by Jane Henry
Quickly, I become lost in thought.
He wants to know more about my writing. How do I tell him the sad truth? My career was born from a lack of my own life experience.
Growing up the only child of a single mother, I was alone. A lot.
After my father left her penniless, my mother spent her days cleaning rooms at our town's only motel, The Saddle Sore. Her nights, dating different men of steadily decreasing character. I never blamed her for her abandonment—I know it came from a place of a broken heart.
Spending time in my room, I began to make up fantasies about what I wished my life looked like. Those fantasies turned to stories. I began to write them down, illustrating them with pictures.
They were funny tales of families and the scrapes they got into, big families with lots of kids. Sure, the sisters and brothers would get into fights, but at the end of the book they were always hugging, big red crayon smiles on their faces.
They ate meals together, huge home-cooked spreads that fulfilled the hunger in my belly after finishing my microwave dinner.
All the happy faces seated around the table filled the void of loneliness that ached in my chest.
Sure, I had friends growing up. But without a parent willing to drive you to the sleepovers, able to buy the birthday present for the party you were invited to, or sign you up for the soccer team, it was hard to solidify those friendships.
College was easier. I made friends, went to parties, had boyfriends. But after graduation when we all scattered, I found myself alone once again.
My childhood fantasies turned to more adult ones. My dreams of love, marriage, and a big family found its way to the pages on my computer. A big multi-generational family living on a ranch, led by a stern, loving, cowboy husband. A few months later, and I had the start of my first series.
How do I tell Darius about my pathetic, lonely life? Will he think less of me? Will he assume that the feelings I have for him are because I’m desperate to belong to someone? Assume that coming from such a modest upbringing, I’m only after his money?
If I’m honest, though? It’s more than that. What if he thinks less of me because of what I do? And, worse... what if he thinks I’m using him? I came here for inspiration, but never dreamed I’d end up with a man like him. The more I’m with him, the less I’m here for the inspiration and the more I’m here... for him.
Or will he know what I feel for him—deep within my soul—bared from the trappings of his elegant life?
Maybe on this trip, I can come clean. Tell him that I’m lonely. That I missed him that one night I went without him.
That being with him makes me realize just how alone I truly was.
For me, this is more than just a contract, a job, an adventure. For me, this is the promise of something great. This time with him could be one step towards my future.
Our future.
But he’s not a book. And talking to him isn’t putting my pen to paper. I’m not sure I have the courage to tell him how I feel.
This isn’t your usual third date with the guy you met at the coffee shop. Darius is a billionaire entrepreneur. His circle includes swanky businessmen, elegant women, and no one like me.
I walk into his lobby, oohing and ahhing over everything I see, like a little girl. What woman gets as excited as I did over a chocolate fondue fountain?
I just don’t fit into his posh world.
But then, I think of the way he looks at me when I do get overly excited, or when I’m silly, or uncouth. I even think I detected a trace of a smile.
A real one.
I’ve seen the way he treats the staff, his business partners we’ve passed in the halls. His rare smile is tight, professional, it doesn’t reach his eyes.
His trace of a smile for me is different... and I long to see what it looks like when he really smiles for me, when it lights up his whole handsome face.
A hint of hope warms my heart.
Maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance.
I jump from the bed, showering and dressing in comfy pjs. He told me he’d be late and to order up dinner for myself, so I do. Cheeseburger, French fries, and should I get that chocolate shake, nah, I order a side salad to keep things balanced.
Happy to have some time with my computer while I wait for the food to arrive, I take my laptop from my backpack, snuggling down in the covers, my head propped against the headboard.
I pull up the first few chapters I have, skimming over the words. “Hmm…not too bad.”
Thinking of the red negligee and the sex that followed, I find my fingers dancing over the keyboard, just like they used to.
I’m so lost in my book world, I startle when I hear the knock at the door. It takes me a moment to remember. “My dinner! Cheeseburger in Paradise.”
Hopping down from the bed, I rush to the door. Expecting a friendly face, I open it to reveal the pinched face of a brown-haired woman in a staff uniform. She’s tall and she looks down her nose at me as she hands me the tray. “Ms. Davis,” she says with a sniff.
“Thank you?” I take the tray from her and try to smile, but my gut feels sour.
She’s judging me. She knows I’m an escort, paid to be his company. She looks at me as if she knows just how disposable I really am to him.
I close the door without a word. Make my way to the table and set down the tray. I sit down, lifting the silver dome to reveal a mouthwatering burger.
And I can’t eat a bite of it.
How does she know my name? My stomach roils as I face the sinking realization that I’m not anonymous here. And though Darius’ driver and secretary have been more than kind, there are other people here who will not like me. Who will look down on me.
Because, let’s face it, I’m an escort.
My heart beats back my brain, telling me I’m wrong. That he cares for me. After only one night apart, he had Miranda tracking me down and bringing me back to him.
Right?
No longer able to write, I take a French fry from the plate, nibbling on the end of it. It’s hot and fresh and salty, and I think maybe I could eat just a little.
I take another French fry and pick up the remote for the television. I feel like something brainless, watching a show and not thinking. Maybe a comedy—a laugh would do me good.
The remote is extremely complicated and my degree in creative writing is no match for the plethora of buttons.
But Darius showed me how to work it before he left for the meeting, and I finally turn it on. It’s on the same station he’d been watching last. The local news.
I lift another fry, my mood elevated to the point I think I might be ready for the cheeseburger. Salad be damned—it’s not turning out to be that kind of night—I need comfort food. Feeling happy again, I swipe the fry through the little silver cup of ketchup.
I’m perfectly content save the nagging feeling that I should have ordered that chocolate milkshake.
I’m so busy with my food, I’m not really paying attention to the television.
Until I hear his name.
Fry positioned just in front of my opened jaw, I freeze.
The newscaster stares into the camera. She stands before Vegas, Baby, on the outside curb, the entrance to the hotel displayed behind her. Her hair-sprayed hair doesn’t even move with the breeze, staying perfectly coiffed as she rattles off her story. “Darius Morrow, voted as one of the most eligible bachelors in Vegas, may not be single after all. It turns out our favorite billionaire hotel and casino owner has been hiding a secret. Two, in fact. The first secret is that Mr. Morrow has become a customer of the Sugar Daddies Escort service, a local business that employs women to accompany men on dates. This escort service sets itself apart, catering to men who have a certain tendency to have their women call them… daddy. Yes, folks, you heard it here first—”
I take a huge sip of water, then set the cup down, scooping at it with my hand and splashing some on my face. “This can’t be real, this can’t be real.” But be
fore she reveals his second secret, I already know what it is.
Me.
She continues her defaming story, “Mr. Morrow’s second secret, and one that takes him off our books as an eligible bachelor is his newfound love interest, Katie Davis. This young woman is a local romance author who apparently was looking for a little romance of her own. Or just a quick buck.”
A quick buck? Who does she think she is? I remember she’s just reporting what she’s been told. Who told her about me?
She continues, her tone somber. “We have word from our source that she’s staying in this hotel,” the newscaster points up and the camera angles to the top floor, “and is a guest in Mr. Morrow’s penthouse as we speak.”
I rush to the front windows of the hotel, looking down. There on the ground, I see the news vans. The reporters. The crowds.
“Oh no! What do I do?” I look left and right at my belongings strewn across the room, my computer on the dining table. This is going to be humiliating for him. I’m his dirty little secret and now it’s out in the open. I think of how much I care for him. How much I want to be with him.
I click off the television. Slumping down in my chair, I replace the dome over the plate, the smell of food suddenly making me sick.
There’s no way he’ll want me now. I should leave. I should pack up my stuff, create a disguise, and somehow sneak out of here, saving him the pain of having to kick me out.
I want to do what’s best for him. I hate that he’s been forced into a negative spotlight because of me.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve got two heavy bags over my shoulders, my laptop in my backpack on my back. On my face I wear a massive pair of sunglasses that Darius’ fashion consultant talked me into on our shopping spree, telling me, you never know when you’ll be whisked away to somewhere sunny. On my head, I’ve got a towel wrapped like a turban.
Over my body, I’ve layered as many of the beautiful new clothes I could so I wouldn’t have to carry as much, and they’ve offered me a wonderful bulky shape to cover up my own body. On top of all that, I tie a big white bathrobe over my body.
I’ll look just like a guest leaving the spa, headed towards her room. No one will give me a second glance. My hand on the doorknob, I take one last look around the room, memorizing my temporary paradise. “Goodbye, penthouse. And goodbye, daddy.”
I open the door slowly, ready for paparazzi to pounce.
Instead, I find Darius, just about to enter the apartment. He scowls at me, and my pulse races. “Katie? Is that you under there?”
Damn. So much for sneaking out. I reach up, straightening my glasses. “Yes, it's me.”
He gives me a stern look, raising one brow. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”
He hasn’t heard yet.
And I have to be the one to break the news.
“The hotel is surrounded by news cameras. There’s been a story. One about you and me and—”
He cuts off my words, taking the heavy bags from my shoulders. “I know. That’s why I’ve come back up so soon, to check on you. Let’s get you into the room.”
His arm is heavy around my shoulders, grounding me.
He takes me into the bedroom, unwrapping the towel from my head. Taking the sunglasses from my face. Helping me out of the many layers of clothing as he carefully hangs them back up in the closet. “Where were you going?”
His eyes flash at me.
“I don’t know. I just thought you’d want me out of here when the story broke. I didn’t want to cause more trouble for you.”
“You weren’t leaving because you didn’t want to have anything to do with me now that that world knows?” he asks.
What? Why would I do that? All I want to do is be in his arms. I shake my head. “No. No way. I just… couldn’t imagine what stress this story was going to cause you and I assumed you wouldn’t want me here—”
He stops my words with a finger over my lips. “Assumptions are dangerous, little girl. Be sure not to make them. Especially ones about the way I feel about you.”
And his lips are on mine.
His kiss is reassurance, comfort, and passion.
It is not the kiss of a man who’s indifferent.
In this moment, in this embrace, my doubts melt away. I know he has feelings for me.
And that I want to stay beside him, as long as he will let me.
But I can’t.
Because deep, deep down I know—what’s best for him, is if I disappear.
With me gone, he can save his reputation. Deny the affair. Pretend I never existed.
As soon as he’s asleep, I’ll creep out of this hotel. Find a place to stay for a few days. Lay low, write my novel. He may look for me at my apartment, but he’s a busy man, and now with damage control to do, he’ll forget about me soon.
He has me finish my meal, reassuring me all along his publicist is working on a plan. That this will all blow over. That I will not be a detriment to his career.
But his face is lined with worry, his gaze heavy.
We lie down, both exhausted from the day. His arm wraps around me tightly, pulling me against his chest. Soon, his breaths are slow, even. He’s asleep.
And I’m leaving.
Picking up his hand, I gently move his arm from my torso.
He gives a grunt, the arm automatically returning.
I wriggle down, trying to escape by going underneath his heavy limb. It works. I shimmy off the end of the bed, tiptoeing to the closet to get dressed.
He’s a heavy sleeper. The sun will rise before he realizes I’m gone.
As I'm slipping on my shoes, I freeze. He’s murmuring my name.
“Katie. My Katie Kat.”
I look over my shoulder, half expecting to find him awake, resting on one elbow, watching me dress.
He’s still fast asleep. He’s mumbling my name in his dreams.
He dreams of me.
Tucking the bittersweet knowledge into my heart, I grab the only real thing of value, my backpack with my laptop, and one bag with my clothes and toiletries, and I make my way to the bedroom door. I see a notepad on his desk and scrawl a quick note.
Giving him one last glance over my shoulder.
My dream daddy. I leave the penthouse, the front door closing behind me without a sound.
Chapter 10
Darius
I turn over in my sleep, but something’s off. I reach my hand out to feel Katie but find the bed strangely empty. I open my eyes, fully awake now, and look around the room for her. Is she in the bathroom? But no, I don’t see her there either.
“Katie?” I sit up in bed, concerned now. Something was off last night, I know it. I throw off the covers and walk out to the living room in my boxers, scrubbing a hand through my hair while I look over to the hot tub, the kitchenette, the dining room table, as if she’ll miraculously appear out of thin air.
I open the bathroom door and call her again, and it isn’t until I get back to the living room that I see a little slip of paper on the side table.
Dear Darius,
I hate that I’ve brought so much trouble to you. I shouldn’t have done this. I’ve contacted Miranda and told her I didn’t fulfill my end of the contract, so you don’t have to pay me. I enjoyed our time together… more than you’ll ever know.
Katie
She’s gone?
There’s a big puffy heart next to her name, as if she’s sending me a message or something.
This is not happening. I’ll have her back here and over my knee as soon as possible. How could she try to pull something like this?
I call her cell, but it goes straight to voicemail. Not a surprise.
Fuck the contract. Fuck the money, and the media, and anyone and everything that’s holding me back from her. I can’t believe she thought so little of herself that she thought it okay for her to leave the safety of my penthouse and take off like this.
I’m going to find that girl, and when I do, she won’t sit
for a goddamn week.
I tug on a pair of joggers and a t-shirt, skipping the typical suit and tie. Today I’ll be incognito. I shoot a message to Ruth.
Out of the office today. Send all calls to voicemail and only call me if it’s an emergency.
A minute later I get a reply.
Yes, sir. Of course, Mr. Morrow.
I punch angrily at the screen, bringing up my transportation team.
Katie’s driver answers on the first ring. “Yes, Mr. Morrow?”
“Did she call you?”
“Katie, sir?”
I clench my jaw impatiently. “Yes.”
“No, sir. I haven’t heard a word from her.”
I’m not surprised. She went off on her own.
I tell him exactly what I want, in detail. “Bring me a car to the front entrance of the hotel. Make it a small, discreet one.” I’m going looking for her, and I don’t need to drive a Lamborghini or Maserati while I do it.
“Yes, sir.”
Next, I call Nick, the head of security. He answers immediately.
“Mr. Morrow?”
“I want you to scout every security camera I have trained on the penthouse and exits from the hotel.”
“Are you looking for your… lady, sir?”
I stop short. My lady. I like the sound of that, but it fails to capture how I truly feel about her.
How do I feel about her?
“I am. Something I need to know?”
“Yes, sir. I noted her leaving only half an hour ago. She snuck out the back to avoid the reporters.”
White hot anger surges in me so hard and fast, I have to clench my jaw to keep myself in check. It isn’t his fault. He wasn’t told he was on detail for her. His job is to protect me and the hotel, but it was a mistake not to give him explicit instructions.
“Where did she go?”
He hesitates before he responds, likely knowing I’m not going to like his answer.
“I don’t know, sir. Our footage only covers the exit of the hotel. Do you want me to call the police?”
Hell no. I exhale a labored breath. “Find. Her.”
