For the rest of the night, we’re inseparable. Connor and I can’t get enough of each other, and as he brings my body to one peak after another, I enjoy the rollercoaster—the heady highs, the exhilarating anticipation, the breathtaking feeling of being so thoroughly sated. The lows only come after Connor seems to forget that he ever revealed that raw and real part of himself to me, and just before morning, he’s suddenly distant again.

He brushes his fingertips over my cheek before going to his room, making me think that I’ll never see him again. As I lay there, I actually wonder if tonight was his final farewell after he gave me too much of himself.

But in the morning, he surprises me by not going in to work, and we spend the day together, having sex all over the penthouse—in my shower, in the kitchen, in my bed, and even in the wine cellar. He takes me everywhere but in his own bed, and I think that this is very much on purpose. If I spent the night in the one place that’s so far been off limits to me, it would be an admission of some sort, a surrender to me.

Still, even without allowing me in that far, he’s letting down his guard more and more. Yes, he can be cold and moody, but I’m falling for him, and I think he’s falling for me. Is there still time for me to show him that I would do anything for him? Is there a chance that he’s going to keep me around if he continues lowering his walls little by little?

Tomorrow is the last day of our agreement, so I’ll soon find out.

After spending the night in my bed again, I awake to find that he’s made another breakfast for me—vegetable omelets and a fruit plate. I eat by myself because he’s gone in to work today, then I get washed and dressed in a flirty designer dress from my closet. I putter around the penthouse, bored without him in it, and soon I fall asleep in front of the TV in my room, exhausted from all the physical pleasure he’s given me, knowing I need to rest up for more.

Tomorrow’s it, I think as I drift off. A little more than one day left with him and that might be all…

I wake up only when I feel the stroke of fingertips over my temple, brushing back my hair. The most wonderful sight greets me—Connor, with a look of such affection on his face that warmth radiates through me. But when he sees that I’m awake, a cool blue mist takes his gaze over and he becomes the casual playboy from the tabloids once again.

“We’re going out,” he says.

At first I think I’m dreaming, but then I see that he’s wearing jeans that fit him so well that I know he’s got to have worn them somewhere before, and more than a few times. His pinstriped button down is untucked, his hair careless and thick enough so that my fingers itch to feel it. I want to touch him all over, but that’s nothing new.

He’s just as untouchable, domineering, and golden to me as ever.

And I’m more confused than usual. “Aren’t you supposed to still be at work?”

He looks toward the window where the afternoon sunlight is shining. “I cut out a little early.”

“But if we go out… Wait, I thought you told your family that you’re not seeing me anymore. Wouldn’t taking me out of this penthouse kind of blow that lie right up?”

“Don’t worry about it, Allyson.”

He hasn’t called me Ally since the other night on the rug, but I won’t let that get me down—not when I saw the deep yearning in him just moments ago when he thought I was still asleep.

He begins to walk away from the bed, and I sit up.

“So what’s your plan?” I ask.

“We’re going to drive. I don’t care where we go, but we’re going to find some hole in the wall where no one gives a shit who I am or who I’m with.”

I have to wonder if such a place exists, but the fact that he’s doing this for me, finally meeting me halfway, has me out of the bed in record time. Smiling all the way, I go to the closet in search of a pretty yet conservative dress meant for low-profile fun.

* * *

Connor drives us away from the city in one of his luxury electric cars, and as we head out of Manhattan and in the direction of the Catskills, he finally relaxes. He drapes his hand over the wheel, his shoulders free of the burden that’s usually resting on them. He puts one of his playlists on the sound system for me, and I discover we’re both into Radiohead. Who knew?

The skyscrapers are behind us, the buildings more rustic now, the trees thick and green as they line the road under the setting sun. We’re escaping everything that defines Connor, and I wonder if he’s doing this just for my sake. Or is this something he’s longed to do for a while, and I’m the reason he can finally break away?

We eventually come upon a cabin-like tavern tucked away from the side road. A flashing sign says “The Bulls Eye” but with missing letters it actually reads “Bulls.”

Gravel pops under the car’s tires as Connor finds a parking spot behind the building, and when we enter, there are only three other people inside the dark, smoky room. Two men at the bar are wearing flannel and beards, even during summer, and there’s a stern bartender cleaning glasses. They only give us glances that translate into Who the hell are you and why are you in this place instead of the nearest trendy bar? Then they return their attention to the Yankees game on TV.

As Connor pulls out a chair for me and I sit down, he looks satisfied and maybe even happy. They have no idea who he is, only that we’re tourists from the city who stumbled upon this dive.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and sets it on the unstable table. Low country music plays from a lonely jukebox. I look around at the antlers lining the walls, the dartboard on the other side of the room near the rickety pool table, the peanut shells dusting the floor.

“Definitely low profile,” I say, grinning at Connor.

He smiles back, and I wonder if he’s doing what I’m doing—imagining a life of quiet places where there’re no cameras outside or unwanted opinions about how he lives his life. I could go for that just as well.

I could go for anywhere that allows me to be with him.

The bartender lumbers over to us, deals out a couple of grease-stained menus, and hovers. “You need to order at the bar.”

“Will do,” Connor says. “Meanwhile, we’ll start with a couple of beers. Server’s choice.”

The man looks extremely unimpressed as he leaves. Connor and I hold our laughter in for a second before we both succumb to it.

“Your dad would lose his mind if he knew that I’d inspired a trip out of the city and into Hicktown,” I say. “You might get contaminated by all these average people.”

“That’s my dad’s problem, not mine.”

Before I can tell Connor that he’s wrong, he takes a menu in hand. He’s got that bitter, resentful set to his jaw, but I don’t want him to dwell on what waits for him back in Manhattan. That’s not why he brought me out here.

“What I really want to know,” I say, “is what you’re going to do to top this tomorrow. You have one day left with me before our agreement—”

“Expires. I’m aware.”

I’d hoped he would show some emotion about that fact, but he merely tightens his jaw more as he scans the menu.

That’s it then, I think as my stomach twists up. He’s going to let me go after tomorrow.

Should I have expected anything else?

A ridiculous rush of heat grips my throat, and I try to swallow it away as I stare at my menu. Through an oncoming blur of tears, I see a list of hamburgers and chicken tenders. My stomach goes from twisting to roiling.

“Do you know what you want?” Connor asks.

You. Only you.

But he’s talking about the menu, and I clear my throat before I attempt to talk. “A cheeseburger with fries would go well with the beer.”

“It’s not four-star dining and champagne, but a burger with a beer sounds good.”

“Yeah, well, welcome to my world, where hamburgers are a staple and beer is our nectar.”

I only meant to lighten the dark mood that’s fallen over us, but my comment totally misses its own bulls eye.

He stands and his chair scrapes the wooden floor. I feel his gaze on me. I don’t look up. If I do, my own walls will fall down and a flood of tears will follow.

Connor slowly walks to my side until my breath catches in my lungs. Then he slides his fingers under my chin and gently guides my gaze to his. What I see in his eyes rocks me like thunder.

He doesn’t want me to go. I can see it.

“Later tonight,” he says, “whenever I get you back to the penthouse, we’re going to work a few things out.”

My breath trembles in me as tears gather in my eyes. Is he patronizing me because he wants us to part on a positive note or, please oh please, is he talking about extending the agreement?

Or does he have something more permanent in mind?

Can I hope?

He lowers his voice. “You won’t be sleeping in your bed tonight, Allyson. I’m going to have you in mine.”

His bed, his private room. My god, he’s letting me in, even though he won’t say it…and even though it doesn’t mean he’s going to extend my contract. I don’t know how far he’s going to allow me to encroach upon his guarded territory tonight, but my heart feels as if it’s walking toward something, picking up speed, moving forward until it’s running and pounding against my ribcage.

As he coaxes his thumb over my cheek, I grasp his wrist. We stay like that for a moment, looking at each other, neither of us saying a word, until the bartender calls out.

“The beer’s getting flat, you know!”

But I barely hear him, because my head is reeling from the possibilities. It’s not ruling out heartache, either.

Connor drops his hand from me then turns to walk toward the bar. The heat of his fingers lingers on my skin.

Things are about to change, I think. Even if he only extended our agreement with Highest Bidder it would be a start.

With a shiver and a sigh, I watch him at the bar. His jeans fit every muscled contour of his ass and thighs, his shirt only hinting at the powerful body underneath.

This is going to work. I’ll make it work once we’re alone in his home.

Just as he’s returning with two mugs of beer, his phone begins to vibrate on the table, the screen lighting up. When Connor looks at it, he slowly sets the mugs down on the table.

I see the name of an unfamiliar caller and the two dreaded letters that follow it.

PR.

Are Connor’s employees reporting in about the damage control they had to do because of my ultimatum? Or have things with the press gotten even worse?

Without telling me that he’s got to take this, Connor grabs his phone and stalks toward the tavern’s exit. I rest my fingers on my sweating beer mug, looking at the men at the bar. They sneak glances at me but mostly seem more interested in their baseball game on TV.

Minutes later, Connor comes back into the tavern, and when he looks at me, I know something is terribly wrong. It’s in his deathly cold gaze.

My own phone dings with an urgent email alert, and I freeze in my chair. I should open the app, I think. So I do.

The email is from the Highest Bidder site, and as I read it, I go numb.

They’ve been hacked, and their supposedly secure database is being leaked even as I sit here with a feeling of utter horror overtaking me.