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I finish my day, shoot Ryder a text with the door code to the building, and after people have gone, I stay in my office tying up little loose ends and generally controlling everything.
Getting ready isn’t going to take me long, I know that, but I still find myself, when I take the elevator to my apartment, spending longer than I ever would.
For what, is what I’d like to know. So Ryder, a man I both want and don’t want and know will never look at me in that way I crave, will fail to be impressed?
He’s seen me in my pajamas. He’s seen me first thing in the morning. He’s told me I’m the last person he’d flirt with…
“Idiot.”
Still…
I’m checking my hair for the millionth time when my door buzzes.
Ryder looks spectacular in one of the suits. “Money speaks,” he says as I give him a long twice-over. “But even so, I suspect you had something to do with the speed of suit one’s arrival by courier today.”
It’s black and the cut classic with a modern edge. “You think I greased the wheel?”
“No.” He laughs. “I think you can make things happen that could be classed as miracles.”
I hate myself, but heat rushes through me, bright and warming at his words.
“You’re on time.” I grab my purse, and sweeping him out the door reluctantly take the arm he offers.
The fewer times I touch him, the better.
We arrive at the fundraiser for underprivileged private school children—I should be blasé about some of the genteel mega rich fundraisers, but I’m not because I can think of so many other things that deserve their money apart from an exclusive school—and it’s as boring and staid as Ryder moaned about the entire trip here.
He comes up to me, his fingers light and low on my back, sending tendrils of electricity tumbling through me. “This is to do…what?”
“Keep the riff-raff out of your schools while looking like you let them in.”
He laughs and takes a sip of champagne, my champagne that he purloins with a smooth move. “You’re not exactly poor or from the riff-raff, Perry.”
“Compared to you, I’m the offspring of chimney sweeps.”
“I can think of worse jobs.”
“Idiot.”
“You like me.” Then he groans. “Here comes trouble.”
His mother approaches, all smiles and discreet, tasteful jewels and a tailored suit. Her gaze flickers to Ryder. “Off with you. But not too far.”
“Mother—”
“Now.” Her expression isn’t one to allow argument, even though Ryder clearly wants to do just that.
He thinks better of it and slinks off with my champagne.
“Don’t think I’m fooled,” Faye Sinclair says. “About the girlfriend thing.”
Of course she isn’t.
“You’re way too good for him, much as I love him. Ryder’s a…work in progress, and worth it, if he can get over himself.”
I stare at her. We spoke the night before, and he told me his family knows he hired someone.
“Well—”
