“It won’t take them long to figure out who you are. Despite what you may think, you aren’t a total unknown in the city. Finding your address won’t be anything.”
My right hand flies to my mouth. “Oh no. Renni.”
“What?”
“My roommate. They’ll try to get to her too, to see what they can squeeze out of her.”
I can’t remember Renni’s schedule, but she’s probably working at the bar today. I text her, my fingers flying on the keyboard. Call me ASAP. Do NOT go to apt. Stay with Gary.
“If you want, I can have her picked up and stashed at a hotel,” Ryder says.
“It’s all right. She’ll be more comfortable with her brother.” Gary doesn’t have a roommate or girlfriend as far as I know. “I should take the service gate and go to Bethany’s place.”
Ryder shakes his head. “No fiancée of mine is hiding out on her own.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. His bare skin feels good and warm, and I shiver despite myself. My hormones stir again, demanding that I pick up where we left off on the terrace.
Except that was a terrible idea.
I told Ryder we’d keep our “marriage” situation professional. And it is imperative that we do so.
I’ve always been able to treat Ryder professionally because I never considered him someone I could really have. Some might call that a self-esteem issue, but I call it being realistic. He’s the kind of person who plows through women—in more ways than one—and discards them left and right. Everyone knows this, but women still throw themselves at him, as though they possess some kind of magical vagina that can turn him into a one-woman man.
Not me.
People don’t change. And I don’t expect Ryder to change for me. This is a year of show on his part so he can claim his grandfather’s painting, which I’ve come to see means more to him than anything else. And I’m going to save my parents the disappointment and embarrassment of having a failure for a daughter. We’re both a means to an end, and I’m not about to confuse his acting with what’s really real.
* * *
Ryder
Paige remains stiffer than a corpse as I lead her up to the third level of the house. It bothers the crap out of me. Maybe when she mentioned keeping things professional, she meant we shouldn’t even touch. Doesn’t she know that would look weird? Married couples are affectionate, right?
Really? What the hell do you know about married couples?
Dad and his wives are no role models, and Mom is hopelessly stiff. Uncle Salazar is anything but affectionate with his wife. Of course, they’re getting divorced.
Everything I know about married couples, I learned from Hollywood. To be more specific, movie scripts and shows that featured ideal couples.
I know Paige and I aren’t ideal. Our beginning is a mess, and it bothers me much more than it should.
Now I wish I hadn’t gone to anyone’s wedding.
The staff is scarce up here. They don’t need to be on this floor unless there’s cleaning to be done or something, and I only allow my most trusted and long-term employees at this level.
People think I’m indiscriminate and let the media get whatever they want on me. Truth is, I only drop crumbs of publicity when I want some…or don’t give a damn.
“Your bedroom.” I gesture, stopping before the double doors.
“Thanks.”
“Mine’s next door.”
“Okay.”
“In case you need anything.”
“Got it.” Paige rests a hand on the door handle. “Well…good night.”
I hesitate. I hate to end the evening like this. We’re engaged for god’s sake, even if it’s fake, but I don’t know what else to do with her if we can’t seem to talk without feeling awkward and we can’t have sex. After all, that is what women want to do when they get me alone, and that is exactly how I prefer things.