Page 6 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis (In The Heart of A Valentine #17)

Chapter

Three

NAOMI

The next morning

Maple leaves scattered across the sidewalk in shades of amber and claret, crunching under my wine-red Louboutin heels. I pulled my cream wool coat tighter, the cashmere lining soft against my skin as I strolled through the glass entrance.

In the elevator doors, my reflection stared back at me. The plum bandaged dress accentuated my curves, dangling diamonds earrings sparkled against the fluorescent light, and my makeup was flawless in such a way that you wouldn’t have known about my restless night.

The elevator chimed as I reached the tenth floor, and I walked down the hallway to my corner office suite.

The scent of my peach, apricot, and UVA grape body spray lingered around me—my signature fragrance that clients had come to associate with luxury and discretion.

I’m sure I appeared put together, but this morning, I couldn’t quite shake thoughts of my restless night.

Coffee. I needed coffee to function properly.

I entered my office to see that the usual steaming cup on my desk had already gone cold.

My assistant poured it an hour ago, when I would habitually be entering the office promptly.

But I was too distracted by memories of falling asleep against Christian’s shoulder to get here on time.

The way his fingers had felt intertwined with mine.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat that lulled me to sleep and the jazz music I’d woken up to.

Then last night, I remembered him in my dreams—that five o’clock shadow, brown skin, heavy lidded gaze unreadable but warm, and those powerful forearms with shirt sleeves rolled up sprinkled with hair.

He had that look again, like he saw straight through the facade I was holding on to, and that made me want to fold into his chest and push him away at the same time.

And later, when I leaned into him, when his arm slid around my shoulders, I closed my eyes and let myself pretend, just for a minute, that this was more than an illusion.

“Focus, Naomi,” I muttered to myself, settling behind my mahogany desk and opening my laptop.

The morning light streamed through the windows, illuminating the framed photograph on my desk.

It was my parents at their fortieth wedding anniversary last year.

My father, even in retirement, maintained that military posture in his dress uniform.

My mother was radiant beside him, their love evident in every line of their faces.

I touched the frame, thinking about the way my mother still lit up when my father entered a room. Forty-three years together, and they still held hands during movies. Still laughed at each other’s jokes. Still chose each other every single day.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. “Ms. Blackford? Your ten o’clock is here.”

I glanced up at my assistant, Tamara, who stood in the doorway with a file folder in her hands. “Send her in.”

The young woman who entered looked nervous, fidgeting with the strap of her designer purse.

She was in her early twenties, with styled black, wavy hair, wearing a black sheath dress, also a designer piece.

Ivy League, according to her application.

Stunning, certainly. But there was an air of softness about her that made me wonder if she understood what this business required.

“Please, have a seat.” I gestured to the leather chair across from my desk, studying her as she settled herself. “I’ve reviewed your application, Miss...”

“Carter. Jessica Carter.” She meant to sound sophisticated, but I could hear the breathiness in her tone.

“Tell me, Jessica, why do you want to work for me?”

She straightened, launching into what sounded like a rehearsed speech about financial independence and empowerment. But halfway through, she faltered, and her confidence cracked.

“I... the truth is, I need the money. My trust fund got cut off when I dropped out of law school, and I heard you pay your girls well.”

I leaned back in my chair, appreciating the honesty if not the naivety. “You know, Ms. Carter, my clients expect sophistication, intelligence, and complete discretion. They’re paying for an experience, not just a pretty face.”

“I understand that.”

I opened her file and scanned the information again. “What happens if you like one of them?”

The question seemed to catch her off guard. Her expression faltered, and I saw the uncertainty underneath.

“Well... what do you mean?”

“What if you find yourself counting the minutes until you see him again? What if you start imagining conversations with him when he’s not there? What if the lines between business and personal start to blur?”

Jessica’s eyes widened slightly. “I... that wouldn’t happen. I mean, that’s what the rules are for, right?”

I smiled, but it was hollow. “That’s what the rules are for.”

After Jessica left with a promise to “think about whether this is really what she wants,” I sat, staring at the wall behind my desk. Hanging there in a sleek black frame was a printed card, the words cursively scripted:

No Explanations. No Expectations. No Complications

The rules that had governed my arrangement with Christian were the same rules that had made everything simple, clean, and manageable. I wrote them. Signed them and built an empire on them.

And now, I wanted to break all three.

My phone buzzed against the glass surface of my desk. It was a text from one of my best friends, Journey Peterson: “Let’s grab some coffee later today? I have news!”

I typed back: “I have a busy day ahead. Let’s do it a different day this week.”

Even as I sent the message, I chastised myself for bailing. I could have made time for Journey. I always did. She was one of the few people who could pull me out of my head when I got like this. But today, I didn’t want to risk her reading whatever was written on my face.

Another buzz. This time, a photo from Christian.

The image showed a stunning rooftop view of New York City, with skyscrapers stretching toward a gray September sky. But what drew my attention wasn’t the buildings, it was the edge of the frame, where I could make out two wine glasses on a table. One had the faint trace of lipstick on the rim.

Jealousy knotted in my gut.

Pure and simple.

I stared at the photo, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. “I hope you had a great time with her,” I typed. Then deleted it.

“Looks like rain,” I tried instead. Deleted that, too.

Finally, “Nice view.”

I hit send before I could overthink it further, then immediately wished I hadn’t. No response came, and I checked my phone every few minutes for the rest of the morning.

By lunch, I’d conducted two more interviews, reviewed contracts for three of my girls, and handled a scheduling conflict that required negotiation.

Normal business. Routine tasks. But my mind kept drifting to that photograph, to those wine glasses, to the question of who Christian was with in New York.

“This is ridiculous,” I said aloud, pushing back from my desk.

I walked to the window, looking out at the city below. September in St. Louis showcased brilliant oranges and reds in the trees lining the streets. That would extend to October and then just like that it would all be gone within weeks. Everything was temporary. Everything changed.

Maybe that was the problem. For almost a year, my arrangement with Christian had been a constant thing in my life. In this relationship I knew what to expect, what was allowed, and where the boundaries were. But lately, I’d considered what our situationship would look like if things went further.

My reflection stared back at me from the window glass—successful, independent, intelligent.

But underneath the surface, I could see the truth I’d been avoiding.

I was forty-three years old, and for the first time since my disastrous divorce, I wanted something that violated every rule I’d put in place to protect myself.

I wanted more.

I wanted more dinners like last night. More falling asleep against his shoulder. More of the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention—like I was his precious gift instead of a fleeting moment.

But wanting more was a risk. And I still hadn’t forgiven myself for the mistakes of my past. That had nearly destroyed me once before. I couldn’t let it happen again.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t Christian. It was a number I recognized but hadn’t heard from in months. Gerald. As if thoughts of my past had summoned him.

I stared at his name on the screen, my stomach dropping. Gerald never called unless he needed something. Money, usually. Or bail. Or someone to clean up whatever mess he’d made.

I let it go to voicemail.

Two minutes later, another call. Then another. By the fourth ring, I knew he wasn’t going to give up.

“What do you want, Gerald?” I answered.

“Naomi.” His voice sounded rough, older than I remembered. “I need to see you.”

“No.”

“Please. It’s important. It’s about my health.”

I closed my eyes, feeling the manipulation beginning. Gerald had always been good at finding my weak spots, at knowing which words would make me cave regardless of every rational thought in my head.

“What’s wrong with your health?”

“I can’t discuss it over the phone. Can we meet? Just for coffee. Please, baby. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious.”

The endearment made my skin crawl, but underneath my disgust, I felt that traitorous flicker of concern. With everything he’d put me through, the lies, the cheating, the financial disasters, I was still concerned for him.

“One coffee. That’s it.”

“Thank you. There’s a place on?—”

“I’ll choose the location. Sunday at ten. I’ll text you the address.”

I hung up before he could respond, then immediately regretted agreeing to see him at all. But that was Gerald’s gift, making me feel guilty for protecting myself, making me feel responsible for problems I didn’t create.

I was distracted for the rest of the afternoon. By the time I locked up the office and headed home, the sun was setting behind a bank of gray clouds. It would rain before morning.

My condo was a sophisticated representation of me, immaculate yet empty. I poured myself a glass of wine and settled on the sofa, staring at the coffee table.

I reached for my phone and scrolled to Christian’s contact information. My thumb hovered over his name, and I remembered the photo from this morning. Those wine glasses. That lipstick stain.

Maybe I was imagining connections that weren’t there. Maybe last night had just been dinner and a movie, nothing more meaningful than any other Wednesday in our arrangement.

“This is a normal Wednesday. Not much of a celebration.”

“All of our Wednesdays are a celebration to me.”

I set the phone aside without calling, and still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a fundamental shift between us happening and I held the keys to unlocking what that was.