Page 67

Chapter Twenty

A urora

“What the heck is this?” I mutter.

I hit the brakes and slow roll to what appears to be a guard shack in front of two large metal gates. A man slides open a window as I roll mine down. He peers into the car as if I’m transporting illegal substances.

Perhaps I was put on a watch list, after all.

“Hi,” I say, though it’s more of a question than a greeting.

“Good evening. Your name, please.”

“Aurora Johnson. I’m here to see Tate Brewer.”

He lifts his collar to his mouth, pauses, and then turns back to me. The gates slowly swing open.

“Enjoy your evening, Ms. Johnson,” he says.

“Thanks.”

I roll up my window and proceed down the driveway, taking the bends and curves, until the forest on both sides finally cuts away.

Holy hell.

Jamie pointed out that Tate was a billionaire, but I didn’t give it much thought. That might’ve been a mistake because the house standing in front of me is the kind of place you see on an architectural show of award-winning designs.

The last rays of sunlight streak through the sky behind the towering structure. A blend of brick, wood, and stucco marries seamlessly on the facade, and a long porch stretches along most of the front. All that’s missing is a porch swing—and maybe a dog.

I survey the scene and try to decide where to park. There’s the front door, but there’s also an open garage door on the side of the house. I have no idea which one I’m supposed to use.

Making an executive decision, I park at the end of the sidewalk leading to the porch.

I turn the car off and get out, locking it behind me. My heart pounds harder with each step I take up the walkway. There’s no going back from this. If I go inside his home, things between us go from being a version of fuck buddies to something more real.

I gulp.

Just as I get to the bottom of the steps, the front door opens, and all of my nerves disappear.

Tate stands in the doorway with his shirt unbuttoned. His hair is messy from having my hands in it. He flashes me a bright, easy smile—the kind of smile that you see on people in advertisements where they’re pretending to be happy.

Only, this isn’t an ad.

“You found it,” he says, holding his arms wide.

I nearly jog up the remaining steps and launch myself into his chest. “What do you mean I found it? It’s impossible to miss.”

He wraps me up and holds me close, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

“You got here fast,” he says, leading me inside. He puts my keys on a small wooden table by the door. “I got here about ten minutes ago.”

“Traffic was light.”

He grins, knowing damn good and well that I raced over here like a bat out of hell.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he says.

I take a step back and gasp. “Oh wow, Tate. This is beautiful.”

“It’s okay.”

My eyeballs nearly pop out of my head. “ It’s okay? Are you serious? This is stunning.”

“I like it. It’s pretty clean and natural, for the most part. Low maintenance.”

“So what you're saying is that you don’t go from room to room and change everything every six months?”

He laughs. “I’ve lived here for five years, and I just managed to fill the last room with furniture a few months ago.”

I look at him in disbelief. This is a dream home. How can he be so nonchalant about it?

Oh, right. He’s a billionaire.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks. “Water? Soda? Wine? I might have a beer somewhere.”

“A water would be great.” I glance down at his bare feet. “Should I take my shoes off? I don’t know if that seems presumptuous or if it’s good manners?”

He flashes me a killer smile. “You’re here. That’s all I care about.”

Tate walks barefoot into the kitchen, leaving me swooning behind. I hurriedly kick off my shoes, then follow him through an arched doorway.

“I hope you cook in here because this kitchen was made for meal prep,” I say, trying not to let my jaw sweep the floor.

If the entryway was stunning, I’m not sure what to call the kitchen.

The cabinets are the same color as the wood floors, and the appliances blend in.

I have no clue where the fridge or dishwasher are.

The counters are a pristine white stone with light gray and gold veins.

A deep farmhouse sink centered on a wide window runs nearly the whole length of the counter.

The view from the glass is all fields, forests, and the city skyline off in the distance.

A window seat is built into a smaller window beside the island, and I can imagine curling up there with a book on a rainy day.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

I sit on a barstool at the island, watching him pour me a glass of water.

“I’m thinking that this space is perfect for big holiday dinners, and late nights with cocktails or cookies and milk while sharing stories and dreams.”

“Sounds nice. Let’s try it sometime.”

My heart flutters.

“I was afraid your security guy wasn’t going to let me in,” I say. “He’s pretty serious.”

“Ah, they all are while they’re new. He’s not been around too long.”

“Do you always have security?”

He nods, handing me a glass. “Yeah. I’ve cut mine back to the guard shack at the front, and one guy who roams the property. I only keep him for my mother’s well-being.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“She’s been through enough. It’s a small thing to me, but a big thing for her.”

He casually takes a drink as if every twenty-seven-year-old man is keen on making his mother’s life easier.

“Are you and your mother close?” I ask.

“I mean, that’s complicated. I guess we are. I talk to her a couple of times a week, and I’m her favorite, naturally.”

“Oh, of course.” I grin. “I think it’s sweet that you have such a good relationship.”

“She’s been through a lot. Our father put her through hell.”

His features harden, and a fire flashes in his eyes. The kind, sweet Tate I’ve grown to know is momentarily gone.

“I assume you know that story,” he says, his voice cool and tight.

I shake my head.

“It was all over the news a few years ago.” His chest rises and falls slowly. “The quick and dirty is that my father is currently in prison for a lot of shit, including money laundering, attempted murder for trying to kill my sister?—”

I gasp.

“—and conspiracy to commit murder thanks to the hitman he hired to kill Mom.”

My eyeballs nearly pop out of my head.

He watches my reaction. His beautiful body is rigid. It takes me a long moment to realize that he’s putting up his guard—that he expects there’s a chance that I’ll look at him differently now that I know about his father.

I get up from my seat and move around the island. He watches me warily each step of the way.

My arms wrap around his waist, and I bury my head in his chest. He stills before he relents. I’m enveloped in the biggest, tightest hug of my entire life.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I say. “And to your mother, and the rest of your family.”

He nestles his face in my hair.

We stand like this in the middle of his kitchen for the longest time, well past the moment the sun settles beyond the horizon. No words are exchanged. None are needed.

Finally, he gives me one last squeeze and steps back. His eyes are hesitant, like he’s unsure where I’ll take this conversation.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Then how did you find me tonight?”

A slow ripple of relief flows across his features, and he exhales.

“Tally,” he says.

“Tally?” I laugh. “You’re joking.”

He smirks. “I don’t think she meant to tell me.”

I narrow my eyes, trying to decide whether I believe that or not. He is her boss’s boss, so, on one hand, I could understand her answering him truthfully if he asked. But I can also see her being so dazzled by him that she just forked over the information without realizing it.

Tate can be a persuasive beast. And, well, it worked out for me, anyway.

I pick up my glass. “I’ll forgive her. I remember what it’s like to be young and easily impressed.”

“What were you like when you were her age?”

“At her age? Well, let’s see … I probably would’ve been a cheerleader for a pro football team and wrapping up college.”

“You were a cheerleader?”

I nod.

“Did I know that?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I haven’t told you, but you always have a way of knowing shit.” I shrug. “That experience helps me in putting together the team for the Raptors. We had a great team in Chicago, and I learned a lot about what makes a group effective and what doesn’t.”

“Makes sense.”

He opens a cabinet, which happens to be the fridge, and pulls out a plate. He places it on the island, grinning.

A blueberry pie—not as pretty or perfect as the one from Ruma, but it looks delicious nonetheless, and shines from a pale pink pie plate.

“Where’d you get that?” I ask, laughing.

“Someone stole a whole pie from me, so I had to make one myself.”

I grin. “ You made that?”

“I sure did.”

“ Tate .”

“ What ?” He beams proudly. “Flour, salt, sugar, very cold and unsalted butter, and ice water. That’s it. Pretty simple.”

My mouth hangs agape.

“Mimi taught me,” he says. “Wednesday is our date night, so I was seeing her right before I saw you.” He sighs dramatically. “It’s hard keeping up with two women.”

“And you made that pie?”

“You don’t believe me?” He demonstrates how he crimps the edges. “We make something sweet every week, and she sends most of it home with me. That’s probably why I haven’t been posting shirtless selfies much anymore. I’m starting to pack on the pounds.”

I snort, rolling my eyes. “Stop it.”

“Mimi sends me home with pie. You stole my pie.”

“Mimi sends you home with pie,” I say, feathering my lips over his. “I sent you home with … me .”

He takes my hand and puts it on his cock.

“You never fail to impress,” I say, my nipples hardening.

“Now that I have you here, I might just keep you.”

Thoughts of him tying me up come roaring back through my brain. “I might go along with that, depending on the circumstances.”

He pulls back, surprised.

“I was kidding,” I say, smacking his chest with the hand that isn’t massaging his balls through his pants.

“I’m not.” He drags his tongue along my bottom lip. “I’m all in.”

“You can’t be all in,” I say, pulling back just before he nips my jaw. “We just met.”

“That’s unfortunate, isn’t it?”

“What’s unfortunate?” I gasp a breath as he sucks gently on the spot my shoulder meets my neck.

“That we just met.”

“If it were too much earlier than now, you would’ve been underage.”

He blows across the dampened skin. “Shut up.”

“It’s true.” Goose bumps flare down my arms. “Our age gap doesn’t bother you?”

He stands, rolling his eyes, irritated with me. “No. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes it hotter. If I wanted someone younger, I’d get one. And if I wanted someone more beautiful …”

I hold my breath, bracing myself for whatever he’s about to say.

He leans in and kisses me. “I’d never find anyone.”

He peers into my eyes, letting me see all of him. There’s no shield, no games—there’s nothing but raw, genuineness reflected at me.

I’m done. I’m done questioning this. I’m done asking if it’s real, if it’s too soon, or why it’s happening at all.

I’ve been on a quest to do the right thing and create a life I love. But if I stop being myself, if I stop trusting my gut—am I simply pretending to be someone I’m not?

Because Aurora Johnson is a romantic. I follow my heart. It might not always work out for me, but does anything ever work out every time?

If I want to live my whole truth, I need to lean into the pillars that make me who I am. That includes falling in love, no matter the circumstances.

A slow smile slips across my face as the trepidation I’ve lived with washes away. In its place is relief … and a tingling in my chest.

“Come here,” I say, pulling him to me.

I don’t know what’s come over me, but I’m not fighting it—or him, anymore.