by Lindsey Hart
“Maybe I was trying to see if I could give you cooties.” Sutton blushes, but she picks up the menu and pretends to be nonchalant. I give her props for her supreme control. If I was in her place, I think I’d be a raging mess. Right. Not like I’m not already. Then she continues, “Anyway, I would have been happy with a burger and fries. You didn’t have to break the bank.”
“I have money to spare.”
“I know. You always stay in the best of everything. First-class ticket. Suites at hotels. I know even your suits cost over three grand a piece, and you have them specially tailored to you. I also know your shoes are obscenely expensive. Everything you own is expensive. Why not eat at a place that costs a hundred dollars for a plate too?”
“It does not cost—”
Sutton thrusts the menu at me. She has her thumb on one of the appetizer items. Steak. Just the steak. Ninety-eight dollars. Potatoes, vegetables, and anything else will be counted as extra. A baked potato is twenty-one dollars. Well, shit. She’s right. I can’t remember ever looking at the prices before as work dinners get paid for by the company. I just swipe my company credit card at the end of the night while Sutton takes care of the rest.
“Order your grandma a meal too. It’s on me.”
“By you, you mean the company. I’m going to have to put this through on the credit card reconciliation, aren’t I?”
“Why don’t you just let someone do something nice for you and not complain about it?”
“Because this isn’t nice!” She shuts her menu forcefully. “You aren’t doing this to be nice, and this isn’t a real date. I don’t want a two hundred dollar meal. I don’t need one, and I feel bad about the price. A meal for me and one for my grandma would cost me like a week’s salary. How do you not think about that?”
“Because I work hard so that I don’t have to.”
“But I work hard too! All day! Is the work I do, making sure you have everything you need to make you comfortable, any less important than what you do?”
“Well, in the big scheme of things…”
“Argh!” Sutton shoves the menu at me. She grabs her purse and roughly shoves back her chair.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving. I’m catching a cab. This was a stupid idea because I could never date someone like you. Fire me if you want. I can’t do it.”
I can’t just sit here after my date just left, so I rush off after her. I trail her through the restaurant, but Sutton has the advantage of being smaller than I am. She’s lithe and fast and makes quick work of the maze of the restaurant.
As I chase her out onto the street, my mother’s face flashes before my eyes. Lately, she has this look of disappointment whenever she talks to me. Well, that and hope. She’s also so damn hopeful. Like she thinks that one day, I’ll transform back into the person I was before Dad died. Before I took over the company. Before. Always before. She’s always disappointed. Disappointed in who I am…and worried. She has this look, which is a mixture of all three, and it always reminds me of how my dad would look at me if he could see me now.
Sometimes, I’m a hard pill for myself to swallow.
“Sutton!” I burst out the front door of the restaurant. At least I now have space to walk freely.
She glances over her shoulder, turns back around, and flips me a not-so-friendly bird. Her hips sway as she power walks down the sidewalk, away from me. God, she’s fast, even in those heels.
I break into a full-on run. She’s at a disadvantage since she’s not willing to attempt to outrun me in those heels and the tight dress she has on. I grab her arm, and right as our skin makes contact, my throat closes up.
Oh god. Please. Please not here.
It might be after eight and dark, but the street is busy enough. There are cars driving by and people still out walking.
“Sutton, please…” My skin breaks out into a clammy sweat, and I feel like my chest is going to implode. Fire erupts from my stomach up into my throat, and adrenaline bursts through my veins. My heart is pumping. It’s pumping really hard.
“Oh please. You think faking a panic attack is going to help you? Jesus. Haven’t you heard about the kid who cried wolf? I’m not coming to help you next time. Oh right, that’s because I quit.” She tears her hand away from me.
I hit the sidewalk hard. My knees crack at the impact, but right now, I don’t even feel the pain. I can’t breathe, not a single breath. Not. One. My throat is completely closed up, and all I can do is sputter and rasp. I put a hand over my face to shield it. I haven’t had much experience with the tabloids, but yeah, Owner of Multi-Billion Dollar Company Spazzing Out on Public Sidewalk isn’t a headline I want to read about tomorrow.
“Philippe?” There’s doubt in Sutton’s voice. I rasp out something horrible and garbled like a butchered fish flopping about on the sand in the sun. “Shit.”
She bends down, and I feel cool hands. Her hands. On my back. I’m soaked, my forehead dripping cold sweat onto the sidewalk. Can’t. Breathe. Closing. In. Everything seems like it’s ending. Black spots and white lights burst behind my eyes. I feel like they could pop out from my head. It hurts. Everything hurts. It feels like something just steamrolled over my chest. I think I can even feel my backbone in my ribs.
“He’s okay,” I hear Sutton saying. Probably to someone on the sidewalk. “Just feeling a little sick. We’ll be fine. Thank you.”
Whoever was there must have moved on because Sutton’s hand starts stroking down my back. It feels like heaven. Soothing. Amazing. “It’s okay, Philippe. I’m here. Breathe. You can do it. You know what this is. It’s a panic attack. You know what’s happening. You’ve always been okay. You just need to take a breath. Just one. In. Out. Come on.”
Her hand. Feels. So. Good. It makes me realize I can. Breathe. Suddenly, there’s air. A burst of air rushing down my throat and flooding through my nose. God, it feels so good. My lungs unclench. My backbone returns to where it belongs as my body starts to relax. I’m still sweating, though, soaking through my shirt. But it can’t be helped.
I’m a mess. Not a good, attractive mess, either. A nasty, gross, sweaty, and snotty mess.
And we’re in the middle of the sidewalk.
Before I can be totally humiliated, Sutton surprises me. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, which is a struggle for her because I’m at least three times as broad as she is, and pulls me into her chest—hiding me, letting me recover. So I won’t be embarrassed. Mortified. Humiliated.
“These have to stop,” she whispers in my ear, but there’s no judgment in her voice—just concern, and maybe a tinge of fear. Well, yeah, so I wouldn’t want to watch someone have one of these either. “Please, let me call someone. Just talk to someone.”
“And what?” I wheeze. “Go on medication and become a zombie? I can’t do that. I have a company to run.” My father’s company. I can’t fuck it up.
“No. Just talk. Sometimes, it helps. Have you always had these?”
“No.” It kills me to admit it, but I don’t think I’m capable of pulling off a spectacular lie at the moment.
“Okay. So maybe if you talk to someone, they can help you. Maybe give you some things to do to stop whatever is triggering it or try and help you deal with it when you feel it coming on. There are natural things like tea or something. I don’t know. It doesn’t always have to be drugs, though. But even if it is medication, what’s worse? That, or constantly dealing with this?”
She might have a point there. The point is, I’m scared. I don’t know what these are. I can’t control them. I can’t stop them. And I can’t. Fucking. Sleep. Properly.
“Are you okay?” She pulls away from me a little and looks down into my face. Her eyes look huge from this angle, and her lips are parted. They’re a lovely rosy pink. Beautiful.
Great. Now not only am I a gross mess, but my dick is also trying to break through my pants because she’s looking at me like she really sees me, and I’m finally seeing her, and
she’s gorgeous. I also know she’s smart, capable—no, very capable—witty, funny, and decent enough to look after my ass for years with just about no thanks at all.
“I’m sorry,” I croak. God. I haven’t said that and actually meant it in a long time.
Sutton’s face changes. She goes from worried and still a little pissed off to something else. She bites down hard on her lip, drawing my attention there. I want to do that. I want to sink my teeth there, and I want to hear her groan. Preferably my name. Christ. There really is something wrong with me. I do need professional help.
“You know, I’m hungry. I didn’t eat because I was seriously looking forward to something I didn’t have to cook myself.”
“You should have known I’d ruin it.”
She rolls her eyes, digs in her purse, and hands me a few tissues. A not so subtle reminder that I’m still leaking snot and tears and maybe even drool. I mop up my face. I’m sure I’m red after, but at least I could blame it on my own body trying to kill me.
“No. I didn’t think that. I mean, I wouldn’t have put it past you. Maybe I ruined it. I don’t know. I’m sorry I just got up and left. I’m like, really, really hungry, and I think it impeded my judgment. But I don’t want to go back in there. I really hope Janice didn’t see me. I’ll never be able to make a reservation there again.”
“Maybe we should find a new place. Clients are probably getting tired of the same thing all the time.”
Sutton’s eyes narrow. “Uh, I know a good burger place. But it’s nowhere near here.”
“Don’t worry. The car’s fast.”
“I know. And you’re not driving it.”
Now it’s my turn to do a double-take. “No. No way. You drive stick?”
“Ha! No. Not that kind. I think sports clutches are horrible. I’ve heard they are, and my regular standard driving is barely passable. Well, certainly not three hundred thousand dollars certified at least. I thought we could take a cab. Or, if you want, we could just go back to my place. I’d cook something for you.”
“Really?”
“I hope not. Granny would probably slip laxative or something into it to show you. I’m really voting for a burger here. Granny likes that place. I could get her one and bring it back. Shit. Wait. I forgot you don’t eat bread.”
“Maybe they have a gluten-free option.”
“They have really good fries. Or we could go wherever you want. Or nowhere. You probably don’t eat ice cream. Or anything normal.” She winks at me. “Seriously, Philippe. I know we’re not on good standing with each other right now, or at least I’m probably not with you, but I’m worried for real. If no one is telling you this, then I’ll tell you. I’ll be the bad guy if I have to be. Uhhh, even if I wasn’t already.”
“I have an idea, actually. We could go back to my house. Take a cab there. It’s not that far. I’ll get changed, and we’ll figure it out. Or you can take a chance by eating something barely edible from my fridge.”
“Is that my punishment?” She’s already reaching for her phone and punching in the number for a cab.
I’ve soaked through my shirt. I look like I just got into the shower, and my hair feels damp. I’m a wreck, she knows I don’t eat bread, and she’s telling me to get help because she can see I need it. She’s always looking after me even when I don’t want it.
Sutton Sethford might be the one person on earth who actually sees me. Not the me that I am not. Not the money. Not the company. Not all the blah, blah, blah bullshit layers and faces I have to put on every single day to hide the fact that at the heart of everything, I miss my dad, and I’m terrified of letting him down. Terrified of fucking up what he took a lifetime to build.
The fact that I think she gets it is even more terrifying.
CHAPTER 5
Sutton
Our cab ride takes about twenty minutes. They’re probably the worst twenty minutes of my life, and I feel like I’m on the verge of having a panic attack. Philippe sits beside me in the back seat. He takes up the whole thing, his knees practically jamming into his chest because the car is so small, but he doesn’t complain. Actually, he doesn’t say anything, and my regret mounts with every mile.
Why did I agree to go to his house?
Of course, we pull up to a gated neighborhood. There’s a passcode Philippe inserts, and then we’re in. The houses are all new—huge and extravagant million-dollar shacks, and by million, I mean not a single million. Most of these places probably cost four or five or more to build.
Philippe’s house is insane. It’s one of those modern things with angled roofs jutting out all over. It’s also painted a dark brown, so dark it almost looks black. There are big silver numbers on the front, at least a couple feet high. Also, it has a four-car garage. Not even kidding.
Philippe pays the cab driver with his credit card—probably the company card since he keeps the receipt and shoves it into his wallet. I follow him up to the front door, which is like twelve feet tall. It’s the biggest door I’ve ever seen. It’s dark, but the house is lit up with all sorts of lights from below the roofline. It illuminates a nicely manicured front lawn.
“It’s fake,” Philippe says when he sees me studying it.
“What is?”
“The lawn. It’s not real. It’s fake grass. I never have to mow it, and it stays green all year round.” His door doesn’t have a lock or a code on it. It has a thumbprint ID pad. Of course, it does.
“Uh, that’s really helpful when it’s covered in like five feet of snow. Or is it heated, and it melts the snow as it lands?”
“I never thought of that.” He pushes the huge door in, and the lights immediately come on. I’m sure he didn’t do that. There must be motion sensors or something. “It’s a good idea, though. Maybe I should invent it. The roof is heated, so the snow melts off, and the pool is heated too. Why shouldn’t the grass be?”
“You have a pool?”
“Yes. And a hot tub, a home gym, and a home theatre in the basement.”
“And in the kitchen, your oven probably takes your orders, cooks the food itself, and spits it out. And you have a robot that looks like a lady who wears a pink frilly apron to clean your house for you.”
“How did you know?” Philippe starts unbuttoning his shirt before I even have the door closed. Panic claws wildly inside of me.
“What are you doing?”
“Changing. My shirt’s soaked. It’s uncomfortable, and I probably stink. I’m embarrassed you had to share a cab home with me.”
“Yeah,” I respond sarcastically. “The poor cab driver. My nose just about dropped off along the way. Not sure how he handled it.”
Philippe’s slender and strong fingers pause on the third button. A gap of creamy skin shows through just below his throat. I swallow hard. Or at least I try. It’s kind of impossible seeing as my throat is entirely closed up. Philippe has a nice olive undertone to his skin. Over the years, I’ve noticed how he gets very tanned during the summer, but right now, the bronze hue adorning his skin is getting lighter by day as we get less sun.
He keeps working at the buttons as he walks through the house. I basically have to run to keep up. I bypass the living room, which is expansive and filled with black accents and expensive-looking leather couches. There’s a fireplace built into the wall and a huge TV above it.
The hallway opens up into a kitchen that could seriously fit a family of thirty in it. Maybe more. Who needs a kitchen this big? The fridge could probably fit at least five bodies if Philippe were so inclined. I really hope he’s not, though. Because I’m here alone.
“Make yourself at home. Raid the fridge. See if there’s anything edible in there.” Philippe punctuates that statement by turning around.
He’s done unbuttoning his shirt, and it hangs open, exposing a chest that more closely resembles titanium than actual human skin. I mean, it looks like skin. And acres and layers of muscle. It looks like he’s the robot, and whoever designed him did a really good j
ob of making him look real. All that creamy skin is real, even the carved in eight-pack abs and smattering of dark hair that circles his naval and trails lower like an arrow pointing straight down to his family treasure.
Good god, did I really just think that?
I realize I’m staring, and I might have a drool trail dribbling out of the side of my mouth, down to the floor. My eyes are probably bulging. I might look like I’ve never seen a half-naked man before.
I definitely feel like I haven’t. Not like this. No one can compare to this. Philippe without a shirt is as close to a perfect ten as it gets. All the feminine parts of myself really appreciate his eight-pack. I’m starting to wonder how it would feel pressed up against me. The whole washboard abs thing definitely applies here, and I’d like to be scrubbed like dirty sheets…
Stop. Seriously. Dirty sheets? And you thought you’d reached new lows before…
“I’m going to take a shower. You’ll be okay until then?”
“You mean, am I going to burn the place down? No, I don’t think I will. I mean, I’ve never operated an actual range grill-looking thing like that, but I think I can figure it out. If I go wrong, I’ll be sure to throw water on it, especially if it’s a grease fire.”
Philippe’s eyes narrow.
“Kidding,” I mumble. I wish I could tear my eyes away from those abs. God, who needs abs like that? He could seriously share some of them with the rest of us. He has abs to spare. Abs for days. Abs for years.
“You could always join me.”
“What?” I’m not sure if I dreamt it up in my own mind or if he really just said that.
“Also kidding,” he snorts. “Obviously. Although, if you change your mind, the shower does have two showerheads. One at each side. It’s quite a luxurious experience. It might be the best shower you’ve ever had in your life.”
“Two? That’s overkill.” I roll my eyes just so I can tear them away from those rippling, delicious, lick-worthy abs. “And it’s a hard pass. Granny was right. It’s how babies get made, and this is supposed to be fake only.”
