Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Chapter Three
Faith
Maybe I will enjoy him while I can.
Or maybe I can’t enjoy him past today.
Because I have secrets that I hold close to my chest, the ones I try not to think about, to deny even to myself, and at least one of them—the one that stirs guilt in me—leads to the winery. And Nick Rogers is not the kind of man or attorney to leave a stone unturned. That man will wade into the muddy, crocodile-infested waters of my family secrets and kill the crocodile. Which is good and bad. Good because I need that kind of attorney. Bad because I really care about this man and I haven’t been honest with him about who and what I am. But how could I be? We were two strangers who crossed paths and chose to stay on one.
I down the whiskey-laden coffee like it’s a shot, because Nick’s right. I need it, and the fact that he knows that I need it suggests that he’s already been diving into those muddy waters. But he hasn’t found the crocodiles, or he wouldn’t be offering me hot baths. Then again, he gave me whiskey. I glance at the tub and walk to the shower, eager to just get dressed and pack, so I’m ready to leave if things go south. Moving quickly, I step under a spray of warm water in no time, when the buzz of the Baileys hits me, numbing my brain. Numb feels pretty darn good right now, too, just like the water, and while I am in a rush to get downstairs, I am not in a rush to say goodbye, and I find myself lavishing in Nick’s shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, rather than my own.
Soon after, I stand at Nick’s sink, in Nick’s house, feeling incredibly comfortable in the alpha domain of a man who might have his head in the mouth of my crocodiles. I apply my makeup and dry and flat-iron my hair while, of course, stuffing my face with croissants. Because why wouldn’t you stuff your face with loads of calories when you’re pretty certain the alpha man of the house won’t be seeing you naked again after this talk? Once I’ve packed on five pounds, I spray on Nick’s cologne, because he smells better than me, and I’m obviously feeling a bit more clearheaded, because I’m not vowing to eat carrot sticks, rice cakes, and nothing else tomorrow. Which is me lying to myself, the way I feel like I lie to the world. And I really hate carrot sticks and lies, I think, and part of me just wants to confess all to Nick and see if he can handle it.
I think I will. I’ll confess all.
Or not.
I make my way to Nick’s large walk-in closet, where I’ve hung my clothes, the neat, organized way his clothes are lined up exactly as I expect of a dominant control freak. Exactly as Macom’s always were. There are similarities in the two men that I only just now am acknowledging, though on some level I’ve known they existed. But Nick is not Macom. Not even close to Macom, and it’s an insult to him that I even think of them in the same box. And damn it, all I’m doing is justifying reasons to walk away when I get downstairs, and I know it. I shove my own nonsense away and get dressed, choosing black jeans and a lacy top, which I pair with knee highs and lace-up black boots. And when I’m done, I don’t let myself pack my bag. Instead, I retrieve my coffee mug, and after a quick path through the bedroom, I’m traveling down Nick’s glass-and-steel stairwell, toward the lower level of his home. The high ceilings and long, clean lines of the entire structure, as well as the pale hardwood floors, are as sleek and sexy as the man—everything in this house screams sex and power, like the man who owns it. I’m quite certain everything about my demeanor right now screams of guilt.
I step into the living area, a white rectangular island dividing the two rooms. And the man who is power and sex sits at one of the four gray leather barstools on either side of it, paperwork and a MacBook sitting in front of him. His eyes meet mine, his keen and intelligent—too intelligent for my own good, and I remind myself: I have attorney-client privilege. I’m protected, and Nick just told me himself that he’s no saint. If he knows what I’ve done, he didn’t exactly go cold and brutal on me. If anyone can handle the truth, he can. If anyone can protect me, he can. Of course, if anyone can destroy me, he can as well. And so, I have to decide, right here and now: can I trust Nick Rogers?