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“I dunno. I guess for as much as I love volunteering and I’ve always dreamed of starting my own nonprofit, I don’t actually know where to even start. I also don’t know where to find startups that need investors. I know I just need to do the research and work.”
“I actually happen to know a guy who not only started his own foundation, but he’s still actively on the board and is very business savvy. Some would even say he’s a bit of a financial genius. Hell, he also happens to have an endless supply of contacts and connections that could get you set up with more startups needing investors than you know what to do with.” He gives me a little wink and it makes me giggle.
“I know. I just don’t want you to think I’m using you or not willing to put in the work myself. Plus, you’ve got a multibillion-dollar empire to run. Who says you have time for some twenty-five-year-old with a measly fifty million.”
He jackknifes upward, grabbing both my sides with his hands, causing me to crumple into a fit of giggles.
“You’re a little smart-ass, you know that.”
“Stop!” I laugh. “I’m going to pee!” I squeal and convulse until he finally relents.
He leans over me as I catch my breath. His eyes still soft, a genuine smile pulls at one corner of his mouth as he brushes my unruly hair away from my face.
“I’m not worried you’re using me, Brontë. I’d like to be an asset to you, to help you out. I’m very honored that you trusted me in the first place to come to me about it all.”
“Well, it’s clear what value you bring to this equation, being a mentor at work, now being my financial guru and life coach…” I hesitate to finish the question, but I do anyway. “So what do I bring to the equation, a midlife crisis piece of ass?” I laugh, hoping my sarcasm hides my true feelings.
“Is that what this is? A midlife crisis?” His brows furrow a bit, but I can’t tell if he’s just pretending to be offended to not hurt my feelings.
“Or my daddy issues. My need to rebel and relive out those angsty teenage years that I didn’t get to do.” I giggle and poke his chest playfully. “Either way it’s probably some sort of mix of it all, a manifestation of our desire for the forbidden.” I bounce my eyebrows up and down, but he doesn’t join in on my playfulness.
“Have you told anyone about us?”
Us.
The word rings in my ears for a moment and I feel a tinge of panic grip my throat. Does he think I have? Is he worried I’m out here writing our names together in cursive on my notebook or sending salacious texts to my friends about our rendezvous?
“No!” I say emphatically, my hand going to my chest in astonishment. “No, I haven’t told a soul.”
“Not even Sylvia or Taylor?” The V between his brows deepens and I shake my head no.
“No. Have you said anything to anyone?”
A knot forms in my stomach at the thought of this getting out and back to my father. Then I remember my talk with Chantelle. Technically, I didn’t tell her anything—she wouldn’t let me—but I didn’t tell her otherwise either. I contemplate bringing that up, but I know it will only worry him; however, I know Chantelle won’t tell my dad.
“No,” he says softly but something about the way his eyes look away from me when he answers, makes me second-guess his honesty. I’m tempted to mention it when I realize that the fact I had a conversation with my stepmom about us is also a gray area so I have no leg to stand on.
I wonder who he would possibly tell. Maybe an old friend at the club? That doesn’t seem right; he’d be too worried it would get back to my dad. Also, I just can’t see Beckham confiding in anyone… unless he told Chantelle and she made it seem like she figured it out on her own. Then, for some strange reason, Venus pops into my head.
My stomach curdles and my heart aches at the thought of him confiding in her about me, us. Jealousy surges through me and I want to ask him if they’re still friends, if they ever talk or hang out. Hell, they could still be hooking up and I wouldn’t know. Do I want to know?
“Hey, what’s going through your head?”
I look up and smile. “Nothing,” I lie, not wanting to sour the mood after tonight’s lovemaking.
“I should probably get going,” he says, sitting up further and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
He reaches for his clothes, but I shoot my hand out to still his movements.
“Stay?” I say half as a question, half as a plea.
He hesitates, his eyes looking from mine to his hand, then back to me. He scoots back into bed, pulling the covers up and holding them open, patting the spot next to him. I smile and crawl into the spot, cuddling into his chest as he pulls the covers up over us.
I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, all thoughts of what if and maybe we shouldn’t pushed to the outer recesses of my mind. Because I know that someday, probably soon, this little fantasy world we’re living in will come to an end.
When I wake the next morning to the blare of my alarm on my nightstand, I silence it and stretch my arms overhead, rolling over to find an empty space where Beckham slept. I sit up and see a small note, scribbled with his handwriting.
Good morning, beautiful,
