And here I am, just sitting here, alone in my room, with nothing else to do but to wait for a message from him.

  I question myself more and more with every minute that passes, so I decide to pursue one activity that Yuka would never consider: running. I run a lot, not only because I like to stay in shape, but because it is the best way to clear my head and be by myself for a few minutes. I always leave my phone behind in my room, and sometimes I even decide to run without listening to music and just take in my surroundings.

  Not today, though. I need to move and get out, but I don't want to be completely alone with my thoughts. I don't want to think about him too much, and music could help with that.

  Five hours have passed since he read my message when I head out of the house for my run.

  Six hours have passed by the time I get back.

  Seven hours have passed by the time I shower and prepare myself a simple dinner.

  It has almost been eight hours when I finally hear the relieving beep signaling a text message.

  I am standing at the kitchen sink in the middle of washing the dishes when I hear it.

  I take a deep breath and quickly dry my hands before turning around to fetch my phone.

  It's him. Finally.

  "Do you want to see me again?" the text reads.

  I frown at the screen. Was my last message not clear?

  I ponder whether I should make him wait as long as he made me, but decide I have displayed enough childish actions this weekend.

  So I start typing.

  "Don't you think that would make it easier to talk to each other?"

  I hesitate for a moment before I hit send. If you ask me, it seems that it's up to him to make the move at this point and not up to me to beg him.

  I set the phone aside and turn around, ready to continue my dishwashing duties, when the phone beeps again.

  My hands are shaky when I pick it up this time.

  "Is that the way to speak to me?"

  Damn. Okay, he does not take my sassy side well.

  Another message pops up.

  "If you want to see me again, I need you to say it. And address me properly when you do."

  Address him properly?

  My cheeks blush when I realize what he means. The dominant type. I didn't know this sort of power play would be extended beyond the bedroom.

  An excited little tingling inside me tells me that I like it. A lot.

  I quickly look around, as if checking that no one is watching me. Ridiculous, of course. I am all alone. Yuka's curious eyes are nowhere near me at the moment.

  And I would never have to tell her about this. I never will, I am sure.

  I nervously chew my lower lip as I type my reply.

  "I would really like to see you again, Sir."

  Send.

  It is baffling to me how this excites me. It is so different from the way I usually act towards other people – and especially towards men. And it’s so incredibly satisfying.

  This man makes me want to please him, serve him. And only because it gives me pleasure.

  This realization is only underpinned by the gigantic leap of my heart when I read his instant reply.

  "Good girl."

  CHAPTER XI

  Evan

  That girl is in dire need of a good spanking. While I’m flattered to see how nervous I seem to make her, I’m also annoyed at her childish behavior. Calling me, not saying anything, and then dropping the phone to the floor while laughing like an idiot?

  I’m not impressed. If anything, I’m disappointed. I don’t care for infantile behavior such as this.

  Although I’m quite sure that the laughter I heard in the background wasn’t hers. The fact that she wasn’t by herself when she called me doesn’t make things any better, though. I don’t like to feel like I’m being made fun of, and this incident provoked exactly that kind of feeling.

  I was just about to leave home when she called. After finishing a leisurely breakfast on top of the hotel, I called my driver to take me home so I could change before heading back to the office. It’s the weekend, but work never really stops for me. Besides, I have nothing else to do, nothing else that I’m passionate enough about to devote my weekend.

  I don’t have time for silly games and decide to leave Nicky a message instead of calling her back. Who knows if she’d even be able to speak properly?

  I slip the phone into my pants’ pocket as I head out of the high-rise building that has become my home and slide into the back seat of the black limousine waiting for me outside.

  "The office, sir?" my driver asks, casting me a quick look over the shoulder.

  I nod. He hardly takes me anywhere else. Office, the occasional hotel, the penthouse, other people’s homes – and that club a few days ago. That was an exciting change, and not only for me, I assume.

  My penthouse still feels a bit alien to me. I just moved there a short while ago and have only recently begun to decorate the place. Of course, I hired someone for that. Home décor is not part of my many interests, and I prefer to leave these decisions to a professional. And preferably a woman.

  There has never been another woman at that place except for my interior decorator, and I intend to keep it like that for a while. Privacy has become a rare commodity in my life these days.

  A short jingle coming from my phone announces an incoming text message. I produce my phone from my pants pocket and feel my heart sink when I see the message. When I see that it is from Nicky and has an attachment, I’m excited for a second. That is, until I see what it is. It’s one of those dreadful articles that I couldn’t prevent from being published. The kind of article that will only provide the most ludicrous details about me.

  "We need to talk."

  I sigh. Yes, we do. But not now.

  I return the phone to my pocket, determined to give myself a while before I get into that conversation. I knew it was only a matter of time until she would find out. Who knows, maybe the girl who was giggling next to her was the one who told her. It was surprising enough that Nicky had no idea; I had to expect that she knows someone who does.

  I lean back into the soft leather seat and close my eyes. Regret. I hate that feeling, but it keeps coming back to me every time I’m faced with the consequences of that failed relationship.

  Sheila. I’m not even mad at her, not anymore. I loved that woman, but she destroyed more than she knows. The scars and repercussions she left me with after our break-up are so deeply rooted within me that it’s impossible to move on. She casts her shadow over everything, and my encounter with Nicky was no exception.

  As if things weren’t already troubling enough, my phone rings, and it is the last person I want to talk to right now.

  Roy. My publicist. I hate the fact that I had to hire him in the first place, because I don’t enjoy the hoops he makes me jump through. In fact, sometimes I feel like his presence only makes things worse for me.

  "Yes," I say, as I pick up the call.

  "Evan," he says in his annoyingly flat voice. "Glad to get a hold of you. How are things going?"

  I hate small talk. I know why he’s calling me, and I hate that he’s not getting straight to the point.

  "I’m not doing an interview for those people," I say, repeating my standard response. "Nothing has changed."

  I hear him sigh at the other end. "Yes, yes. I know. I’m not calling to press you about that again. I got your point."

  I arch my eyebrows in surprise. "What’s this about then?"

  "The event," he says. "The charity event. You promised me that you’d attend, and I just wanted to remind you."

  "I promised?" I say, puzzled. "That doesn’t sound like me."

  "Evan," he pleads. "Please. This is not about some girly magazine and satisfying a bunch of horny single ladies. This is business. You’re involved with that charity, and it’s important that you show your face there."

  "I understand that," I say. "But if even one person approaches me for an interview, I’ll—"

  "That won’t happen," he promises. "Photos, yes. You can’t avoid that. And I have no power over what happens with those pictures. But no interviews, I made myself very clear in that regard."

  "Good," I say.

  "So, we’re good? You’re coming?"

  "Yes, for God’s sake."

  "It starts at eight, and—"

  "I know the details," I interrupt him brusquely. "Don’t treat me like a child."

  "Well, don’t act like a child. That’ll make things easier for the both of us."

  "Goodbye, Roy."

  I hang up before hearing his reply. These things are so bothersome, but I know that Roy has a point about showing my face. I don’t want to, but it’s necessary.

  I glance at my phone again, wondering whether I should send Nicky a reply. I decide against it. After her little teenage stunt, she can wait for a few hours.

  Besides, I have work to do. Weekend or not, there are things that need to be dealt with and they’ll keep me busy until evening. I’ll have a better grasp of my upcoming schedule by then, too, because contrary to what I just told Roy, I’m not one hundred percent sure of details pertaining to that event, or what other appointments I might be forgetting about.

  I’ve never been good at keeping up with these things, and especially not now when my mind is derailed by a mesmerizing distraction named Nicky.

  CHAPTER XII

  Nicky

  We agree to meet the next day. For coffee. Just coffee, I try to remind myself. Yet I make all the preparations that I usually would before a date that could end in sex.

  It wouldn't be the worst thing to happen out of this, after all.

  But I am not planning on it happening. I keep repeating that – to myself and to Yuka, who is displaying one of the broadest grins I have ever seen on her face as I get ready to leave.

  "I won't wait up," she pipes as I am heading out the door.

  "It's an afternoon coffee, Yuka," I reassure. "Don't get too excited!"

  She just shrugs and sends me off with a friendly wave.

  I am surprised to find him waiting for me at the foot of the stairs in front of our house when I rush outside. Yuka is not the only one in our household who is habitually late. I am usually running when I leave the house, too.

  He looks so dashingly handsome that it is intimidating. He is wearing more casual clothes today, but they are still fancier and more dressed up than what I’m wearing. He has on a thin pullover in coal gray and dark blue jeans, neither of which he bought at a cheap retail store. His hair is gelled and looks more like it did in the picture in the article than it did the night we met. I don't like it styled this way; it makes me want to ruffle through it. And I might just do that later on.

  His appearance reminds me why I would usually shy away from men this good-looking. They make me feel self-conscious. I feel scrubby and cheaply dressed next to him, even though I did put some effort into the way I look. I am wearing my favorite black skinny jeans and a colorful top in warm colors that complement my dark brown hair – according to Yuka. I consider these my best pieces of clothing, yet I am sure from his perspective they must look cheap and made of low quality.

  Plus, I’m having a bad hair day.

  "What are you doing here?" I ask. "I thought we were meeting at the café?"

  He smiles mischievously and shrugs. "I just wanted to make sure you found your way."

  "How did you know where I live?" I want to know. "I never told you my address."

  "You told my driver."

  "Oh. Right."

  I blush. How did I forget that?

  I walk down to the bottom of the stairs and come to a halt next to him. "What would you have done if I hadn't shown up?"

  "Ring the bell?" he says. "Knock? There are many ways to make oneself be seen or heard."

  "You don't know my last name, though, do you?" I say somewhat slyly.

  He casts me a naughty smile and puts his arm around me to pull me closer. I am beginning to question my 'just coffee'-mantra as he pulls me in for a kiss.

  He gently pecks my lips first, almost shyly, before his tongue forces its way inside. He eagerly claims me, invading my mouth as if I was threatening to run away from him. I close my eyes and take him in greedily, enjoying every moment of his sensual invasion. I am so taken in by him that even the noisy street sounds around us seem to fade away during our passionate kiss.

  "I’m sure it would be easy for me to find out," he whispers into my ear after our kiss ends.

  "You're just trying to scare me," I say.

  I remind myself to be careful with him, despite that enticing kiss and how attracted I am to him. Mesmerizing me like this might just be part of whatever game he’s playing.

  "You ready to go?" He asks, still cradling me in his arms.

  "Yes," I reply. "Coffee."

  He smiles down at me and gently caresses my left cheek with the tip of his finger. "Yes, coffee."

  I hadn't even noticed the limousine that is double-parked behind us. He leads me to it and opens the door for me to get in first. The perfect gentleman. I am rolling my eyes and grinning like a charmed girl at the same time.

  The driver delivers us to the café that we originally agreed upon as a meeting place. Once inside, Evan orders me a cappuccino and a cake he insists I have to try despite my protests of not being hungry.

  "You'll try it," he insists, after we are seated and our order is placed. "If you don't eat it, I will, but I'm pretty sure we'll have to fight over it."

  "So, you decide what I am eating now, too?" I jokingly ask.

  He smirks. "I don’t deny that I would like that. But I know you're not ready for that yet."

  The fact that he calls me "not ready" confuses me for a moment.

  Ready for what exactly?

  "You said we need to talk," he adds then, interrupting my thoughts. He makes eye contact expectantly. "What about?"

  "Didn't you see the picture I sent you?" I ask incredulously.

  He nods. "I did."

  I am a bit perplexed at his calm demeanor. Shouldn't he be on the defensive right now? Why am I leading the conversation instead of him heading me off with an explanation?

  "I had no idea," I stutter. "Who you are. One would think you'd mention something like that..."

  "Something like what?" he asks. "And what does that mean, who I am? Who am I?"

  "Well," I start. "You know... you are someone. Someone who is a famous billionaire, someone that paparrazi follow around, someone featured in articles in magazines, someone who is named one of the hottest billionaire bachelors in the world, someone who–”

  "And does any of that mean anything to you?" he interrupts. "Would you have been impressed or liked me more if I had told you?"

  "Well, I mean–”

  "Do you really think that's the way I should introduce myself to someone like you?" He continues. He appears to be offended, angry even. Or maybe he is hurt. It is hard to tell with how calm and guarded he is acting.

  "Someone like me?" I ask, puzzled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You know very well what I mean," he says. "Look, all you need to know is that I didn't hide anything from you. I told you my name – and I was pleasantly surprised that you had no idea who I was. Usually women your age are caught up on tabloid gossip, and know that I am the ex-boyfriend of Sheila Buffay. It’s not exactly the best first impression, wouldn’t you agree?"

  He leans back in his seat and pauses for a moment when the server sets down our cappuccinos and the cake in front of us.

  "I'm sorry," I say apologetically.

  He doesn't say anything, but motions for me to sample the cake by nodding toward it. "Try it."

  "Yes, Sir," I whisper, just loudly enough for him to hear.

  I glance up at him to see his reaction as I dip my fork into the delicate dessert. He casts me a satisfied smile.

  "See," he says. "That is the part I would like to focus on when we are together."

  "What part?" I ask, my mouth half full as I chew on the first little piece of the cake. What a classy lady I am.

  But damn, it tastes good.

  He must be able to read the satisfaction in my face, because he smirks at me as if he caught me doing something naughty.

  "Good, huh?" he says.

  I nod hastily. "Yes, very."

  "The part I was talking about," he adds, "is the unbelievable chemistry between us. I am good at reading people, so you don't have to tell me that you are feeling it, too. I can see it. So, just continue eating your cake, while I tell you what I want you to know, understand?"

  I nod and obediently reply with another "Yes, Sir," before I stuff my face with another piece of the heavenly chocolate cake. I wonder what they add to the recipe to make it taste so delicious.

  "So far, you have only a faint idea of what is possible between two people like us," he continues. "You might despise me for who I am or what I represent – though I hope to redeem that image in time – but that doesn't matter for now. All I would ask from you is to give us a chance to explore this chemistry. It is rare, very rare. And you have to trust me when I tell you that I haven't felt like this in a very long time."

  "Since Sheila?" I ask.

  He sighs heavily.

  "I don't want to talk about her –”

  "But I do," I interrupt. "Because there is something I need to clear up."

  "Clear up?" He says, sounding anything but happy.

  "You have to admit," I continue, "that I bear a remarkable resemblance to her."

  He shrugs. "Yes. So?"

  "Could it be that you're just trying to replace her because she dumped you and you cannot get over her?" I state blatantly. "I don't want to be a substitute for some lost love who –”

  "This is not about love," he interrupts me angrily. "I should probably make that clear – and it should be obvious to you for many reasons. I am not looking for love."

  I narrow my eyes and look at him, slightly confused. "I'm sorry, I wasn't–”

  "You and I are very different people," he interrupts again. "And I should emphasize to you that I am not looking for a co-pilot to navigate through life, or a partner who shares her everyday joys and troubles with me. You know, the kind of things a marriage would usually include. A true partnership in the traditional sense."