Page 75 of Bribed by the Billionaire Bad Boy

“And even though I have for a while now, you still rarely let me spoil you with a fancy car ride.”

Because. I’m out of the way. He already has a decent drive home. I take enough advantage of him.

I sigh. “You’re planning something. Considering recent events, I don’t trust you.”

He places a hand to his chest, wholly wounded for a single instant. When he rolls his eyes, mischief and injury slip away into casual confidence. “As if either of us believe that after last night, sugar.”

My heart thumps. And I can’t very well argue with that logic. If I didn’t trust him, I’d never have slept with him so peacefully.

“There’s that blush I’ve missed.” He lifts a cool finger to caress my warm cheek. “I would have thought I’d get a little something after dubbing you my pretend wife, but no.”

I swat his hand away. “Right. As if that alone would beenough to get a rise out of me after all this time listening to you being you. After last night.” Trying to look tough and unflinching, I smirk at him. “As if.”

He chuckles. “I’m not giving in. I’m taking you home tonight.”

I don’t want to go. Sighing, I mutter, “Not until you tell me why.”

“Obviously, I’m going to talk to your mother.”

My heart thuds, all bodily functions screeching to a halt. I take an intentional, controlled breath and force myself to swallow. “Are you out of your mind?”

“For you? Always.” Standing in a single fluid motion, he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Come on.”

I shouldn’t just follow. I should fight him orsomething. But I feel the conviction and hear it in his tone. Even if I refuse, he will either drag me to his car himself or be at home waiting for me after I get off the bus.

Whatever he’s planning, it isn’t like he’s wrong. I trust him. I trust that he knows the things I absolutely cannot say. I trust that he understands there’s valid reasoning behind my wanting to keep certain things secret. I trust him.

That doesn’t mean I’m not afraid.

Lex

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inside Calypso’s house is quaint. Clean. Chilly. Given it’s Calypso’s house and the beginning of winter, it all makes sense. The tiny foyer opens into a living room set apart only by the shift from tile to carpet. On the right an archway leads into a kitchen. Beside it, a tiny hall no doubt leads to her and her mother’s rooms.

I trail after Calypso, following her down the short hall to her room without a care that we’re alone in a small space. No room is ever going to be as small as the space we took up on my bed.

Calypso clears her throat, flicks the light switch, and dumps her bag onto a tiny swivel chair before her cramped desk. The desk is organized, just tiny. In fact, the whole room is.

“Pardon the claustrophobia,” she notes. “Not everyone’s room is large enough to fit a library.”

“Ha,” I state, looking over the centerpiece of her extra-long twin bed beside a tall dresser. Those two things and the desk are all the furniture she has. Frankly, that’s all that will fit anyway.

She plops onto her bed, crossing her legs. “Shouldn’t you be studying for finals or something instead of waiting for my mom to come home and, subsequently, giving me anxiety?”

“Maybe. If you want to study, I don’t mind.” I plop down beside her, letting my weight dip the mattress and tilt her toward me.

She fights the gravity, planting her hands steady on either side of her legs. “I’m not concerned.”

“Neither am I.”

Her jaw clenches, and if I imagine hard enough, I can hear the erratic beat of her heart when she says, “Tell me the plan.”

“No.”

Her head whips up, facing me, and a slice of scarlet cuts across her cheeks at the realization of how close I am. “Why not?”

“Because. Haven’t you ever heard of improv? I want your act to be genuine.”