Page 117 of Hate You More

“You clearly know nothing about diets.”

“I know about appetites.”

“Vanessa never suggested I wait until Monday,” I say, not about to touch that.

“Vanessa?” His eyes narrow.

“You remember my stepmother. She’d put me on diets all the time. To be fair, we both would’ve preferred for me to be a little . . . less.”

“When? When did she put you on a diet?”

“The first time? I was probably twelve.”

“She put you on a diet as a kid? That’s so fucked up.”

Is it? “When you’re my height—”

“You’re gorgeous. You always were.”

“Thank you.” A warmth spreads through me.

“I mean it. So gorgeous, I’d like to know how you feel about shower sex.”

“Shower sex is never a good idea,” I retort with mock seriousness. “It’s more like an invitation to a concussion.”

“Shower sex isn’t where it’s at,” Troy agrees, mimicking my serious tone. “Shower foreplay, however . . .” He gives a silly wiggle of his eyebrows, and I set off laughing. Which is when he whips off the sheet, pulling it over our heads and diffusing the light. “Abstinence tomorrow,” he whispers.

“Sex Lent?”

Oh, but his lips find my neck, and I arch under him, happy in the moment. Happy with what’s about to come. Me, obviously.

I can worry about the future tomorrow.

For now I think I’ll just enjoy being.

Chapter 33

Troy

My office feels lighter than it has in a long while.

I’m standing by the window with my phone in my hand, city spread out below me, when I realize I’m smiling like an idiot. Three calls, all returned. Two enthusiastic. One cautiously intrigued but asking the right type of questions. The kind of people Clara needs—serious, principled, and allergic to bullshit.

I make a mental note to text her later that her board opens are coming together. I don’t text yet because . . . well. Maybe I like holding the thought. Or maybe I don’t want to be that guy. The one needy for attention. Who craves a pat on the head.

I just want to see her face when I tell her tonight. And maybe I want that more than I should.

I shake off the thought, refusing to dwell. I built this company from nothing. I know how to compartmentalize. How to put thoughts on a mental shelf and prioritize. Move forward. But my mind won’t cooperate, continually coming back to her.

This week has been amazing, and I can’t lie, I could get used to coming back to a woman in my home. I shake my head. Can you spell chauvinist? But that’s not what I mean. I just like coming back to her. Back to Clara.

I did not see her plans for her wealth coming. The first conversation we had way back when—the one where she upped the ante on my fake-dating plan—I could see the reasons for her desperation. I’d lived that life, scrambling for the next dollar. I know what it feels like, and I know what I’d do to avoid falling back through those cracks. I guess you could say we entered this crazy partnership for the same reason. We’re just at opposite ends of the spectrum this time.

Over dinner the last few nights, I’ve been impressed how clearheaded she is about her direction. While I’m at work, she makes reams and reams of notes, and over takeout and beer—wine for her—we go over how best to action those plans. Listening to her talk has me rapt. Her thoughts and the way her mind works are just fascinating.

Clara has had money, and she’s had nothing. Instead of those experiences creating fear, making her hoard her wealth (when it comes), she seeks to break the pattern for others. It feels good to help her with that, to help with something that matters. I admire the hell out of her for wanting something more than an ornamental existence.

I admire her for more than that, I think, tapping my phone to my mouth as my mind moves to last weekend.