Page 35 of Caged By the Stranger (Bad Decisions #1)

Charlie

It was only three weeks ago that I arrived in Salzburg for the expo, but it feels like a lifetime.

My conversation with Dexter Divine while there led to landing a meeting with him, as I had hoped.

That meeting produced an invitation to the Divine family estate in Bordeaux, France, where I met his mother and sister and learned about the family history of their company.

Apparently, parting with a namesake was more difficult for them emotionally than I anticipated.

They needed to know Divine would be going to a company that would appreciate their past. As I sat in their home overlooking the river Garonne, I assured them that Rory McDonnell is the type of man who appreciates special things, and that Amor would treat the Divine line with the respect it deserves.

I don’t think either promise was a lie. Dexter and his family, fortunately, didn’t either and agreed to sell.

Unfortunately, a business deal this size wasn’t as simple as tying up over handshakes.

Sitting across the dinner table from Dexter and his sister, I’m still busy enjoying it.

Or at least pretending to. We’re at a luxe restaurant tucked away just off Rue Saint-Rémi, celebrating that we’d finalized the sale contracts earlier today.

I assume Rory wouldn’t care if I put the bill on my corporate black card, but Dexter and his sister insisted it was their treat.

Considering how much Rory is paying for their company, I didn’t argue.

It has to be nearly morning back in Portland.

As Betina gets up to excuse herself to the restroom, Dexter gets snared in conversation by an associate of his who walks by our table.

I steal the silent moment to wonder how Rory feels waking up as the world’s most renowned chocolate company owner.

I’m sure his face will be on a few front pages of business magazines in the coming months once the word spreads.

He’ll have the world at his fingertips more so than he already does.

Strangely enough, I have the suspicion he won’t care.

Give him a good book and a well-crafted cocktail, and he’d probably be happier.

Smiling to myself over the insider knowledge, I frown when my spark of joy starts turning to wistfulness.

Rubbing my eyes does little to eradicate the tipsiness from the bottle of champagne he had sent to our table.

I’ll admit I felt a bit slighted at Dexter’s laugh of delight upon its arrival when he read the attached note.

He got a note, and I got nothing. Apparently, he spoke to Rory on the phone after the signing and must have alerted him to our dinner plans.

Rubbing at the edge of my dessert plate, I’m fully aware it means Dexter also got a phone call, while I did not.

For a second, when the bottle arrived, I actually held my breath, wondering if a certain dark-haired man would follow.

I’ve done admirably without him these past few weeks and am grateful I had the foresight to wear my cage for the trip.

It’s obviously helped. My sex drive has, surprisingly, been close to nil.

The ache deep inside my chest, however, is something new that I’ve had plenty of time to contemplate.

Through dinners, staring at race cars zipping by, and long, aimless walks down foreign streets, I’ve had ample time to come up with all manner of excuses.

The short of it is that I miss him. I still can’t believe that I do, but the more I get familiar with the words rolling around inside my head, the truer they become.

I tried consoling myself with the champagne, telling myself it meant he was here in spirit.

Dexter got champagne, a note, and a phone call.

All I got was a cage…because that’s all I asked for.

I can’t fight the niggling curiosity that if I’d ever asked for more, I would have gotten it.

I know I could call him, but I feel like I need an excuse, and that he’d see through any excuse I come up with. What would I even say?

I called you because…even though I’ve acted like I want nothing to do with you, I wanted to hear your voice.

I can’t sit here in a daze any longer, exchanging polite banter with Dexter and Betina. I’m not even sure if I’ve answered them with engaging responses all evening. I’m too distracted. Rory did give me something else, nothing personal, but something else.

Twenty percent…

When we signed the contracts today, the breakdown on future sales of Divine products had twenty percent going to me. The man from our legal department in our European office who flew in to oversee the signing assured me, ‘It was written exactly as Mr. McDonnell specified . ’

I don’t doubt it wasn’t an error. But why would he do that? Is he paying me off?

After I left headquarters last month, I started thinking that the parting look he gave meant he understood all the things going on in my head that even I don’t understand.

I even kind of started thinking that maybe it meant he’d…

I don’t know. Put up with me for as long as I want him to put up with me?

The Porsche felt like an invitation. This… this silence and payout don’t.

Sighing, I pinch my eyes closed and pull my phone out of my pocket to see what time it is.

Why am I playing devil’s advocate when I still don’t know what in the hell I want?

I miss getting dicked by a certain man. Whoop-dee-doo !

That’s a far cry from having my shit figured out.

Rory can’t possibly miss me. I know I like the crazy shit he says sometimes, but there’s no way a guy like him is going to waste his time flattering a guy like me much longer.

Clicking on my phone, I see several missed messages and calls. Crap. I put it on silent during the signing and haven’t checked it since.

Legal sent me links to the finalized contracts.

The knowledge that my bank account will soon explode should bolster more excitement, but I move on, unaffected.

My mother sent a message reminding me to only drink bottled water so I don’t get sick, because she must think everywhere besides America is a third-world country with unclean resources.

The dreaded group chat with my brothers is filled with mind-numbing chatter about their workouts, an upcoming barbecue, and how one of my nephews got sent to the principal’s office again.

Miles, my next oldest brother, at least acknowledged that I’m away, asking that I bring him back an air freshener in the shape of the Eiffel Tower.

Minus two points to him for not realizing there are more cities in France than just Paris.

Feeling the need to reinforce my importance in the food chain, I rattle off a message to the group.

Just negotiated the sale of the world’s largest chocolate company.

MILES: I hope that means I’ll be getting a lifetime supply of candy bars to go with my air freshener.

Idiot. Shaking my head, I close out of the text thread before I’m bombarded with more sarcasm. Scrolling down, I spot one more message. My thumb stills over the screen name. Rory—personal cell . It’s from earlier in the day. He sent me a message, and the frenetic butterflies in my stomach know it.

I’m so fucking proud of you. You’d better be celebrating tonight. You earned this.

“Finally, I think the champagne has worked!” Betina laughs.

I find her looking my way as she returns to her seat and realize her comment was directed at me.

It takes me a second because I don’t think I’m drunk, nor have I done anything that would make her think so, but then I realize I’m smiling.

I try to stop, but can’t, which makes me chuckle and produces another laugh from Betina.

“You have a good boss, I think,” she remarks, holding her flute up to toast against mine. “Our company will be in good hands. I can tell.”

I know she was referring to Rory sending the champagne, but all I can think of, as I agree with her, is that he is good, and so are his hands. I miss those hands. I miss those hands that sent me the most wonderful message from his personal phone.

Maybe…things could be different when I get back to Portland. Maybe his twenty percent wasn’t a payoff to get rid of his flavor of the month after all. Maybe I’m not a flavor of the month and never was. But again, I’m looking at things from the wrong perspective. What am I willing to offer Rory?

When trying to find the answer makes me an anxious bundle of nerves, I say my goodbyes for the evening before my mood ruins the merriment. I walk back to the hotel the company put me up in and find myself in the shower, thinking about my CEO once again.

I’ve never showered with another man. There’s a long list of things I’ve never done with a partner and for no good reason. I’ve never been on a date. Never held hands in public. Never gone to a movie. I’ve only taken and given very little in return, all in as much secrecy as I could capture.

I can say I’m busy, that I work too much, or that I’m afraid of what my family would think all I want, but they’re all lies.

I think the real reason I never contemplated having a boyfriend is that I know I’m not boyfriend material.

I wouldn’t know how to be even if I wanted to.

Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking. Some delusional part of me yearning for a life I never fathomed before, but sometimes I suspect Rory may want a boyfriend.

He’d certainly be a generous and entertaining one.

Extravagant gifts, home cooking, trips on his super yacht, and heated late-night sessions accompanied by heady words.

But what would I do? Have a panic attack at the thought of stepping on his yacht alone with him in broad daylight or holding his hand as we walk into a restaurant?

Boyfriends don’t leave right after sex. Boyfriends spend the night, and eat home-cooked breakfast the next morning.

Leaning my head against the shower wall, I close my eyes against hot tears.

There’s also his adventurous side, which, although it excites me, I should probably accept that it’s just my luck that the first person I’m considering is someone I can’t keep up with.

Boyfriends don’t go to private clubs for blow jobs or put cock cages on people.

I want something that doesn’t exist. The club’s name said it all.

It was just an illusion. I’m in hell, a hell where I’m caught between a dream I’m not qualified enough to be the star of and one where I’m just adequate enough to pass the time with what I stumbled upon.

I wish I’d never accepted that card from him.