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“I had that meeting with Forrest tonight, about doing the interview.” I told her about it in class and she had actually teased me about how cute he is.
“Oh, that’s right. How’d it go? Is it happening?”
“Yeah, he got approval so we’re going to get it on the books. I just have to find time in Mr. Gates’ schedule. I found out he’s going to be at that charity gala I have to attend as well, and he, uh, asked me to be his date.”
“Oh my God! Did you say yes? He’s so cute.”
“I didn’t.” I laugh. “I told him I’m there working so it wouldn’t be professional but… he said we should definitely go on a real date though.”
She gasps. “You said yes, right?”
“I did.” I try to sound excited, but I can hear the hesitation in my voice. “He also followed me on Instagram the second I left the bar.”
“Of course he did. Is his profile full of shirtless thirst trap pictures?”
“Some, lots with his bros.”
“So what’s with the tone? You don’t sound excited.” I try to brush it off, but she knows me too well. “Pres, I know you.”
“I dunno. I guess I’m just super out of practice when it comes to dating.”
“It’s not like it has to be anything serious and with a guy like Forrest, no offense to him, but we both know he probably isn’t looking for something long term. When’s the last time you got laid?”
“Ugh,” I groan, “I don’t even know… maybe summer before grad school?”
“Holy shit, that long! Girl, time to take Forrest for a ride and let loose. Maybe he’s just the man you need to let that inner bad girl out once and for all.”
I hang up and walk the rest of the way home, Serenity’s words haunting me because the only man I want to release my inner bad girl with is a man I have no business wanting.
* * *
I stare at the message I’ve typed out on my phone.
Me: Mr. Gates, apologies for the short notice but unfortunately something came up tonight and I won’t be able to make it.
The cursor blinks at me as I hover my finger over the send button. I highlight the text, deleting it before tossing my phone on my bed in frustration, knowing full well there’s no use in fighting Cyrus Gates. He’s going to get his way one way or another. I stomp over to my dresser, rifling through my workout clothes that I haven’t put on in months.
I pull out several pieces, holding them up before choosing my most flattering pair of black leggings, a pink sports bra, and black tank top. I crane my neck in my floor-length mirror, my ass looking flatter than I remember when my phone dings.
“Nothing I can do about it now,” I grumble, throwing on a hoodie and pulling my hair into a bun piled on top of my head. By the time I pull on my sneakers and coat and head out the door, I’m already late.
“Miss James?”
“Yes?” I glance around as if that’s going to explain the suited man standing outside my building next to an expensive-looking car.
“I’m Wes. Mr. Gates sent me to pick you up.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course he did.”
He holds the door open, closing it after me once I’m inside.
We arrive outside a stunning gothic-looking house I’ve seen probably a thousand times in my years in Chicago. It’s a piece of history here, something I assumed was either a museum or had been bought out by one of those wedding venue companies.
“This”—I point out the window—“this is Mr. Gates’ house?”
“It is,” Wes responds as he pulls the car into a multicar garage.
In my mind, Cyrus Gates lived in some modern skyrise penthouse, but this is an architectural landmark in the city. I follow Wes through the garage, which looks more like a high-end exotic car showroom, and into the house. He leads me down a hallway that opens into a stunning foyer complete with marble floors, a chandelier that looks like it belongs in an opera house, and two staircases that wind their way up to a large landing. The ceilings in the entryway are probably twenty feet tall. I’m completely engrossed in taking it all in, and I barely notice the tapping of someone walking up behind me.
