by Paige North
“This is why I didn’t want to bring you into that viper’s nest last night,” he says. “This is what the New York paparazzi does, Allyson.”
It looks like he’s about to hurl my phone to the floor, but he pulls up his hand, restraining himself. He grips the device until his knuckles go white.
Is he upset because his sterling playboy reputation has taken a hit due to the “dog” he took out on the town last night?
Or is he pissed off because of what they’re saying about me?
I can only hope that’s the case, because if he were to turn on me, too, I don’t know if I could handle it.
“I’m so sorry.” My voice quivers a little. “You were right. I knew the attention might be overwhelming and intense, but I wasn’t prepared for this kind of cruelty.”
He fumes, his broad chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, and it seems he’s too worked up to say anything else.
Now I’m more than sure he’s livid because my ridiculous ultimatum put him in this position.
Another sob wells inside of me, sharp and stinging. Then my phone dings.
From another room, there’s a strident ringing sound.
It seems everyone is waking up to the news.
Connor pushes my phone onto the table so it slides right in front of me, revealing that Robbie has texted.
You need to call me right away, Ally.
As Connor stalks out of the kitchen, another dinging text pops up on my screen. Mom.
Allyson Leigh Barnes, we expect a call explaining what’s really going on with you. I’m waiting here with your dad.
I’m twenty-one, an incoming senior in college, and I feel like a stupid child who played with matches and lit a house on fire. I hear Connor’s deep voice barking at someone from a near distance, and I numbly walk from the kitchen down the hall, leaning against a wall outside Connor’s study where there’s a dedicated landline phone.
Without shame—do I have any left?—I listen to whoever’s on the other end of the speakerphone line.
“You had to be the wild man of the family,” says a man with a deep voice that sounds a lot like Connor’s, except older and even angrier. “You couldn’t be like your younger sister, dating the right kind of people, running charity events, attending functions that cultivate the brand image the Kenyons have always taken such pride in—the image you’re supposed to present for your cars. The image our family needs if any of your uncles, aunts, or cousins should ever run for office. I should have put all my energies into mentoring her, even if she was never able to run a lemonade stand.”
This has to be his father, and I paste my back against the wall, unable to go anywhere, even though I should leave Connor some privacy.
Mr. Kenyon rails on. “You go ahead and fuck every sex symbol on the globe, Connor. At least they’re rich and cosmopolitan, and other men want to be you when you’re doing that. But then I wake up this morning to phone calls alerting me to something much different. It’s as if you took a wrong turn into Hicktown and picked up a souvenir wearing a dress that’s trying way too hard to make that girl into something she’s not.”
“That’s enough,” Connor says.
And I thought the online comments were devastating. This one makes another sob push through my lungs. I cover my mouth to stop it.
“Do you know your folly is going viral online?” his dad asks.
“I’ve seen,” Connor says icily. “I know.”
“Who is she and why did you think it was a good idea to be fucking her?”
A seething moment passes, then Connor’s voice gets low and dangerous.
“I think I’ll save the inquisition for the PR team when they inevitably call me in for an emergency meeting. Obviously the world is falling down because of a few innocent pictures, but it’s going to blow over. Things like this always do in New York.”
“Things like this don’t happen to the Kenyons. And you think those pictures are innocent? Connor, she’s obviously not one of us.”
This time nausea hits me in the stomach, but Mr. Kenyon isn’t done.
“I’ve already been contacted by your PR people, son, because you evidently either turned off your phone for your big night out with that girl or you ran out of juice. I highly doubt that last part is true in many ways, but journalists are asking for answers now. Oh, and your mother’s wondering who that ragamuffin is, too, so you get the privilege of explaining everything to her after I’m done with you.”
“Ragamuffin,” Connor says with sarcastic relish. “Now that’s a condescending term. She’s hardly that.”
This time, his father pauses as if he’s gathering his temper.
I clutch at a nearby table to hold me up. Is Connor defending me as aggressively as he can? Or is he only warming up?
I’m shaking inside, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. If Connor does feel anything for me, now’s the time for him to show it.
Please, show it, I think, biting my lip.
Finally, Mr. Kenyon speaks again. “Are you two an item, as the gossip pages are hinting?”
“Dad, I told you—that’s enough.”
I bend my head as my heart sinks.
“Nobody’s happy about this, Connor. Have you even read all those social media comments yet? Every time someone points out that this girl is beneath you in terms of class and breeding, that’s a nick on the shiny Kenyon brand.” He blows out a breath. “Everyone is questioning your judgment. The Kenyon scion somehow allowed himself to be seen with some rube from upstate New York.”
Rube, hick, ragamuffin? I wait for Connor to say something that will really put his father on notice, but he doesn’t utter a word. Maybe he’s still containing his rage, but even so, his silence pulls me apart. Especially after last night’s magic.
Especially after he held me all night through.
Mr. Kenyon’s voice has leveled out. “From what I can tell, she has no real career plans. She hasn’t even interned anywhere. She has no fortune, nothing to reflect well on you. Image and reputation matter, and this stunt could even affect the stock price of your company.”
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it? I thought my brilliant, ambitious son had all the angles figured out.”
“I do,” Connor says tightly. “And the last thing I need is to hear a lecture. I left those behind after I made my first billion dollars.”
A jarring crash tells me that Connor has hung up the phone. It immediately rings again but with a different tone, and I hear him curse. The ringer cuts off as if he’s silenced that, too.
I should leave, because he’ll probably come out of the study and find that I’ve been eavesdropping, but I don’t have the heart or will to move. The man I’ve somehow gotten attached to, defended me like a stranger might defend someone on the street who needs help, then he more or less walked away from me. He did the bare minimum and nothing more.
I’m his Highest Bidder girl, not his true love, because Connor Kenyon doesn’t believe in that.
It feels as if the world is pressing down on my shoulders, and I’m sure he’s experiencing the same thing, because when he walks out of the room and finds me standing there, he doesn’t react. There’s a heaviness to his own shoulders, a blank coolness in his eyes that shows me he’s already a thousand miles away.
The weight feels like it’s too much for this relationship to take.
Or maybe I should say business relationship, because it was never anything else—and never will be.
Chapter 17
I’m too upset to eat anything, so I stand under the multiple showerheads until the water beats me numb.
All the while, I long for Connor to make me feel as alive and hopeful as I did last night. If he would just give me a reassuring word, tell me that I’m good enough, beautiful enough, classy enough, it would mean the world to me...
Is there still a chance that his anger will cool off and he’ll come around?
I dip my head under the assault of wa
ter and rest my hands on the marble wall. Truthfully, I might actually prefer the temperamental fire in Connor to the side that has already cooled toward me; at least I know how to respond to his heat. All I can hope is that he was only putting on a detached act for his dad, pretending as if he could care less about what people think when he actually does care about the girl-next-door rube in the tabloid pictures.
Is it possible he doesn’t know what to do with the feelings he might have for me?
I turn off the water. Maybe I’m being ridiculous, and I shouldn’t even entertain the idea of fighting for something that might not even exist.
After moping out of the shower, I get myself ready, then put on my short robe and go to the walk-in closet to decide what to wear. As I take a lovely, silk designer cocktail dress from where it’s hanging, I feel Connor enter the closet. The prickles that tear over my skin never lie.
He’s fully suited up in his tailor-made navy jacket and trousers. His gray tie adds even more frost to what’s already in his gaze. He’s just as imposing and removed as he was on the night we met, and I press the dress to me as if it’s a shield of some sort.
Is he only angry about the trouble I caused him or is he also ticked off that I was eavesdropping on him?
Before he can rip into me, I do it for him. “I shouldn’t have listened in on your conversation with your father, Connor. It was rude and unacceptable.”
I sound like such a strong woman right now, but I’m not sure how that’s true when every passing moment in his presence makes me crumble a little more inside.
His voice is as level as a snow-covered surface. “Based on how I’ve been indulging you, I’m sure you felt perfectly at home eavesdropping. I haven’t been able to say no to you even when I know the shit will end up hitting the fan.”
I widen my eyes. I knew he couldn’t say no to me, and it looks like it’s indeed a first for him.
He waits until this one little bit of happiness fades from me. Shivers rain through me just because of the way our gazes meet.
“Unfortunately, I didn’t say no to taking you out in public and exposing you to the unforgiving spotlight I told you to expect,” he says. “Somehow, you persuade me to always say yes, but there’ll be no more of that, Allyson.”
Here it goes, I think. He’s going to kick me out.
But he only stares at me, and I hug the dress on its hanger as if it can actually offer some comfort.
He’s tense, a wall of ice. “You heard my father, so it’s no use talking around this. In spite of all my best laid plans to circumvent the expectations that are put on me, it’s clear that I will never get what I want.”
And what do you want? Again, I stay silent.
“I answer to too many people,” he says. “I have too many responsibilities and commitments that rely on my being ‘perfect’ at all times.”
“Perfect?”
He’s getting irritated, but I’m not sure it’s solely because of me.
“‘Perfect’ includes succeeding in every way,” he says, “always having the ‘best.’ And you already know that means dating and courting ‘the best.’ Maybe you didn’t believe me when I told you about the demands on my life before, but do you believe me now?”
“Yes.”
This truth seems to push us farther apart, even though neither of us has moved an inch. But I sense the resentment in him…and a bit of rebellion, too. Is that why he took me out in public, as a major screw-you to everyone?
My throat constricts around my words, making it hard to say them. I swallow hard and then speak, my voice quivering. “My family has certain expectations for me, too, although it’s nothing like your experiences. I don’t run a massive company, and I don’t have to please anyone who’s invested in me, but…”
“You feel my pain. Is that what you’re telling me?”
His words slice through me, and I cringe.
Connor looks up at the ceiling, as if I’m testing him without even meaning to.
Don’t tell me to leave, I think, emotion dragging me down. Please don’t.
Then he cools even more, jamming his hands into his trouser pockets, putting up his own shield that I know so well.
“For years,” he says, “I’ve given my family and the media what they want. I’ve been that American Prince they’ve asked for—wildly successful, showy while remaining inscrutable. I made great efforts to be the man women want to fuck while remaining the guy other men want to be. Ever since I was old enough to date, I carefully selected the women I go out in public with, and when I leave them after a date or two, it’s always been due to my so-called wandering eye. No one ever knew the truth about why I love them and leave them.”
“Why is the truth such a secret?” I can’t believe I have the guts to ask. But if he’s going to throw me out, I want to know.
A bitter smile pulls at his mouth. Then he says, “You already know this secret that I keep deep down where no one can find it, Allyson. Girls like you are my secret.”
I hold the dress close to me until I realize that it, too, is a part of Connor’s carefully constructed façade. Everything he bought for me, every moment I’ve stayed holed up in his penthouse is a piece of it. I hang the garment back up and allow my hand to linger on the soft, silky fabric. A dream.
“Girls like me,” I repeat.
The brittle smile is still there, another part of his armor. “I have no physical interest in supermodels who make their livings projecting just as much of an image as I’ve had to. Same with actresses and heiresses. We all use one another without admitting it.” A serrated beat passes. “In turn, I use the girls from Highest Bidder to fulfill my real needs—the ones no one knows about.”
“Girls next door,” I say again. “Women who are inexperienced in romance and sex. Virgins.”
“You could say I have a certain kink about that.”
“This is more than a sexual kink.” I’m not mean about it, just truthful. “You bid on women who would be seen as below you in terms of social status, girls who have some…”
“Innocence. Women whose attitudes are refreshing and not jaded. Girls who help me relax and get away from the bullshit of the spotlight.”
Is that all I am to him—a temporary escape—or is it somehow possible I could be even more?
“Highest Bidder keeps your secret safe,” I say.
He barely nods, and the chill in the closet doesn’t warm up in the least. “You saw what happened when I took you out. The public, the media, and my family don’t want me with what they call ‘average girls,’ and if I were to ever step out of the bounds they set for me again, they wouldn’t hesitate to tear me and any woman who doesn’t meet their standards to shreds.”
Highest Bidder, I silently add, allows him to satisfy his cravings without the trouble. Without having to own the reality of who and what he truly wants.
He hasn’t taken his hands out of his pockets, hasn’t relented at all. “The site is what I consider a temporary fix for my sexual appetites, giving me access to the women I’m actually attracted to.”
“That’s why you don’t believe in true love—because that’s not what Highest Bidder sells.”
He takes that in without a word. Then he runs his gaze over all the clothing he’s bought for me, as if each piece of designer wear is a brick in a wall.
“In any case,” he says, “how many people really find someone they care about while being sexually attracted to them? Throw in the fact that my family and the public would have to respect and accept any woman I committed to, and you have one big not-happening of a situation. As far as love is concerned, odds are low that anyone in the circles I run in will find it. I’ve damned well never counted on it, so I always settled for the sex.”
He’s still so on guard that I think there’s got to be more. And there is.
He locks his gaze on me again. “Even if I found someone I truly loved, I wouldn’t want a life in the spotlight for them. I couldn’t make them endure an exis
tence in which they’re constantly judged and put under the microscope and found wanting.”
Was I right when I guessed that he didn’t want this for me, that his resistance wasn’t solely about his own image?
Is he telling me something about how he feels without really telling me?
Is it love he truly wants but his situation won’t allow him to have it?
He has me running in mental circles, and when I slow down, I realize that it’s agonizingly clear that he hates this public pressure. Then again, based on this wall he’s put up around himself, he’s become resigned to this life, and I’m sure after I’m gone, he’ll bid on another girl like me. Then another.
Despair spirals down inside me. There’s no way he can feel anything for me, or that it would ever matter if he even did. He’s trapped, more trapped than anyone I’ve ever met. Which is odd, considering he seems to have all the freedom in the world.
“All of the freedom and control you project is just an illusion,” I say. “You’re stuck just like everyone else.”
“We’re all stuck. It’s the human condition. We’re all victims of having too much money or not enough, families who care too much or not at all. Are you different?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
I think of all the texts and calls I’ve been ignoring from my family and friends this morning, all the pressure I’ve been under. “It doesn’t have to always be this way, Connor.”
If he was tense before, he’s absolutely rigid now.
I don’t let up. “Maybe I’m the only person out there who can understand your position. Our families think they want what’s best for us, but they don’t know any better. They love us, and from where they’re standing, they don’t want us to ruin a good thing, whether it’s a boyfriend I was always meant to marry or a life full of riches and success for you.” I laugh softly. “At least, that’s what they keep telling me as far as Robbie is concerned.”
A muscle jerks in Connor’s jaw before he says, “That little shit isn’t good for you.”
Another warped sense of hope lights me up. Is that jealousy I sense?
