I slip out of bed in the late morning light and quietly dress myself, taking great care not to wake Lucas. He’s sprawled on the bed, on top of the covers, naked and gorgeous, his breathing rhythmic and slow. Of course, I want nothing more than to skip my study group and stay in bed next to him—and maybe rouse him from his slumber by licking his balls—but the task at hand is looming too heavy on my shoulders to lie here and pretend the sky isn’t falling anymore. I’ve got a job to do here. A wicked, hideous job he’s paid me thousands of dollars to do, and I know in my bones I’ve got to physically leave this suite to detox from our fantasy for a bit if I’m ever going to be able to muster the resolve to do it. Plus, if I’m being honest, a small part of me hopes when Lucas wakes up and finds me gone, he’ll miss me, which in turn might prompt him to say, “To hell with the role-play! I want you to come to LA with me, Abby!”

Either way, I’m bone certain I’ve got to get out of this place for a few hours or I’m going to lose my mind.

I grab my purse off the dresser and begin tiptoeing out of the bedroom.

“Abby,” Lucas whispers groggily behind my back.

I jump in surprise and he chuckles at my almost cartoon-like reaction.

“Jesus, you scared me,” I breathe. “I thought you were dead asleep.”

“Where are you going?”

“Study group.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.” He looks crestfallen—which, I must admit, makes my heart flutter with excitement.

Tell me to stay, Lucas. Tell me you don’t care about the role-play anymore.

“How soon can you come back?” he asks.

“Later this afternoon. We usually study for a couple hours and then grab lunch.”

Please tell me to stay, Lucas.

“Okay. Hey, before I forget…” He indicates the nightstand. “Top drawer.”

My stomach drops into my toes. Crap. If Lucas is referring to what I think he is, it’s the last thing in the world I want right now.

“Take it now so you don’t forget later,” he says breezily.

I nod curtly, cross the room on wobbly legs, and open the top drawer. Sure enough, I see an envelope with “Assassin” scrawled across it. I grab the envelope and peek inside and my fears are confirmed. It’s filled with hundred-dollar bills.

“I’ve decided to rip up the NDA,” Lucas says softly. “I’ve thought about it and I think Penelope Pleasure should be free to write about whatever she wants, including ‘My Wild Week with Lucas Ford.’”

I’m shocked and I’m sure my face shows it.

“Write about this week, Abby,” he says evenly. “Write about it in all its depraved, juicy glory and shop it to whatever magazines in New York you want to write for the most—Maxim, GQ, Playboy, Esquire, whatever. A salacious story like that will land you any magazine job you want. Or, fuck it, shop the story to the sleaziest tabloids and get yourself a huge payday. If you work it right, I’m sure you could get a bidding war started. And that ought to get you enough cash at the end of the day to wipe out your student loans and then some. Maybe even get yourself six months’ rent on a place in New York on top of clearing your loans.”

I’m flabbergasted. He truly thinks I’d tell the world about our time together…for a payday?

“Fair warning, I’ll pretend to be pissed about the story,” Lucas continues. “But only because if the world thinks I’m raging mad, that’ll make the tabloids pay twice as much for it.”

I stuff the envelope into my bag, incapable of speaking.

“Hurry back, okay?” Lucas says. “I’m already aching for another hit of my pretty little addiction.” His face lights up. “Oh, that’s a catchy internal rhyme for the chorus of ‘Addiction’—‘prit-ty-lit-tle-ad-dic-tion.’ That’s way better than the lyric I’ve got there now. Shit. Hand me my phone, babe, would you? I want to make myself a note.”

I toss him his phone. “Are you going to write another song while I’m out?”

“Maybe even two. I can’t keep up with all the ideas slamming into me. They just keep coming and coming.”

“Are you going to write the next ‘Shattered Hearts’ while I’m gone?” I ask hopefully. Please, God, let him say yes and give me a reason to strip off my clothes and crawl into bed and forget the stupid role-play, once and for all.

“Sorry,” Lucas replies. “I couldn’t write a tortured song like that right now if my life depended on it. The only songs I’ve got pouring out of me are love songs, thanks to you.” He smiles and his eyes sparkle. “Happy people write happy songs, I guess… And miserable people make art.”