Tessa

The dinner ends with Don winning book of the year, but no one seems shocked, especially those sitting with me at Hammond’s table. As we prepare to leave, Don gives me a big, both-arms-around-me hug and uses the closeness to whisper in my ear.

“I’ve known Barclay for years, and I’ve never seen him so possessive over a woman. Please don’t look over your shoulder, but you should see the look he’s giving me now.” I fight the urge to turn around and keep my eyes forward. “I don’t believe he likes me monopolizing your attention either. Well done, Tessa.”

Before I can reply, Barclay’s at my side and congratulates Don one last time, though he shakes his hand without a smile. Then, Barclay guides me out of the ballroom with his hand on the small of my back. His purposeful stride has me walking nearly double-time to keep up with him.

“Don seems very comfortable with you,” Barclay clips, pressing his hand harder against me, like he’s trying to drive home a point.

“He’s a sweet man who shared a lot of things with me,” I say, but I can’t ignore the irritated tone in Barclay’s voice. I look up at him to find him staring out into the lobby with his jaw clenched. Maybe Don’s right about how Barclay is with me. A girl can only hope.

“Don’s been called a lot of things, Tessa, but sweet isn’t one of them,” he scoffs. “Forget him. We need to decide on how to handle the press outside. Lawrence, the same driver who drove us to Connecticut, is waiting at the curb for me. I think it’s best if you take the car back.”

“Okay,” I say, and my hope falls to my feet in a silent thud.

I don’t want to end up with my face on Page Six tomorrow—my ass and hair was enough, thank you very much—but I don’t want the night to end either.

As we walk through the lobby, I stare down at the ground to conceal my disappointment at us parting ways. I imagine he has to attend the after-party Don talked about earlier at the table. But I wanted to be with Barclay tonight, and fight the urge to beg him not to go.

We come to a stop right before the exit to the building. Barclay places a finger under my chin, and I look up at him.

“What’s with the pouty face?” he asks, furrowing his brows.

“I wanted to continue the night back at the hotel … with you,” I mumble, hoping I don’t sound desperate and insecure, even though I am, in all regards.

After meeting everyone around the table, it was clear to me how wide apart our worlds are, and maybe it hit him too. He’s experienced and the CEO of a company I’d be happy to have a job sweeping the floors at. It would be a start and more than I have now, which is a big fat nothing.

“Sweet girl,” he says with a reassuring smile and a glint in his eyes. It’s the same look he had earlier tonight when he kissed me within an inch of my life. “I’ll have Victoria drop me by the hotel, and will be knocking on your door in twenty minutes tops.”

I exhale the breath I was holding. “You’re not going to the party Don mentioned?”

“No, Tessa. Tonight, I have a party with only you.” His voice is husky and commanding. “No one else is invited. Just us. How does that sound?”

His words, combined with the hunger in his eyes, makes me feel lightheaded. I reach for his bicep, grabbing a handful of the silken wool.

“Yes, please,” I breathe.

Barclay bends forward. The needy look in his eyes intensifies.

“When my stylist helped you choose a dress today, she left something for you, right?” I nod, remembering the Saks box wrapped securely with a ribbon.

I left it untouched sitting on the counter above the mini-bar. His stylist, Gloria, instructed me not to open it. I’d fiddled with the ribbon, wondering if one quick peek inside was really that big of a deal—I was the kid who snuck around before Christmas trying to locate my presents, after all—but I didn’t, for him.

“Go back to the hotel, open it, and get comfortable.” He leans even closer as he speaks. His words tickle the skin behind my ear, and I shudder. “Now, get going.”

“So bossy,” I quip back with a full-blown smile, overjoyed our night isn’t ending. He tilts his head toward the door with a mischievous grin, and I walk away, though it’s hard to leave his side.

I glimpse over my shoulder and see Victoria approaching him. She looks between Barclay and me like she did a few nights ago at the restaurant, but this time, she smiles at me, and I wave goodbye, hoping to see her again in a less formal setting. I bet she has a few stories to tell about growing up with Barclay.

A man opens the entrance door for me, and I glance down the steps toward the curb. I spot Lawrence standing by the car and head in his direction. I hope he speeds to the hotel, because I can’t wait to find out what’s in the box.

When I arrive at the hotel, I scurry through the lobby, my heels sliding over the polished marble. Once I make it up to my room, I glance at the box and the mess I left behind getting ready for the dinner. I have no idea which one I should tackle first.

I don’t want him to think I’m a slob, so I grab the free plastic bag hotels give for miscellaneous items, like dirty laundry, and set out on a mission. I scoop items up off the bed and floor, filling the bag to the top. Then I throw hangers into the closet, and toss the bag, along with a few clothing items.

I scan the room. It looks lived in, but presentable. Now, for the box. I pull on the ribbon and untie the bow, then remove the top. Tissue paper covers what’s inside, secured with a designer seal. I gently tear the seal away and push the paper to the side, revealing a shear ice pink negligée with a matching lace thong. I finger the silk straps of the sexy garment. It’s beautiful, but I’ve never worn anything like this before. Not even to just try on.

My breathing becomes quick and shallow. “Get comfortable,” he’d said.

Is that sex speak for get dressed up in lingerie?

When I move the box to the bed, the phone on the nightstand begins to ring. I worry my lip. Could it be Barclay canceling? I take two steps toward the phone and place my hand on the receiver. After a deep breath, I answer it.

“Hello,” I say in a shaky voice.

“Tessa,” my mother sputters. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all night. How are you, dear? Back in the room for the night?”

“Hi, Mom. Sorry I missed your calls,” I say, debating how much I should tell her about my day, including the dinner with Barclay. “And yes, I’m going to bed soon.”

It’s not a full-blown lie, more like wishful thinking, and besides, too much information will bring up questions I don’t know how to answer yet. It’s not like I’m sixteen and missing curfew. I’m a grown woman.

“Is New York everything you thought it would be, dear?” she asks.

“Oh, Mom, you have no idea—” There’s a loud knock at my door, and I pause. It’s him. It has to be him. Panic sets in.

What do I do?