Page 22 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

I’ve made worse decisions in my life. Probably… possibly .

I pace the bedroom floor like a caged tiger, my steps muffled by the plush rug that probably cost more than my entire apartment’s security deposit.

Every few seconds, I steal a glance at the man sprawled across the California king, his muscular arm flung over his face, his breathing deep and rhythmic.

An escort. I brought a freaking escort to my dad’s— my —brownstone.

In my cannabis-clouded judgment last night, this made perfect sense.

The brownstone was closer to The Plaza than my apartment, and I was in no state to give coherent directions to a cab driver.

“Take me to the multimillion-dollar house my famous, rich author dad just gifted me out of guilt” was a mouthful, so I alluded to Forrest that this was my place .

He didn’t question why the home is so staged—immaculately decorated and devoid of even a speck of dust. To me it’s obvious no one lives here. Forrest didn’t seem to notice.

The memories from last night swim through my brain—scattered, hazy snapshots.

Stars overhead. Stars in my eyes. Nerves prickling my body.

Me, finally out of my own head, saying whatever came to mind.

The pretzel-cart man—our unlikely cupid—transforming his humble food stand into a moonlit ballroom with tinny speakers and a Spotify playlist.

Forrest’s arms were around me, steady and sure.

The way his voice dropped, all smoke and honey, as he explained “White Flag” wasn’t about hopeless longing but about glorious surrender.

About diving headfirst into love’s messy waters, knowing you might drown but jumping anyway.

About refusing to raise the white flag even when the battle’s already lost.

God, the way he looked at me when he said that—like I was the battle he’d gladly lose. Like I was worth the surrender. I know he was merely proving a point by creating a moment…

But it worked. It lingered. The next morning, it’s all I can think about.

This man is excellent at his job.

And that performance he put on is the reason I momentarily lost my damn mind by impulsively sending him ten thousand dollars and propositioning him like I was Julia Roberts in a gender-swapped Pretty Woman .

Except unlike the movies, we never sealed the deal. Somewhere between arriving at the brownstone and me showing him to the master bedroom, I apparently dozed off into an edible-induced slumber. Forrest, being the gentleman he is, just tucked me in and climbed in beside me.

The sun peeks through the blinds, casting stripes of gold across his ridiculously perfect torso. It’s already late morning. Daphne will be here any minute for our book planning session, and I need this gorgeous problem out of my house immediately.

I approach the bed, debating whether to gently nudge him or just yank the covers off entirely. Gentle wins. I’m not a monster.

“Forrest,” I whisper, lightly touching his shoulder. His skin is warm and smooth beneath my fingertips. “Forrest, you need to wake up.”

He stirs, his arm sliding away from his face to reveal those devastating honey-brown eyes, now blinking sleepily up at me. For a moment, he looks confused, then a slow smile spreads across his face.

“Good morning, cookie girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.

“Hi,” I respond lamely, immediately stepping back from the bed. “So, um, you need to go.”

The smile falters. “That’s…direct.”

“I’m sorry,” I rush to explain, twisting my fingers together nervously. “My friend is coming over. She’ll be here any minute. And she can’t know that I, um…”

“Hired an escort?” he finishes for me, sitting up now, the sheet pooling at his waist. I try—and fail—not to stare at his muscular chest. Of course he’s topless, I’m still wearing his shirt from last night.

“Right. That.”

Something flickers across his face—hurt, maybe?—but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, revealing red boxer briefs that fit him like they were painted on.

“Wouldn’t want to tarnish your reputation,” he says lightly, but there’s an edge to it.

“It’s not that,” I protest weakly, though it absolutely is that. “It’s just complicated.”

He stretches his arms overhead, muscles flexing in a way that should be illegal before noon.

“Don’t worry about it. But before I go…” He stands and takes a step toward me, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of his cologne from the night before.

“I want to make sure you get what you paid for.”

My throat goes dry. “What?”

His eyes dance with mischief. “Did you really pay me to cuddle for one night? Or, were you expecting something else?”

“I wasn’t expecting anything.” This is no time for honesty.

So I won’t tell him that when I made that cash transfer, all I could think about was being owned by Forrest for one dirty, salacious evening.

I also won’t tell him that even though all we ended up doing was cuddling, it was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months, wrapped in his strong arms, my head tucked against his chest.

“That’s it? A ten-thousand-dollar cuddle session?” he teases, his voice dropping an octave. “Well, that’s your call.” He surveys the room and shrugs. “I guess judging by your place, you must have money to blow.”

The doorbell rings, the sound echoing through the brownstone’s high ceilings. Panic seizes me.

“That’s her. Daphne’s here.” I grab his arm, my fingers barely spanning his bicep. “Please, please don’t say anything about…your job. Or the money. Or any of it. Actually, if you could just disappear in a hurry, that’d be preferable.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How? We’re on the fourth floor, Sora. Should I go ahead and jump out the window onto the concrete sidewalk?” he snarks.

“Depends. Could you land it?” I deadpan.

He tries to control his smile. “I’d like to live to see my daughter again, so I’m going to pass on that idea. But don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you in front of Daphne. I’ll just quietly wave, lips sealed, and slip out.”

“Wait,” I protest feebly. “Daphne is not going to let you sneak out quietly. I’m not a one-night-stand kind of girl. She’s going to have questions. Could you pretend, just for a bit, that we’re a thing?”

For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse, but then he shrugs, his expression unreadable. “Sure, why not? I can play boyfriend for a bit.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, releasing his arm. “Just stay up here until I call you down, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a mock salute.

I dash down the three flights of stairs, my bare feet slapping against the Tasmanian oak flooring, and fling open the front door to find Daphne on the doorstep, one hand raised to ring the bell again, the other clutching a pink pastry box.

“Finally!” she exclaims, brushing past me into the foyer. “I texted you three times last night. What happened to you? I was starting to really worry. And holy shit , I forgot how nice this place is.”

“Sorry. I, uh, got distracted.”

“Distracted how?” She sets the pastry box on the marble island and turns to face me, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. Then they widen as she takes in my appearance—sleep-tousled hair, oversized men’s dress shirt, bare legs. “Sora Cho-Cooper, do you have a man here?”

“Maybe,” I answer.

Her mouth gapes dramatically. “As in, there’s a man in your bed right now? An actual human male? Not your vibrator with a face drawn on it?”

Before I can answer, a deep voice from the doorway says, “Guilty as charged.”

We both turn to see Forrest leaning casually against the doorframe, wearing only his tuxedo pants from the night before, riding low on his hips. His hair is artfully mussed, his chest still gloriously bare.

His amused smile widens when he meets my gaze. “You drew a face on your vibrator?”

I cross my arms. “I’m not dignifying that with a response.”

“All right, then. I’ll use my imagination.”

While I grumble in annoyance, Daphne’s jaw continues to stretch as she surveys Forrest. “Good grief,” she whispers, not even trying to be subtle.

“Forrest Hawkins,” he introduces himself, crossing the kitchen to extend a hand to my stunned friend. “You must be the best friend I’ve heard so much about.”

“Daphne Jones,” she manages, shaking his hand in a daze. “And I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you.”

Forrest chuckles, the sound warm and rich. “That’s my Sora. Always keeping the best parts of her life private.” He winks at me, and heat rushes into my cheeks.

“ Your Sora?” Daphne repeats, looking between us with growing delight. “So this is…a thing?”

“It’s new,” I interject hastily. “Very new. Which is why I hadn’t told you about it quite yet.”

“Babes, if you’re seeing someone, why didn’t you tell me you had birthday plans? After your mom canceled, I only dragged you to that lame wedding so you wouldn’t be alone. You could’ve been with your guy, instead.”

“He’s not my guy…” I start, my lies already unraveling. Damn Daphne and her intelligence. She’s blond, but most certainly not clueless which isn’t working in my favor at the moment.

“I was working late,” Forrest adds, draping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me against his side. “Damn meetings I couldn’t get out of. But my last client canceled, so I dug up a tux and met Sora at the wedding.”

Daphne narrows her eyes. “That’s right…didn’t I see you there with a woman?—”

“My aunt? Celeste? Crazy coincidence. Actually, not really. She’s the epitome of Manhattan’s elite. Of course she was at the socialite wedding of the year. But yeah, her ex-husband was bothering her, so I sat with her for a while to comfort her. She gets a little handsy when she’s drunk.”

“Ah,” Daphne says, gobbling up his story.

It shocks me how elegantly Forrest lies. He didn’t even flinch. I’m over here sweating so much I’ll be standing in a puddle soon.

“Well, based on the state of you two, I’m guessing your birthday didn’t end up too shitty, then?”