Page 43 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

Who kisses like that on accident?

The thought blazes through my mind like a comet, bright and terrifying and impossible to ignore as I stare into Forrest’s eyes.

We’re standing on the upper deck of this ridiculous yacht—this floating palace that puts even my father’s extravagant brownstone to shame—with Manhattan’s skyline glittering behind us like someone scattered diamonds across black velvet.

“I still have a few tricks up my sleeve,” he just said, and the promise in his voice is still making my stomach do flips.

I claimed to be immune to his charm. But standing here in my repaired dress with its new Swarovski crystals catching the first hint of moonlight, with his arms around me, and the lingering taste of chocolate and him on my lips, I’m losing my grip on reality.

“What surprises?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain steady, unaffected. Like he didn’t just kiss me senseless. Like I didn’t just lie through my teeth about feeling nothing.

His smile is slow, confident, a billionaire’s smile that says he owns the world. But there’s something softer in his eyes, something that makes me wonder which Forrest I’m seeing right now—the escort playing a role, or the man underneath.

“Dance with me,” he says, holding out his hand.

More romantic dancing? What the hell? This reckless fucker is trying to make me fall in love with him.

The string quartet we passed earlier has relocated to the upper deck, settling in a corner with their instruments. At some invisible signal from Forrest, they begin to play.

“Oh,” I breathe as the first notes drift across the deck. “This is…”

“Dido,” he finishes for me. “The pretzel cart. The sidewalk. You remember?”

As if I could forget. The memory of our first dance is etched into my mind like an engraving—the night air, the pretzel vendor’s cheap speakers, Forrest’s arms steady around me as my world spun from those accidental edibles.

The melody of “White Flag” floats around us, carried on the sea breeze. I place my hand in his, letting him draw me close. His palm is warm against the small of my back, and I can feel the strength in his shoulders beneath my fingertips.

“I remember you explaining the song to me,” I say, following his lead as we begin to sway. “About surrender and going down with the ship.”

“About choosing love even when it’s messy,” he adds, his voice low near my ear. “About refusing to give up.”

I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me. This is dangerous territory. This whole evening has been strategically designed to make me feel things—to give me authentic emotional material for my writing. But the problem is, it’s working too well.

The yacht rocks gently beneath us, a subtle reminder that we’re floating, untethered to the real world.

It would be so easy to get lost in this scene—to believe this is my life, that I’m the kind of woman who has five-course dinners on private yachts, who dances under the stars with a man who looks at me like I’m the center of his universe.

“Did I do all right?” Forrest asks after a moment, his mouth plush against my temple. “The whole point of these dates is to spark your creativity. I did a lot of billionaire romance tropes research, trying to get it right. How’d it land?”

I pull back just enough to look at him and smirk. “Google steered you right.”

He spins me in a slow circle before drawing me back to his chest. “My roommate, Taio, was surprisingly helpful—turns out he’s secretly addicted to romance novels. Who knew?”

The image of Forrest’s roommate—all muscle and swagger—devouring romance books is so incongruous that I can’t help but laugh. “Seriously?”

“Even I was surprised. Taio is all macho and bro-ish, I had no idea he was obsessed.”

“A guy who reads romance books… that’s hot .”

Forrest abruptly halts. “Watch it,” he growls against my ear.

Seizing an opportunity to unnerve him, I continue, “Is Taio an Asian name?”

He blinks at me, very unimpressed. He barely musters a response. “His mother is Japanese.”

“Asian American and loves romance books? We have so much in common already. So, when do I get to meet this… Taio ?”

“Never,” Forrest grunts, moving his feet again. “He’s an escort too, so don’t get your hopes up.”

Ha, nice try. Apparently that vocation doesn’t deter me. “Clearly you’ve never heard of why choose,” I mumble.

“I haven’t, but I can guess. And no . I won’t be sharing you with anyone. You’re mine.”

“We said this was strictly business. No strings attached.”

“You’re at least mine for this dance, so let’s drop the dirty thoughts about my dumbass best friend, okay?”

I can’t help but poke the bear one more time. Mostly because it’s fun. But partly because jealous Forrest is doing things to my insides again. “I bet he’s tall,” I daydream. “What’s his going rate?”

He yanks me tighter against his body, winding me. “Really, pipsqueak? Six foot two isn’t enough for you? You know I nearly break my back every time I have to lean down to kiss you.”

“Mhm, your outrage is only telling me one thing. Taio is taller than you, isn’t he?”

“Six foot four,” he begrudgingly provides. “You done?” He swats my backside rather firmly as I giggle against his chest.

“That’s what you get for telling me I kiss like a fish.”

“Have you ever kissed a fish?” he asks. “Maybe that was a compliment.”

“Gross,” I grumble.

He kisses the top of my head. “You are by far the best I’ve ever had, my little conch shell. A kiss I’ll remember until my dying day.”

“Aaand back in character.”

His chest lifts as he sighs heavily, but he doesn’t say anything. We just continue to dance until the song fades.

“This billionaire date was executed perfectly, but I think I’ve had a revelation.”

“Being?” Forrest prompts, intrigue lining his voice.

“I’m not so into it.”

He scoffs. “Good to know.”

“No, no,” I say, cuddling closer into him. “I mean it’s not the luxury that makes this night magical. It’s all the effort you put in. That’s the secret sauce. I think I could do that with a different genre.”

“So no billionaires for your bestseller?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I’d be chasing trends, forcing it. It’s the eternal struggle—write for the market or write for yourself.”

“Sounds familiar,” he murmurs. “Do what pays the bills or do what feels right.”

The parallel isn’t lost on me—his escorting versus the legal career he walked away from. We’re both compromising in our own ways, both trying to find our paths.

“Write what you love. It’ll work out, Sora. Don’t worry too much. I got you.”

We fall into a comfortable silence, still moving together beneath the stars. The yacht rocks gently beneath our feet, the lights of passing boats reflecting on the dark water. A server appears briefly with champagne flutes, but Forrest waves him away. Everything falls away.

“So I had one more thing planned for this evening, but now I don’t know if I should do it, since you’re over billionaires and all.”

“Try me,” I hum out.

He guides me toward one of the plush sofas that line the deck.

I sit down, arranging my dress carefully around me.

The fabric shimmers under the deck lights and I’m distracted like a fish by my own shininess.

I can see my breath, the evening air chilly, but I don’t tell Forrest that.

He’d offer me his coat, and I don’t want my ensemble disturbed.

I feel like a princess tonight, done up like I’m Cinderella headed to the ball.

I only have a few more minutes until the clock strikes twelve.

I’ll let him go, I swear. But right now I’m savoring every second.

Forrest stands in front of me, looking uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“From what I learned, a lot of billionaire romance books have that big proposal moment—the girl softens the bosshole, he has some big, sappy declaration of love, and then of course, that fat diamond he gives her after promising he’ll take care of her forever.”

“Oh yes, painfully cliché, and the ring is always the size of her fist, even though she’s not into money of course.” I clutch my fingers together in a tight ball proving my point.

“This one isn’t quite the size of a fist.”

“What?” I ask, my voice coming out higher than intended.

His eyes lock with mine as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. My heart stops, then restarts at double speed.

“I wanted to give you that big movie moment—is this going too far?”

Yes , I think. “No,” I say, desperately. “Just do it.”

“Nike style, I like it,” he says with a grin, then his smile disappears.

Clearing his throat, he drops right back into character.

“Sora, little conch shell, Cho-Cooper,” he begins, opening the box to reveal a ring that catches the light like a miniature sun.

“I know this might seem sudden, but in my experience, love only happens when you truly let it. For a man like me, who has everything money can buy, I knew I had absolutely nothing worth keeping until the moment you walked into my life.”

I stare at him, unable to breathe. I’m well aware these are theatrics, so why is my treacherous heart still pounding like it might explode?

“You challenge me,” he continues, “you inspire me, you make me see the world differently,” he continues. “And for fuck’s sake…your tight little pussy?—”

“Don’t ruin it,” I hiss.

He laughs, a rumble from deep within his belly. “My point is, I will wake up every single day for the rest of my life grateful to be alive as long as you’re beside me. Will you marry me?”

“Did you ask my dad?” I bumble out, trying to be funny, even though my watering eyes are quite real.

“Definitely not.”

“Then the answer is yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.”

He slides the ring onto my finger—a perfect fit, which seems impossible—and leans close to whisper in my ear, “Unfortunately, we’ll have to give the ring back.”

“ Nooope . Not happening. It’s stunning,” I say, admiring how the diamond catches the light. The band is platinum, I think, with smaller diamonds flanking the center stone. It looks antique, with delicate filigree work that speaks of craftmanship and history.

“Sora, I could go to jail if you ran off with something like this.”

“A risk I’m willing to take,” I tease. “How much is something like this worth?”

“Two of your brownstones,” Forrest answers without missing a beat.

“Jesus,” I breathe. “That’s obscene.”

“That’s billionaire romance,” he counters with a smirk.

He joins me on the sofa, his arm stretching casually along the back behind me. His fingers are close enough to my bare shoulder that I can feel their warmth, but he doesn’t quite touch me.

“So, what do you think? Did it give you butterflies?” he asks, adorably eager.

I twist the ring on my finger, watching the play of light across its facets. The weight of it is both foreign and oddly satisfying. I’ve never been the kind of girl who spent hours dreaming about engagement rings, but I have to admit, this one is breathtaking.

“An entire butterfly garden,” I tell him. “The yacht, the private chef, the string quartet, the proposal under the stars…it’s textbook perfection. But like I said, not for me.”

His fingers brush against my shoulder, sending a small shiver along my back. “What would win you over, then? If not wealth and luxury?”

The question feels weighted with layers of meaning neither of us is ready to acknowledge.

“I don’t know yet. But it needs to be real and honest. Not like this. Not the things you and I can’t have.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Hurt pinches Forrest’s face before he can mask it, and I wish I could take it back.

“I’m sorry?—”

“Don’t be,” he says. “You’re right. This isn’t real.”

A heaviness settles over us, a shared recognition of the boundaries we’ve established and the pretense that keeps us safe. The string quartet has begun playing again, something slow and melancholy that matches the sudden shift in mood.

I find myself staring at the ring again, imagining a version of reality where it isn’t borrowed, where Forrest isn’t playing a part, where I’m not just gathering material for a book.

“I used to pretend I was engaged when I was little,” I confess, the words slipping out unbidden. “I’d wrap a piece of yarn around my finger and make up elaborate stories about my ‘fiancé’ for my stuffed animals. They were very impressed.”

Forrest’s smile returns, softer now. “What was he like? Your imaginary fiancé?”

“Strong. Kind.” I laugh a little, embarrassed. “He had a horse named Lightning.”

“Of course he did.” Forrest chuckles. “Every good fiancé needs a trusty steed.”

“What about you?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Did you ever imagine your future spouse when you were younger?”

He’s quiet for a moment, considering. “I can honestly say I don’t ever think about love until I’m somehow already in it.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the distant hum of the yacht’s engines and the gentle lapping of water against the hull the only sounds. The city is growing closer as we make our way back to the marina, the night drawing to a close.

Forrest stands, holding out his hand once more. “One more dance?”

I accept his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. This time when he holds me, there’s a reverence to his touch, as if I’m something precious and fragile.

I close my eyes, surrendering to the fantasy. For these few stolen moments, I allow myself to believe that this is my life—that I’m a woman newly engaged to a man who adores me, that we’re celebrating our love beneath the stars, that our future stretches before us, bright with promise.

“Just for tonight,” I whisper, almost incoherently.

The music envelops us, and I try to memorize every detail—the feel of his arms around me, the scent of his cologne, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek. I want to capture it all, preserve it for when this night is just a memory.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Forrest says suddenly.

“It would be impossible right now.” I nuzzle deeper into his chest.

“When you said earlier that we should have a lot of sex, what exactly does that mean? How much sex is a lot for you?”

I chuckle. “Worried I’m going to wear you out?”

“Answer the question, Sora,” he breathes out, not matching my humor, too focused on the answer.

“I don’t know, like twice a week? Or is that excessive? What’s a lot of sex to you?”

His Adam’s apple leaps, then falls as he swallows heavily. “Um, yeah. Same. Twice a…week.”

He’s normally a fantastic liar. Right now, not so much. And the rock-hard cylinder suddenly pressed against my stomach tells me what’s definitely on his mind. “Soon. Not tonight though. Tonight, I want the night to end exactly like this,” I confirm.

Stars in the sky. Stars in my eyes.

But the brightest star nestled on my left hand for now.