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I don’t like the Miss Lively thing. He sounds distant, uninterested.
He stuffs the paper back inside the envelope. “I don’t pay for sex. Ever.”
Then what I am doing here?
When he holds the envelope out as if expecting me to take it, I cross my arms in front of my chest, warding it off.
He can’t be turning me down. I need this to happen.
“If you don’t pay for sex,” I say, “then why did you join the auction for me on the Highest Bidder site?”
“I didn’t do any such thing.” As he keeps extending the envelope to me, his other hand is on the door, ready to shut me out. “According to this message, you’re a gift from one of my clients—a wealthy one who’s very happy with the business transaction that just went through between our companies.”
I start to say something, although I’m not sure what. I only know that he can’t close that door on me.
He’s clearly losing his patience. “My client has a habit of making assumptions and acting on them without thinking much about the consequences.”
I’m still not taking the damned envelope back. “But he already paid for this.”
“I’m not interested in taking advantage of this ‘gift.’”
Then, as if he’s some kind of god’s gift, he gives me a final, arrogant once-over, his gaze burning me wherever it goes. It leaves me weak and wishing for more of the humiliating heat.
When I still don’t take the envelope, he merely tosses it to a table near the entry. “You need to go now, Miss Lively.”
He begins to close the door.
“Wait!”
He stops, and there’s a look of such irritation written all over him that I feel as if I’m shrinking, reduced to a hurt ball of rejection right here on his doorstep. I search for what to say next, but how can I put all my fears and feelings into words?
I need this money so badly, but even more than that, I’m trying to make sense of the looks he’s been giving me. He talks like he’s not interested, but my body is telling me something different. There’s fire between us, isn’t there? There’s something that could damned well happen if he would just let me in.
But, jeez, maybe this is only wishful thinking. I mean, what girl wouldn’t be attracted to this incredibly hot guy, even if she’s only imagining that he’s lusting after her in return?
As I stand there saying nothing, his mood doesn’t improve. I’m wasting his precious billionaire time, and I realize that I was wrong about any kind of attraction.
My stomach sinks and panic sets in. Maybe I can try for a repeat auction on the Highest Bidder site, seeing as this has been a total bust. I’ll have to in order to get that money…
I’m back to feeling like the girl who was never the prettiest in her class or the smartest or the one people noticed. I still feel like a teenager who’s inexperienced and so damned awkward, especially around this intimidating man.
“I’m sorry for the confusion,” I say, knowing that I’m about to go from awkward to mortified if I don’t back down. “I’ll call an Uber to pick me up.”
As I turn around and walk away, the door closes behind me.
Holding back tears—how much of a fool was I to think a guy like him was interested in a Jane like me?—I hike up my bag all the way onto my shoulder as I head for the gates. Then I unzip it and fumble inside to get my phone.
When I turn it on, the screen stays dead.
Seriously? Seriously?
Shit.
I look around at the palm trees, at the view of the nearby docks in back of his grand house and the sun gleaming off the water.
I need a phone, dammit, and there’s nowhere to go for one but here.
After I huff out a breath, I march back to his house and ring the bell again. Hours seem to pass before he jerks open the door. My heart jolts in my chest and my body heats up again as he stares at me.