Nellie

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Bishop was avoiding me.

There was no mistaking it; I'd catch glimpses of him before or after walking the dogs, but that was all. He was acting like he hadn't offered to let me be his baby-making-dog-walker. I was oddly irritated by that. So irritated, in fact, that I was starting to WANT to talk to him.

By the time I'd worked up the determination to confront him, he was nowhere to be found. His presence was absent in the house that morning, and he remained a ghost when I returned with the two exhausted dogs.

Washing my hands in the kitchen sink, I perked up at the sound of footsteps. The sight of Bishop's mother and not the man himself deflated me. She was holding a gold paper bag in one hand, looped as if it was an expensive Gucci purse. “You're back,” she said. “Good. How were they?”

“Fine. I'm worried about the heat, though. I might have to take them out even earlier until it cools down.” I wiped my palms on my jeans; she squinted, like I'd offended her. Should've used a towel like a properly fancy person. “Hey,” I began, before I could stop myself, “Is Bishop distracted lately?”

She adjusted her thin shawl while scrutinizing me. “My son has a large amount of responsibilities to attend to. It’s a wonder I can get him to do half of what he should, especially when he keeps adding in new obstacles. Did you know it was HIS idea that we get those dogs?”

Blinking, I looked down at the fluffy puppers. “I didn’t, no.” He did say he'd named them, though, so maybe it shouldn't be so surprising.

“He was supposed to take them on his morning jogs, but I guess he's never been the type to keep his promises.” Flinching at the rush of coolness that attacked my heart, I started for the door. “Wait. Nell, do me a favor.” She offered me the paper bag; inside was a wooden box wrapped in a silver ribbon. “It's a gift for the diplomat Bishop is entertaining. They’re having lunch at the Elephant Room.”

Clutching the thin, rough handles, I swallowed. “You want me to bring this to him—er, to them?”

“It should be on your way home. I hate to ask, but I've got my own things to get to.”

I couldn't say no. Or that's what I told myself, because deep down, I knew I was using this as an excuse to corner Bishop. “I'll do it, sure.”

“You're a life saver.” Her thin lips slipped into a smile that was almost appreciative. It was the face of someone who was happy they were getting their way. But that was fine, because I knew how she felt.

I was getting my way, too.

****

The Elephant room was gold and silver, like someone had melted a giant Christmas ornament all over the walls. Every person that wasn't sitting at a table was rushing around in a pale gray suit or skirt, trays balanced on their palms; thick, black folders stuffed with thicker credit cards under their arms.

I dodged the servers, winding my way through the tables and trying not to gawk at the ceiling. Gold-dusted tusks—that I sure hoped were fake—jutted down to create a breathtaking sculpture of an elephant's head.

This place was expensive.

This place wasn't meant for me.

“Nell!” It was Bishop who called my name, waving at me from a long, dark table set against the back wall. The men sitting with him looked as expensive as the Lamborghinis outside. I wondered why they didn't have a private room, until I understood that being seen was the whole point.

Approaching with the paper bag at my side, I wished I'd changed into something nicer. Jeans and a washed-too-many-times blue racerback stood out among all this glamour. But the way Bishop's eyes hung on me, as if I were more stunning than the architecture above, said otherwise. He appreciated what he saw. So did I.

Like the time I'd seen him surrounded by women who wanted his surname, he was wearing a fine suit jacket and dark pants that glided over his strong thighs and firm ass. We both knew I was staring, but he wasn't expecting me to hold his gaze, making a face as if to say, Yeah, you're hot, but what happens next?

Holding out the bag to him, I said, “Your mom asked me to bring this to you.”

“She sent me a text or twenty about how I'd forgotten it.”

He reached for the bag. I let him take it, clinging to it a second longer. “You do seem like you're forgetful lately.”

His face went rigid—so did his grip. “Maybe. Or maybe I'm just putting my energy into something very important.”

Was that a jab at how I wasn't important? Studying his hard-set jaw, I watched it relax, saw how his fingers loosened at his sides. He wasn't upset with me... he was stressed. Following where his eyes flicked to, I saw the man sitting at the other end of the table.

He was staring at us.

No... at me.

His skin was caramel brown, only a bit lighter than his hair. He was dressed in just a loose white shirt, but somehow, he seemed more opulent than everyone else. I spotted his Apple watch, the newest smart phone resting on the table, and the cocky, inquisitive smile as he looked me over.

I didn't know him, but I knew men like him.

“Bishop,” he called, motioning with two fingers. “Who is this lovely woman who's joined us?”

Lines passed across Bishop's forehead. Then they were gone and he was taking me by the elbow towards the other man. His grip was firm—welcome. It sparked the too-real memory of our shower encounter, reminding my body how talented his fingers could be when they tried.

Everyone else had quieted, watching curiously, listening in. They, too, wanted to learn who I was. This attention was new for me. It made my skin sticky, my mouth so dry I was tempted to snatch an unfinished drink off the table and chug it.

Letting me go, Bishop folded his arms. “This is Nellie Pinewood. Nell, this is Corriane Flemish, a diplomat from Jordan and the biggest cheat in Black Jack that I know.”

“Tsk, flattery,” Corriane said, looking too amused. He reached out for me and, compelled by all the movies I'd seen, I offered him my hand. He kissed it; his lips were much scratchier than Bishop's. “It's a pleasure to meet the woman who's managed to steal the fickle heart of Bishop Callehurst.”

“Oh, no, that's not...” I almost said I'm just the dog walker! Before I could, Bishop wrapped his arms around my middle from behind, his chin settling on my head. I was blushing and I could do nothing to fix it.

“I'm not fickle,” Bishop said into my hair. “I'm just picky.”

Not so picky. He chose me after one quick fuck.

My own callous thoughts burned me like acid.

Corriane was still smiling. I could see the shape of it behind the tall glass he'd picked up to sip. “I'd love to learn more about such a special woman. Join us for lunch, Nellie. Please.”

****

Day became night, and not once did the restaurant try to usher us out. How could they? The bill this group of men was racking up was immense. They ordered bottles of scotch older than me, demanding that the waitresses join in for a sip or four.

The celebration winded down until it was only me, Bishop, Corriane and the two men I learned were his bodyguards. They weren't impressing me—both were red faced and drunk.

“Now that it's quieter,” Corriane said, leaning forward to speak to us privately, “I suggest we go have some real fun.”

Bishop eyed me with something dark and wary. It was a look that didn't fit him, like a coat two sizes too small. “Not tonight.”

Both men shared a look, then Corriane smiled sweetly at me. “Could I have a moment with my friend?”

“Oh, sure. I'll just...” Motioning at nothing, I stood and hurried to the bathroom. The buzz of alcohol had made me unsteady. I wasn't drunk, just loose in my knees; grateful for my sneakers. I'd seen the heels most of the women in this place were wearing. I'd envied them until now.

Wasting time doing nothing, I looked into the silver, sleek toilet in the restroom stall. It spoke to me in a sweet voice that had my hair standing on end. “How may I serve you?”

Even their toilets drip money, I mused. Facing the gigantic mirror, I tried to fix my hair. I really needed to clean up—did I smell like sweat? Was that why they were reluctant to go out with me?

Washing my face, I tied my hair back and decided that was good enough. Whatever Bishop and Corriane wanted to do, I'd go as is... or I'd just head home. It was late, anyway.

Returning to the main restaurant, I saw that Bishop was standing—hunched over Corriane who was still sitting, the two of them talking in coarse, low tones. I spotted the golden bag his mother had given me. It was sitting, forgotten, on the table. Picking it up, I stood across from Bishop, wondering what was going on.

Corriane saw me first. His glare was poison, his tone dismissive. “Is it because of her? Is that why you won't go?” He made a rude noise. “Send her away. She's your woman, she'll listen.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, so stunned it took me a second to register his comment.

The vein along Bishop's throat pulsed. “Stop it. Don't you dare.”

“What?” he laughed, pushing his chair back but not standing. “Are you scared of her? You? Bishop Callehurst, the man who could get any one of the women in this place to bend over for you in public if you just say the word?”

“Leave it, Corriane.”

“Pathetic. I'm nowhere near as rich as you, and do you think my fiancée would dare to talk back to me? Now, take me to one of the local strip clubs. You're supposed to show me a good time, like your father said. This farce is over with.”

Bishop had steadily grown more crimson. Sweat shone on his forehead, his body so still, so coiled, he could have jumped through the damn ceiling. He was furious.

It wasn't Bishop who exploded; it was me.

The wooden box in the bag was as good a weapon as any. Bunching up my muscles and wishing I'd taken baseball lessons, I threw it right into Corriane's chest. He caught it, grunting in pain, his face draining of color—I was sure he'd vomit and was disappointed when he didn't. “You asshole,” I hissed. “A strip club? You're engaged! How disgusting could you be?” I was seething with anger for this woman I'd never met. How could he disrespect his fiancée so much?

Slowly, so slowly, Corriane lifted his head. His grimace twisted his handsome face into something monstrous. But that was nothing compared to his smile. “Oh ho,” he wheezed. Coughing, he gathered himself, speaking more steadily. “You chose a girl with fire in her, Bishop. Or... did you actually choose her? There's been no wedding, surely, or I'd have been invited.”

I knew Bishop was staring at me; I didn't look away from Corriane.

He kept speaking. “You're no one, Nellie Pinewood. Not Bishop's wife, not even his fiancée. Certainly not someone with any right to tell me how to treat my woman. I'd warn you to watch your back, because I could make your life with Bishop's family quite terrible, but I suspect that I won't have to bother. Hopefully his next girl knows her place.”

I was shaking violently.

Corriane went to stand, but the wooden box shifted in his lap. He grabbed it, squinting at the silver ribbon, seeing it all for the first time. “Thank your mother for me, Bishop. No, wait, I'll do the honor myself.” He didn't know what the gift was—he didn't care. He'd probably throw it in the trash once he was alone. He was simply driving home the fact that he would be talking to Miss Callehurst... telling her what happened here tonight.

Bishop gripped the back of his own chair, toppling it over. The noise drew the attention of the last people in the restaurant; the two body guards jerked awake, having dozed off in their seats. “I knew you could be a cheat,” he growled, “But I didn't know you were such a shithead. How dare you talk about Nell like she's nothing?” His arm shot out; I thought he was going to hit the other man.

So did everyone else.

The guards tried to jump to their feet. Too slow, too wasted, they tripped on their own legs. And Corriane... I squirmed with delight at the fear in his face. Sensing danger, he pin-wheeled his arms, falling backwards and sprawling on the floor.

Bishop's hand didn't come close to him—it scooped mine up instead, pulling me away from the table. It thrilled me to have him hold me so securely.

Corriane was shouting, red faced as he tried to untangle his coat from the chair's legs. His guards bent down to lift him, and instead, they all fell back into a pile. Bishop's eyes flashed to mine, bright with a humor so contagious we started laughing.

I couldn't stop cracking up, not even as he rushed me from the Elephant Room. Definitely not in the fresh air of the busy Hollywood street. It wasn't until he tugged me around a corner, into the alcove of an alley where he captured me with a kiss, that I finally quit laughing.

The joy was still there. The fire, the light, the rush—all of it existed. It buzzed through my cells, reminding me I was alive and here with a man who burned for me, defended me, like no one ever had.

Is Gigi right? Are soulmates real?

I didn't believe in that stuff. I couldn't afford to.

Yet somehow, as Bishop's lips glided over mine—his palms searching my ribs for a secret door to my heart—I began to wonder if I could afford not to believe it. What else could explain my growing infatuation? This desire to seek him out?

Careful, I told myself, fighting to think around the fog in my head. You've picked the wrong kind of men before. Well. One man, but once was enough when it came to heartbreak. Be cautious... be wary. A burst of shame struck me. Be realistic.

Everything Corriane had said in the restaurant came back to me. The bits about me being tossed aside, the part where he'd expected Bishop to take him to a strip club. Expected—like they'd done it before.

“Wait,” I said, grabbing his hands as they moved down my legs. He'd undone my top button and some of my zipper before I could stop him. “Bishop, just wait. I need to know... I want to ask about what Corriane said.”

He winced, as if a shard of glass was moving through his guts. “I can't believe the balls he has.”

“But is it true.” I hesitated, tasting the moment—fearing the answer. “Am I going to get thrown aside, like this is a game for you?” A game I fell for so damn easily.

“Fucking hell.” He stood taller, his powerful grace so natural that I sensed for the first time the royal blood in his veins. “Weren't you listening to me the other day? I want to be with you.”

“Because you have to be with someone.”

“No,” he said, biting the word in two. Holding my cheeks, Bishop kissed my temples—one, then the other. “Because you drive me wild. Because you make me breathe easier, and I can't tell you how long it's been since I've felt so relaxed.” He fixed me with an intense stare, searching me for... something.

Shivering, and not from the cool air, I said, “He spoke about you the way he did because this has happened before. Just tell me.”

“What Corriane said—that bastard.” His chuckle was pure pain. “The things I used to do, they were things expected of me. The number of calls from my father, emphasizing how I'm supposed to entertain every single important person he sends my way... they're in the hundreds.”

He'd started squeezing my face. It was unconscious, bordering on painful, so I grabbed his wrists. He snapped back into the present. “Bishop...”

“Sorry. It's only that, I never realized how much I hated entertaining all those people for a man I barely knew until I suddenly had a reason to say no.”

Relief bubbled in me like freshly poured champagne. “I can't believe I threw that box at him.”

Laughing in that warmed-honey way of his, Bishop nuzzled my throat. “It turned me on. I love how you don't take anyone's shit.”

“Will you get in trouble for what happened? Corriane looked upset.”

“Probably. But who cares? My father can't do a thing to me, not when I'm on the verge of giving him what he's always wanted.” He touched my stomach—I inhaled. “You respond to everything I do with so much enthusiasm. It makes me rock hard, Nell. Feel me.”

He went to guide my hand, but I was way ahead of him. Grazing my palm over the front of his dress pants, I discovered how stiff his hard-on was. Stroking him from base to tip, I thrilled with his thick groan. “Where's your car?”

Heat flashed in his eyes. Wordlessly he pulled me down the alley, straight to the garage where a bright white Mustang waited. The car doors opened, blue lights illuminating the leather interior, a rhythmic pop song thumping softly through the speakers. When I touched the backseat, I knew they were the kind that heated up.

I could get used to this kind of treatment.