Something is different.

I stretch out in my bed, my spine lengthening and arms reaching above my head, the sheets smooth on my naked body, a grin already plastered on my face. The morning sunlight streams in through the window of my tiny studio apartment, and for once it seems almost beautiful.

What’s different?

I’m so deliciously, deliciously tired that even the insistent beeping of the alarm takes a good minute to make any impression. I’m still grinning into my pillow like an idiot. I only reach over and silence the alarm when it starts to break into my fantastic mood.

The sheets still smell like him.

Like Weston.

The images from last night sweep over me like a tsunami, and the warm joy glowing in my chest clicks.

Yes. That’s why I feel so damn good.

I don’t even care that I’m going to be late for class.

I bolt upright in bed, running a hand through my tousled hair. Shit. Shit! I’m going to be late for class!

I laugh out loud as I fling myself out of bed and race for the bathroom, making it there in a record two steps. My alarm had been going off for a solid forty minutes before I realized it, so I’m out of time. If I’m going to catch the last train with a stop near Anderson, I need to leave here in ten minutes. Yesterday, I would have been clenching my jaw in grim determination, cursing myself all the way.

This morning?

It’s still sunny out and it has the makings of a beautiful day, and that’s all that matters, right?

“Get a hold of yourself, Juliet,” I say out loud, as I rapidly massage the shampoo from root to tip and whip my loofah over my skin and run the razor over my legs and under my arms. I’m in and out in two minutes, maybe less, and twisting my hair into a low bun at the nape of my neck as soon I’m done drying myself off.

I tug the first sleeveless blouse I reach and some professional-enough capris out of the closet, slip them on over the first pair of panties and bra I grab from my dresser drawer, and snatch my bag off the floor by the front door. I didn’t get a chance to study yesterday, but for the first time since fall classes began a month ago, I can’t force myself to feel that pit of dread churning in my gut.

Because last night was amazing on a level I can’t even begin to describe in words.

I grab my keys off the hook by the door and step on something as I’m pulling open the door. 

It’s the spare key that hangs on the last of the four hooks on the keyholder, and it’s folded into a sheet of paper from the printer.

My Juliet—

I had some things to finish up at the office and couldn’t bear to wake you. We shouldn’t stay up so late at night…unless, that is, you want to.

I’ll see you later, angel—

W

I clutch the paper to my chest, then laugh out loud again. Who am I? What is this?

Love, comes the answer, and I laugh again, because it’s so absurd to admit, even in the privacy of my own mind, that I might be falling in love with Weston Grant. It’s absurd, because what we have is an arrangement, not a real relationship.

Does he even have real relationships? Can a person who makes his living doing what he does, with such a relentless drive for profit and profit only, fall in love?

No. What we have has an expiration date that has to be non-negotiable if I’m ever going to get back to the life I had before, the life that was of my own making. The life that my parents would be proud of.

But today, I don’t care. There are thirteen entire days before I have to seriously consider this again, and I’m going to spend at least one of them not having a single care in the world.

Except for getting to class on time.

I shove the note and spare key into my bag and pull my apartment door tight behind me. I lock up, jiggling the key and testing the doorknob to make sure nobody can steal my precious books.

Then I turn on my heel and run.

Weston is waiting for me when my last class is over—waiting for me, his face lighting up like the sunrise when he sees me coming down the front steps at Anderson. He’s standing in front of his town car, his jacket off with his shirt sleeves rolled up, looking every inch the same as he did when he appeared at my doorway last night.

Only he’s wearing a different shirt, a different pair of slacks, and an entirely different grin on his handsome-as-hell face.

I’m wet just looking at him from across the sidewalk.

“How was class?”

I hesitate a few steps away from him, taking him all in. What does it mean, now that I’m his? I’m not sure whether I should kiss him in greeting, or just duck into the car like some socialite leaving a club at four in the morning.

He solves that problem for me by stepping forward, putting his arm around the small of my back, and guiding me into the car. As soon as he’s pulled the door shut behind us, his mouth is on mine, hot and hard and minty. The car pulls away from the curb, and I don’t care where we’re going. I don’t care what we’re doing. I’m lost in Weston Grant for the millionth time in twenty-four hours.

I pull away, finally, gasping for a breath. “It was good.”

Weston’s green eyes—green with a splash of blue around the center, I’m just noticing now for the first time, unbelievably—dance. “What was good? The kiss? You can be so strange, Juliet James.”

“Class. It was good. All of them were good. I just barely made it on time.”

That grin spreads across his face again and the heat intensifies between my legs. I’m about to ruin his upholstery. “You overslept?”

“I don’t know how I could have done anything else, after—”

I don’t get to finish the sentence, because Weston is pressing me up against the door of the car, my back pinned against the armrest, his hand sliding up my skirt. Tugging my panties aside. Fingers, thick and insistent, pushing into me, his thumb reaching for my clit, and then he curls them and the heat explodes out over his hand.

“Sorry,” he says, and he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I couldn’t wait another second, angel.”

“That’s….” I push a few tendrils of hair back from my face, my legs shaking against the seat. “That’s—I forgive you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

It only occurs to me then to find out if we have any privacy at all, and a sigh of relief escapes me. The divider between us and the front of the car is firmly in place.

Weston is hard, the bulge in his pants clearly visible. 

I reach for him.

He puts a hand out and stops my wrist, and my gut twists. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says, kissing my temple. “It’s just that we’ll be there in a minute.”

“Where?”

“I think it’s time, angel, that you visited my place.”