strangest thing, but I can’t get Westcott out of my head.

His honesty is refreshing.

His tenacity, flattering.

As long as we don’t detour off the friend track, nothing should go wrong.





Twenty-Two





Sophie

Past



I slip my shoes on and tie my server apron around my waist Friday night. I’m seconds from bolting out the door when my mom stops me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asks.

I turn. “Work …”

“That’s funny. I ran into your manager at the pharmacy earlier today and she told me you quit your job months ago.” Her gaze falls to my apron. “So then I called Stacia’s parents. They said they can’t remember the last time you stayed the night, so where have you been running off to every weekend?”

My heart ricochets and warmth crawls up my neck.

This moment was inevitable, but I didn’t expect it tonight.

“You better have a damn good reason for lying to me.” My mom never swears. This isn’t going to go well.

I don’t know where to begin.

“Sit.” She points to the worn pleather sofa in our tiny living room. “And take your shoes off. You’re not going anywhere.”

In thirty minutes, Nolan’s going to be waiting for me outside The Crystal Menagerie restaurant on Freeborn Street.

With her hands resting firmly on her bony hips, she peers down her nose. For a petite woman, she’s got a menacing presence.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” I say.

“And who might that be?” She lifts a brow, head cocked.

“His name is Nolan.”

Frowning, she asks, “And why haven’t you told me about him?”

I bury my face in my hands, breathing through my fingers. “Because he’s older.”

“How much older?”

“In his forties.” He looks younger, though I don’t say that because I doubt it would matter. All she’s going to focus on is that number.

Mom gasps. “Sophie.”

I can’t look at her.

“He gives me money.” I realize how it sounds the moment the words leave my lips. “So I don’t have to work. He’s very generous. I’ve been paying some of Emmeline’s medical bills—”

“Oh my god.” She clamps a hand over her mouth. “Are you sleeping with him?”

I don’t answer, which is apparently an answer in and of itself because now she’s pacing the room, mumbling under her breath.

“Do you know what an escort is?” she asks.