Claim Me(43)

I’m not at all certain what Damien would have been doing in a junkyard, but it takes no effort whatsoever to imagine his determination. What Damien wants, Damien gets, be it a classic car, a Santa Barbara hotel, or me.

I run my finger over the varnished surface of the desk, the motion reminding me of my earlier whimsy. “You don’t happen to have a paper and pen up there, do you?”

“Certainly,” Edward says. He leans over and pulls something out of the glove box, then passes a folio back to me. I open it and find a fountain pen and heavy linen stationery monogrammed with DJS—Damien’s initials.

I hesitate. I hadn’t really expected that Edward would have the things I asked for, and now that I’m faced with the prospect of putting my thoughts on paper, I am suddenly tongue-tied. Or finger-tied, as the case may be.

But this is too sweet an opportunity to squander, so I draw a breath, put the nib of the pen on the paper, and begin to write.


My very dear Mr. Stark,

Before I met you, I never gave any thought to the sensual nature of an automobile. But now, once again, I am surrounded by soft leather, snug in the warm embrace of this graceful, powerful vehicle. It is heady stuff, and I—



I continue to write, pouring out my teasing phrases through the intimate flow of ink onto paper. As I watch my precise handwriting fill the page, I almost regret the tech revolution. How wonderful to have received a letter from a lover. To open it and see his heart on the page, his handwriting bold and strong. There’s an immediacy to texts and emails that can’t be denied, but the intimacy of a letter really can’t be replicated.

By the time Edward pulls up in front of the condo that I share with Jamie in Studio City, I have finished the note. I fold it neatly, slide it into the matching envelope I find in the folio pocket, seal it, and print my return address on the top left corner. I realize then that I don’t know the street address of Damien’s Malibu house. Odd, considering how much time I’ve been spending there. But it doesn’t matter. The letter will reach him just as easily at his office building, which is also where his downtown apartment is located. I print his name and address neatly across the center of the envelope:


Damien Stark, CEO

Stark International

Stark Tower, Penthouse

S. Grand Avenue

Los Angeles, CA 90071



I can’t remember the street number for the tower, but under the circumstances I imagine that the post office can deal. I find a stamp in my wallet and affix it to the envelope. Then I slip out of the car and smile at Edward. “I need to shower and change and grab a few things. I might be a while.”

“That won’t be a problem,” he says, and as I head toward the stairs, he slips back behind the wheel.

I feel absolutely no guilt whatsoever about my plan. Edward undoubtedly has an audiobook, and it’s not as if he needs to go back to Malibu in order to drive Damien around. By the time he realizes that I have snuck down the back stairs to my own car, I imagine he’ll have gotten in quite a bit of quality time with whatever book he’s enjoying.

I slide the letter through the outgoing mail slot before I hurry up the stairs to the condo, calculating the time I have to shower and change and get to the office. Traffic was worse than Edward had expected—there was a wreck on the 405—and I am going to be more rushed than I’d intended. I know I could have simply worn one of the zillion outfits that Damien has stocked for me, but this new job is my territory. And silly or not, I want to wear my own clothes and drive my own car.

I expect to find the door unlocked, because Jamie never remembers to lock the damn thing, so I’m surprised to find both the dead bolt and the knob locked up tight.