The time her parents made her wait conveyed the message that she wasn’t important to them. Then her father had invited me for a talk, in which her mother was present, and I realized these people didn’t know their own daughter as well as I did. They thought she had an alcohol problem, something I’d have picked up on if it were true.
They thought she had multiple sexual partners—in practice, I’d wager she was seeing very little non battery-operated action between the sheets.
And they thought she was as dumb as a rock. But I was starting to suspect there was more to their daughter than meets the eye.
I woke up with a headache. It was six in the morning. Brat was fast asleep. I hit the hotel gym, but not before giving the security company I’d hired a piece of my mind about letting Brat get into the room without calling me first last night.
I hit the shower back in the suite. Brat’s soft snores were still rising from the master bedroom. I wondered what kind of plan she had waiting for me today. Brat was always in the mood for retaliation whenever I messed with her. And yesterday I’d made her come in her studded pink sweatpants just from watching.
I found her fight amusing. Now that I knew her background was comprised of such a shitty family, her unreasonable behavior almost made sense.
The Princess woke up at ten in the morning and found me in the kitchen, working. She was extra pouty. She was also dressed—thank God—though I couldn’t exactly describe what she was wearing. It looked like an old gingham curtain that had suffered a midlife crisis and decided to become a ’50s-style dress.
She put her ruby hair up into a high ponytail, letting tendrils spill across both her shoulders. I had to admit—she was beautiful in broad daylight. Fragile, elegant, and succulent, all at the same time.
“Coffee?” I asked, my idea of giving her an inch of a white flag. A white stamp, if you would.
She shook her head, sitting directly in front of me at the table. I shut my laptop screen. I had a feeling she wasn’t used to having people give her their full attention unless she was naked.
She stared at me. I raised my eyebrows, in a what-the-fuck? gesture. No doubt, she wanted to clear the air after yesterday.
“My parents…” She licked her lips.
Her parents? Did not see that one coming.
“They thought I was staying at their house, and I left without saying goodbye. Did they call you?”
“Yes,” I said evenly.
“Am I in trouble?”
“Also yes.”
Her expression collapsed to something full of annoyance.
“Stop fighting everything and everyone. Accept the situation. These are the cards you’ve been dealt. Me. Your parents. This life. It’s not the worst.”
“I’m not going back there today.” She folded her arms over her chest.
“We have to,” I said dispassionately, taking one last sip of my espresso and standing up to dump the cup into the sink. “They invited us for dinner.”
“I don’t want to.” Her eyes were glassy, and I hated that I had to make her. Catering to assholes who didn’t deserve your time was something I knew a lot about.
But I had to play nice with Anthony Thorne because he was a key figure in what I was trying to achieve for my business.
“Maybe we can tell them I’m sick.” She snapped her fingers, her eyes lighting up. The way she had forgotten about yesterday, about the charged chemistry between us, about climaxing at the same time, like it hadn’t happened, surprised and confused me. Usually, I was on the receiving end of sexual propositions. Yesterday, I’d been minutes away from kissing the shit out of her in the bathroom.
Maybe she didn’t want to broach the subject when the place was wired. A car ride alone would change that.
“No.” I picked up my phone and scrolled through my messages. “You’re used to people letting you off the hook. Time to change that. We’re going.”
“I hate you,” she murmured.
“I understand,” I said blandly, but I didn’t believe her.
“Well, then.” She stood up. I did not check out her ass. Okay, fine, I did. Fuck, she had Jessica Rabbit’s proportions. And hair. “I have an appointment to get to, if you want to join.”
“Want is not the operative word here.” But I was glad for the distraction. “Where to? I need to check out the place in advance.”
She gave me the address of a small tattoo shop in downtown Dallas. I sent the team to sniff around while she got ready. Hallie took approximately five-and-a-half years to make herself presentable.
“What tattoo are you getting?” I asked as I drove her down to the shop. Downtown Dallas was awash with shoppers, joggers, and people walking their dogs.
“Promise not to laugh.” But she didn’t look concerned about my opinion. Also, she still didn’t say jack-shit about last night.
“Don’t give yourself too much credit. I’m a hard man to entertain.”
She produced a piece of paper from her secondhand Gucci bag, handing it over to me. It was a drawing of an anatomically correct heart, made out of a diamond. It looked morbid, real, and surprisingly compelling, even though tattoos weren’t my jam. I handed it back to her.
“Where?”
“Hipbone.”
“Does it represent something?”
“Sometimes I feel like my heart is as hard as a diamond. Or should be, to survive my life.”
This was the part where I mocked her for her hardship, while balancing a 3k bag in her lap. But baiting her was getting old, not to mention all of her shit was secondhand. In fact, I didn’t know a lot of women who rummaged through trash the way she did to take care of the environment. No. Hallie’s lack of employment and direction didn’t come from laziness.
Instead, I asked, “Did you draw this yourself?”
It was surprising both because I didn’t normally show that I gave a damn and because I didn’t realize she had any talents other than pissing me off.
“Yes.”
“You’re not terrible.”
“Lofty praise coming from you.”
I let her lay in the puddle of her own thoughts for a while, knowing she was incapable of keeping her mouth shut for more than five minutes.
Sure enough, two seconds later, she sighed audibly and said, “Sometimes I worry.”
“About?”
“That I’m too numb. I think I love tattoos not only because it’s easy to hide behind them, but because…well, the pain gives me an excuse to feel.”
“Pain’s not a feeling,” I corrected her. “This is why you keep getting inked. You’re searching for a feeling, but you’re not getting it.”
“What do you mean? Of course pain is a feeling.” She turned to face me, and I swear the temperature in my body rose a couple degrees. Goddammit. I had to bang a Hallie lookalike and get rid of my stupid fixation with her. This was ridiculous. And dangerous. And putting a strain on my cock, which wasn’t used to being erect nineteen hours a day.
“No. It’s a sensation. There’s a difference.”
“What’s the difference?” Her eyes were two sapphire saucers, directed at me.
“A feeling is an emotional state. A sensation speaks to your nervous system.”