Page 86 of Pretty Mess

“Why are you giving me money?”

“Isn’t that our arrangement?”

I flinch, jerking my head away from him as if he’d reached out to slap me.

His eyebrows lower and the blue of his eyes soften. I read his expression as a mix of apology, pity, and concern. It makes my stomach knot and my spine stiffen.

“Wes?” He’s obviously out of words. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’m sorry if you thought?—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupt, my cheeks burning. I suddenly feel very young. “I knew this was a business trip.”

He hands me the money, and this time I take it.

His shoulders relax and he smooths his already perfect tie. Everything is right again in his world. All business. Boundaries set. “I’ll be out until late tonight, so dial one on the phone for food. You can order from the butler.” He pauses as if waiting for a joke from me, but I can’t summon one. “He’ll get you anything you want,” he finishes awkwardly, almost as though he’s disappointed.

“What time will you be home?” I grimace. “Sorry. I meant, when will you be back here?”

“Late. I won’t say a time because these meetings are important.” He doesn’t need to add that I’m not important, but maybe he hears an echo of that because he forces a smile. “So, scoot.” He gestures at the scene behind me. “Explore. You’re in Paris, Wes. Buy something nice.” His smile becomes kinder. “You must want some new clothes.”

“Why?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond. He’s already back in the suite, busy gathering his messenger bag, some files, and his coat. I dog his steps, following him to the door. For a second, he hesitates, and I think he’s going to kiss me.

Instead, he touches his forehead in a gentle salute. “See you later,” he says, and he’s gone.

I sink into one of the expensive chairs, which cushions my body as if it were designed for me. I look down at the money in my hands. There must be three or four grand here. It’s a generous amount and one I probably should have expected given our circumstances. The circumstances I keep somehow forgetting in the thrill of being with him.

“I am an escort, and he is my client.” I say it out loud.

The words are bald and simple, but I have to acknowledge that despite everything we’ve done, and all the details of our arrangement with him “keeping” me, I’ve never truly felt like a whore.

I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now. I stare down at the money in my hand. Small—that’s how I feel. Dismissed. Like I’m an item to be checked off Mac’s list. And, for some reason, Mac wanted,needed, to make me feel like this.

I sniff, my eyes getting hot. Then I make myself get up and go over to the windows. Paris lies before me. I can see the grey blue of the Seine, golden buildings and roofs, and windows. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower stands proudly. Lights are starting to come on all over the city, and they gleam neon-bright against the darkening sky.

“Get over yourself, Wes.” The words drop into the opulent room’s silence, making me instantly feel better. I don’t have feelings for Mac beyond gratitude and an intense attraction. Idon’t.

“You are in a beautiful city with money and time to explore. So what if you’re on your own? You’ve been that before him. You’ll be that after him. Now get out there and explore.”

So, I do.

It’s midnight and I’m lying on the sofa when I hear the door click. I watch as Mac walks into the room. He doesn’t see me at first, and I indulge in a rare opportunity to observe him in a private moment. Lines around his eyes and mouth are etched deeply. His jacket is rain-splattered, and droplets shine in the thick, dark strands of his hair.

I put down my book and he startles when he spots me. “What are you doing?”

“Erm, reading.”

“At this time of the night?”

“I can usually manage to do it at all hours of the day and night,” I say mildly.

His eyes narrow. “Why are all the doors open and you’re buried under a duvet?”

“I wanted to hear the rain.” He stares at me as if I’ve spoken a different language. “Don’t worry. It’s not from one of our beds. I borrowed it from another bedroom I found on a second look through the apartment.” I shake my head. “Two bedrooms seemed like overkill. I don’t even know what to say about a third.”

“I’m sure that’s a fib. You always appear to have something to say about any given subject under the sun.”

He tosses his bag on the chair and drifts over to the window. The promised storm rolled in a couple of hours ago, and I’d had a front-row seat as thunder rumbled and Paris lit up withlightning flashes. Now it’s just drizzling, and the city is exactly what he called it—The City of Lights. It’s like someone threw a net of twinkling fairy lights over it.