Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
I nod slowly. “Stella definitely suspects. I mean, I’ve been avoiding her at the apartment, but it’s the vibes I get. But do you think she’ll really be on our side? I mean, she said something to me, once. About you and women. About you not being a forever person, so I think she has doubts.”
He nods, a bleak smile on his face. “She’s not wrong. But she doesn’t realize this is different. She doesn’t know you. Not the way I do.”
His hand hovers on the table, close to mine but not touching. I can feel the static, the gravitational pull.
“She’s a good kid,” he begins again. “I haven’t been a perfect father, but we talk now. More than before. Actually, I call her every week, no matter how busy I am. I take her out when I’m at Century for board events, and I listen when she rants about her studies, friends, anything. I’ve tried to be better.”
He leans in, lowering his voice, even though the barista and the couple in the back are the only ones who could overhear.
“We’ll figure out a way to tell her,” he says. “I can do it. Or you can, or we can do it together, but I want to tell my daughter about us soon. I don’t want any more secrets.”
The words hit me like a cold wind. I know I should feel relief, or gratitude, but all I feel is the acid pulse of guilt under my skin because Stella and I are part of the virginity bet together, which Thomas still doesn’t know about. My hands start shaking, just a little, and I wrap them tighter around the mug to keep it steady.
He sees this, and there’s a flicker of worry in his eyes. “If you want out, say it now. I’ll still be here, but I won’t hold you to anything. This isn’t a contract, Andie. It’s a risk. I know that.”
I try to find my voice. “I don’t want out. I just… I don’t want to hurt her.” Or you, I think, but can’t say.
He reaches across the table, his palm open. I lay my hand in his, and he squeezes, hard enough to hurt.
“I’ll make it easier,” he says, and this time there’s a hint of that old predatory edge. “You could come live with me. Not now, not today. But soon. There’s no need for you to be squeezed into an apartment with three other girls. Let me support you through your fifth year, help you get what you want. I want to be there every day. Morning, noon, and night.”
My breath catches, and I can feel my heart start to gallop. The idea of it—the life he’s offering—is so absurd and so wonderful that I want to laugh, or cry, or both.
I look at him, and for the first time, I let myself imagine it: waking up in that glass tower, the whole city spread out like a painting; sleeping next to Thomas, safe in the arms. Being his.
It sounds wonderful, and I almost start to cry as my heart pounds. Thomas can sense my emotions, and he holds my hand tighter as his voice drops even lower. “I want everything, Andie. I want to take care of you. I want to see you in my bed, in my house, wearing my ring—fuck, even pregnant with my baby. I know it’s insane, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”
The words hit me so hard I can’t breathe for a second. My hand goes still in his, and my free hand—the one not visible above the table—presses flat against my thigh, as if I can steady myself that way. I blink, and my eyes sting.
It should be a happy moment. I should be floating on clouds with happiness, and I am. But I’m also terrified because all I can think of is the naughty video on my phone, the one I made without his permission; the bet I never told him about; the $1,000 prize I could claim just by sending a single message.
The confession burns in my chest. It wants to come out, to ruin everything before it even starts.
I open my mouth to speak, but at that exact second, Thomas covers my hand with both of his, pinning it gently to the table.
His eyes are so blue and so kind that the words shrivel up and die.
“You don’t have to answer now,” he says. “But think about it, will you? Think about us. About a future that isn’t just stolen weekends and secrets.”
I nod, unable to speak. My other hand presses harder into my thigh, the fingernails leaving half-moons in my jeans.
We sit there, the two of us, hands tangled on the table, the rest of the world fading into static. The record spins to the end of a side and clicks, then the barista flips it and drops the needle again. Billie’s voice returns, softer this time, like she’s singing just for us.