The Billionaire's Command
Page 50
It didn’t make any goddamn sense.
The cab let me off in front of Sasha’s apartment. I bounded up the steps to her front door, but then hesitated before I rang the bell. No perfume or jewelry—I could just imagine her accusing me of trying to buy her off—but I couldn’t show up empty-handed.
Ten minutes later, I was back with a bouquet of white peonies. “These are special flowers,” the man at the flower stand had promised me. “Can’t get them year-round. Whatever you did, she’ll forgive you.” Forgiveness was a lot to ask of twenty dollars’ worth of flowers, but I could use all the help I could get.
I rang the doorbell, and waited.
After a minute, I heard footsteps coming down the staircase. I straightened up, pulling my shoulders back, and trying to look contrite.
Sasha’s face appeared in the window. She looked at me, frowned, and turned to go back upstairs.
Unacceptable. I banged on the door and shouted, “Sasha, I need to talk to you.”
She shrugged dramatically, hands uplifted by her shoulders, and kept walking.
“I won’t go away,” I called. “Your neighbors will call the cops. It’s going to be really embarrassing.”
She stopped, and I saw her head tilt back—probably looking up at the ceiling in frustration. She was stubborn, but I was stubborn, too, and I didn’t intend to leave until she, at the very least, accepted the goddamn flowers.
I hated wasting money.
She came back to the door and looked at me through the glass. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and her eyes looked puffy and lined, like she had been crying or hadn’t gotten enough sleep. I knew the feeling.
I held up the flowers so that she could see them.
Something in her expression changed, a minute softening. She frowned at me, and shook her head, and then opened the door just a crack.
I quickly inserted my foot between the door and the jamb, in case she changed her mind. “Sasha, I’m sorry,” I said. I thrust the flowers toward her. “I just want to talk.”
She gave me a suspicious look, eyes narrowed, but she accepted the flowers and lifted them to her face, her eyes closing as she inhaled.
“I was wrong to get angry,” I said. “I know you wouldn’t have violated our contract like that.”
She opened the door fully, then, and let me into the building. “Come upstairs,” she said. “I don’t want my neighbors hearing all my business.”
We climbed the stairs in silence. I watched the sweet sway of her hips in her little running shorts, and then forced my thoughts into chaster pastures. I was trying to apologize, not fuck her on the living room rug.
The apartment was quiet, when we came into it, and I asked, “Is Yolanda here?”
Sasha shook her head. “She’s out with some friends.” She went into the kitchen and took a glass jar from the cupboard. She filled it with water and then arranged the flowers in it, moving the individual stems this way and that until she was satisfied.
I stood in the living room, waiting for her, trying to think of what to say.
I had rehearsed it, in the cab ride: the perfect speech, the exact words to make her forgive me. But now, watching her, I had forgotten all of it.
Finished, she came back into the living room and looked up at me, wiping her hands on her shorts. I touched her hair, her upturned cheek, and watched, delighted, as a pink flush spread across her face. She turned her head aside. “You called me a whore,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was.
“You told me you wouldn’t say it again, and then you did anyway,” she said.
I winced. “I know.”
“You can’t just apologize and think that makes it all go away,” she said. “I was just talking to him, and you came in and—”
“I was angry,” I said. “And—hurt.” I forced out the words. I didn’t want to talk about my feelings, but I knew I had to, if I wanted Sasha to forgive me. She would need to see me vulnerable, to know that I was sincere. “The thought of another man touching you—well. I wanted to kill him, so you should congratulate me on my admirable restraint.”
She gave me a small smile, just a wry upturn of her mouth. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t even punch him.” I sighed, and drew one hand over my face. “It wasn’t about the contract. Fuck the contract. Sasha, I’m—I’ve grown attached to you. I don’t want you to be angry with me. I want—”
She crossed her arms, looking amused, damn her. “You have to say it.”
“Use your imagination,” I said.
“That won’t work,” she said, “because I’m not totally sure what you’re going to say.”
For Christ’s sake. Women existed to torment me. “Fine,” I said, through gritted teeth. “I want to—to date you.” Fuck, that sounded so stupid. “I want you to—I don’t want it to be about money. I’ll give you money, of course, if you need it. But I want you to spend time with me because you want to.”
“That was very sweet,” she said. “It’s almost like you’re a real person with emotions and everything.”
“Sasha,” I growled, having reached the limit of what I could tolerate.
She must have sensed it, because she laid one hand on my arm and said, “I’m just teasing. It was sweet. You really upset me, and I’m still angry, and I don’t think I’m ready to forgive you just yet. But you can speed along the process by bringing me some more flowers.”
“Just tell me what kind,” I said, as raw and honest as I had ever been with another person, and she flung her arms around my neck and kissed me.
I slid one arm around her waist and held her close, her curvy body pressed against mine. She smelled incredible and felt even better. I wanted to take her to bed and keep her there all afternoon. But when I tried to deepen the kiss, she pulled away from me and took a step back.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in jeans,” she said.
The non sequitur made my head spin. “I wear jeans a lot.”
“I’ve only seen you in suits,” she said. “Or, like. In the remnants of a suit. You know, after you take the jacket off.”
“Believe it or not, I don’t wear suits when I’m not working,” I said. “Stick around long enough, and you might even see my hairy knees in shorts.”
The cab let me off in front of Sasha’s apartment. I bounded up the steps to her front door, but then hesitated before I rang the bell. No perfume or jewelry—I could just imagine her accusing me of trying to buy her off—but I couldn’t show up empty-handed.
Ten minutes later, I was back with a bouquet of white peonies. “These are special flowers,” the man at the flower stand had promised me. “Can’t get them year-round. Whatever you did, she’ll forgive you.” Forgiveness was a lot to ask of twenty dollars’ worth of flowers, but I could use all the help I could get.
I rang the doorbell, and waited.
After a minute, I heard footsteps coming down the staircase. I straightened up, pulling my shoulders back, and trying to look contrite.
Sasha’s face appeared in the window. She looked at me, frowned, and turned to go back upstairs.
Unacceptable. I banged on the door and shouted, “Sasha, I need to talk to you.”
She shrugged dramatically, hands uplifted by her shoulders, and kept walking.
“I won’t go away,” I called. “Your neighbors will call the cops. It’s going to be really embarrassing.”
She stopped, and I saw her head tilt back—probably looking up at the ceiling in frustration. She was stubborn, but I was stubborn, too, and I didn’t intend to leave until she, at the very least, accepted the goddamn flowers.
I hated wasting money.
She came back to the door and looked at me through the glass. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and her eyes looked puffy and lined, like she had been crying or hadn’t gotten enough sleep. I knew the feeling.
I held up the flowers so that she could see them.
Something in her expression changed, a minute softening. She frowned at me, and shook her head, and then opened the door just a crack.
I quickly inserted my foot between the door and the jamb, in case she changed her mind. “Sasha, I’m sorry,” I said. I thrust the flowers toward her. “I just want to talk.”
She gave me a suspicious look, eyes narrowed, but she accepted the flowers and lifted them to her face, her eyes closing as she inhaled.
“I was wrong to get angry,” I said. “I know you wouldn’t have violated our contract like that.”
She opened the door fully, then, and let me into the building. “Come upstairs,” she said. “I don’t want my neighbors hearing all my business.”
We climbed the stairs in silence. I watched the sweet sway of her hips in her little running shorts, and then forced my thoughts into chaster pastures. I was trying to apologize, not fuck her on the living room rug.
The apartment was quiet, when we came into it, and I asked, “Is Yolanda here?”
Sasha shook her head. “She’s out with some friends.” She went into the kitchen and took a glass jar from the cupboard. She filled it with water and then arranged the flowers in it, moving the individual stems this way and that until she was satisfied.
I stood in the living room, waiting for her, trying to think of what to say.
I had rehearsed it, in the cab ride: the perfect speech, the exact words to make her forgive me. But now, watching her, I had forgotten all of it.
Finished, she came back into the living room and looked up at me, wiping her hands on her shorts. I touched her hair, her upturned cheek, and watched, delighted, as a pink flush spread across her face. She turned her head aside. “You called me a whore,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was.
“You told me you wouldn’t say it again, and then you did anyway,” she said.
I winced. “I know.”
“You can’t just apologize and think that makes it all go away,” she said. “I was just talking to him, and you came in and—”
“I was angry,” I said. “And—hurt.” I forced out the words. I didn’t want to talk about my feelings, but I knew I had to, if I wanted Sasha to forgive me. She would need to see me vulnerable, to know that I was sincere. “The thought of another man touching you—well. I wanted to kill him, so you should congratulate me on my admirable restraint.”
She gave me a small smile, just a wry upturn of her mouth. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t even punch him.” I sighed, and drew one hand over my face. “It wasn’t about the contract. Fuck the contract. Sasha, I’m—I’ve grown attached to you. I don’t want you to be angry with me. I want—”
She crossed her arms, looking amused, damn her. “You have to say it.”
“Use your imagination,” I said.
“That won’t work,” she said, “because I’m not totally sure what you’re going to say.”
For Christ’s sake. Women existed to torment me. “Fine,” I said, through gritted teeth. “I want to—to date you.” Fuck, that sounded so stupid. “I want you to—I don’t want it to be about money. I’ll give you money, of course, if you need it. But I want you to spend time with me because you want to.”
“That was very sweet,” she said. “It’s almost like you’re a real person with emotions and everything.”
“Sasha,” I growled, having reached the limit of what I could tolerate.
She must have sensed it, because she laid one hand on my arm and said, “I’m just teasing. It was sweet. You really upset me, and I’m still angry, and I don’t think I’m ready to forgive you just yet. But you can speed along the process by bringing me some more flowers.”
“Just tell me what kind,” I said, as raw and honest as I had ever been with another person, and she flung her arms around my neck and kissed me.
I slid one arm around her waist and held her close, her curvy body pressed against mine. She smelled incredible and felt even better. I wanted to take her to bed and keep her there all afternoon. But when I tried to deepen the kiss, she pulled away from me and took a step back.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in jeans,” she said.
The non sequitur made my head spin. “I wear jeans a lot.”
“I’ve only seen you in suits,” she said. “Or, like. In the remnants of a suit. You know, after you take the jacket off.”
“Believe it or not, I don’t wear suits when I’m not working,” I said. “Stick around long enough, and you might even see my hairy knees in shorts.”
