Page 59 of Babies for the Big Shot

We collapse against the wall, gasping. Shaking.

His forehead presses to mine. His hand strokes my cheek, gentle now. Reverent.

“Mine,” he whispers again.

And god help me…

I want to stay his.

Even if someone is right outside that door.

I am absolutelynotfreaking out.

Nope. Not me.

I shut the door behind me with a quiet click and lean against it for a minute, breathing in the familiar smell of my apartment.Coffee, lavender, and the faint scent of Meatball’s dog bed. He lifts his head when I walk in, gives me a judgmental blink from his squished little face, and promptly flops back to sleep.

At least someone in this apartment knows how to relax.

I yank off the satin heels, desperate to be free of them. They scatter across the floor, ending in a sorry pile by the couch. Poor shoes. They didn’t sign up for this night. Neither did I.

I press my fingertips to my lips, still tasting the burn of Nick’s kiss, his hands, his heat, the way he whispered in my ear as if I was the only thing he’d ever hold onto.

God help me, I liked it.

Ireallyliked it.

I groan softly and drag myself toward the kitchen, unzipping the green satin gown as I go. It slips off my shoulders and puddles onto the floor. Probably shouldn’t leave it there, but whatever. The dress and I have been through enough for one night.

As I pass the mirror in the hallway, I catch a glimpse of myself. Wild hair. Smudged lipstick. Marks blooming along my collarbone where Nick’s teeth were far too enthusiastic.

Great. I look like I’ve been debauched by a billionaire in a coatroom.

Which… I guess I have.

I groan and grab an oversized T-shirt, my ancient pizza graphic one, and pull it over my head, burying all that satin and temptation and bad ideas under soft cotton and elastic. Better. Safer. Less likely to invite more disasters.

I pour a glass of wine, settle onto the couch, and fix my gaze on my phone resting on the coffee table, feeling every bit of the silent challenge it throws at me.

He said he’d text when he got home.

He hasn’t.

I stare at the screen. Dark. Blank.

It’s probably fine. Maybe something happened on the way home. Maybe he’s sorting corporate crises. Maybe he forgot.

Maybe hemeantto forget.

Ugh. Stop it, Sara.

I pick up the phone. Check again.

Still nothing.

“Just… don’t get comfortable. Nick always needs someone. Until he doesn’t.”

A strange flutter twists low in my stomach, tight and sour, as Rebecca’s words flood through me once more. Champagne and nerves, probably. Or maybe those two sad shrimp puffs I wolfed down while pretending to be rich and comfortable. I set the wine glass down. My mouth tastes weird anyway.