Claim Me(59)

“Turns out he was motivated by the fact that you were cold and he was nice.”

“And your point?”

“Do you like the bed?” she asks.

“I love it,” I admit.

“Does Damien know you love it?”

“Sure.”

“So there you go. You like the bed. Damien likes you—understatement of the year, but there you have it. I’m sure that when you move in, you can take the bed back there with you.”

“When I move in?” The idea is both terrifying and exciting.

“That’s what you want, right? Not that I’m trying to kick you out, but a girl’s gotta face reality.”

Yes, I almost say, but then I close my mouth and start over. “It’s too soon to even think about that.”

“Shit, Nik. You want it. Own it.”

“Fine,” I say. “I want it. But leaping into things that we want isn’t always the best course of action. Sometimes, a little thought and discretion make a lot of sense.”

“This isn’t about me,” she says, totally catching on to the way I’ve shifted the subject.

I sigh. “Maybe it should be. You’re not exactly one to be giving relationship advice.”

“True. But you asked. So which one of us is the idiot here? Besides,” she continues as I stifle a grin, “maybe I’m turning over a new leaf. Monogamy can be fun. I mean, I can’t imagine getting tired of Raine.” Her face turns dreamy. “Actually, after last night I don’t think I can imagine Raine getting tired.”

I laugh, but have to silently admit that I know the feeling.

“So I keep the bed?”

“Hell, yes, you keep the bed. For that matter, keep it in the living room for a day or so. Margarita sleepover tonight after shopping?”

“With movies?”

“Nothing sappy,” she says. “I’m not in the mood to cry. Action. I want to see shit being blown up.”

And right then, that sounds like a pretty damn perfect evening to me.





9


After stuffing our faces at Haru Sushi & Roll Cafe and emptying our wallets at the Beverly Center, Jamie and I settle in with a blender full of tequila, frozen limeade, and just a splash of Cointreau. We already had sake with dinner, and we’re both tipsy enough to sing along with the Christmas-themed rap song at the beginning of Die Hard.

We’re right at the point when Bruce Willis is making fists with his toes in the bathroom when Jamie’s phone rings. She glances at it, then squeals and jumps off the bed before running to her room for privacy.

Bryan Raine, I presume.

I debate continuing with the movie—for all I know, she’s going to stay on the phone with him all night—when my own phone rings. I don’t bother looking at the screen; I just tap the button on my headset and answer the call. “Damien?”

“Are you okay?”

It takes me a minute to realize what he’s talking about. The paparazzi. “How is it you know every little thing that happens to me? Did you task a satellite? Are there tiny transmitters hidden in the clothes you’ve bought me?”




“Every person in the world with a smartphone and a social media account saw pictures of you today,” he says. “And, frankly, I like the satellite idea. I’ll get my aerospace division to look into that.”

“Great.”

“I asked you a question, Nikki. Are you okay?”

I want to snap at him for not giving me credit for taking care of myself, but the worry in his voice is genuine. So I say simply, “Yes. I’m fine.”