The only thing I had left was dampness between my thighs, ruined underwear, and my fingers, which were still tangled in the elastic of my panties.
It was a fantasy.
A dream.
Christian had never been here.
“Your father is asking to see you.”
My mother delivered the news with morbid dejection. I supposed it was warranted, since I’d been ghosting her for a few days now. I didn’t blame her for not coming to court. I was a first-grade masochist for doing this to myself. I did, however, blame her for pretty much everything else, including (but not limited to) neglecting my existence up until the last few weeks, when everything with Dad had blown up. Now she wanted my company. To make amends. This was a classic case of too little, too late.
“Can he not ask me himself?” I replied, waiting in line for my cup of coffee across from court, pinning my phone between my ear and shoulder. My leg bounced impatiently, and I glanced at my wristwatch. The trial had wrapped up for the day, and I still hadn’t eaten a thing today.
“With everything going on, he wasn’t sure if you wanted to see him,” my mother explained. I knew she wasn’t to blame for any of it, and yet, I couldn’t help directing some of my anger toward her. She was, after all, a participant in the breakdown of this marriage.
“So he sent you as his mouthpiece?”
“Arya, nobody accused him of being overly graceful. Are you coming or not?” she asked.
The line moved at a snail’s pace. I desperately needed a coffee.
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Twenty, if traffic is light.” I turned off my phone and tucked it into my bag. My turn finally arrived. “Grande Americano, no cream, no sugar. Thank you.”
I fished for my purse before feeling a hand brushing my shoulder, handing the barista a black American Express.
“She’ll take the southwest veggie wrap and chocolate-covered espresso beans too.”
I whipped my head around, ready with a scowl. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Padding that open tab of all those dinners you are going to pay me for.” Christian’s smirk felt more like a brush of his knuckles over my spine. “Right now you’re about eleven hundred in the red. All those restaurants I’ve been enjoying by myself this week don’t come cheap, and I always insist on a good bottle of wine.”
“Drinking alone every night has a name.” I smiled sweetly. “Alcoholism.”
His eyes crinkled with a grin. “Don’t worry, Ms. Roth, I donate the wine to the people sitting next to me. Very generous of you, if I may add.”
I had to hand it to him—no one was immune to his charms. Not the jurors—male and female alike—not the court reporter, and not his junior associate. Which, again, made me wonder why he was pursuing me. Sure, I was good looking and successful in my field, but Christian Miller could have his pick of the crop. Why waste time with someone who dedicated every ounce of her energy to trying to hate him?
“Don’t forget I don’t owe you a penny if I don’t sleep with you. Which reminds me.” I spun to the barista in front of us with a smile. “I’ll also have sweet potato chips, all of your shortbread cookies, and five hundred dollars’ worth of gift cards.”
“Your optimism is commendable.” Christian ran the tip of his tongue over his upper lip.
“Your delusions are concerning,” I quipped back, nodding in thanks to the barista in front of us, who took Christian’s order next. A coffee. I stuck around next to him until my Americano was ready. “Where are we not dining together tonight?” I inquired airily, to change the subject.
“I’m glad you asked. Tonight, I’ll be waiting for you at Sant Ambroeus. It’s in the West Village. Italian. They say the cacio e pepe is to die for.”
“Oh, is that so? A girl could hope.”
He grinned down at me, making me feel like a toddler being humored by a grown-up.
“Stop smiling,” I ordered. “It puts me in a bad mood.”
“Can’t help it. Your aversion to losing is sweet.”
“I’m not sweet,” I said tersely. I wasn’t. I was a badass boss bitch with a high-flying career. And then some.
“You are,” he said, almost regretfully. “And that wasn’t in my plans.”
Another barista called my name, and I walked over to accept my order.
“All I ask from you is one hour,” Christian reminded me. “And this time, I’m getting the Château Lafite Rothschild 1995. That’s eight hundred dollars a bottle. You don’t mind, do you?”
I turned around and stomped my Jimmy Choos while simultaneously ordering an Uber on my phone.
What a jackass.
“Brand Brigade is going to have to take me back as a client. Individually, not as a part of a corporation.”
Dad sat back on his brown leather recliner in front of the crackling fire. His study was in disarray. Files everywhere. Including the stacks I’d sifted through the other day, which must’ve given away the fact that I knew about his affair with Ruslana. Not that it mattered. I doubted he was in the business of explaining himself to anyone at this point.