The Two Week Arrangement (Penthouse Affair, #1)

Dominic

Presley is avoiding me. Again. We’re back to square one. She’s made it a point to take any path in the office that doesn’t cross my door. I haven’t seen her for longer than three seconds at a time all week long. She’s just working hard, I keep telling myself.

“Extra points for giving good head.”

What the fuck was that? I completely reverted to the frat boy I never intended to be. Speaking of which—

“Got a sec?” Oliver asks, poking his head through my doorway.

I’ve been staring at my in-box, unable to focus on any one task long enough to do work. A second won’t hurt. I wave him in.

As always, Oliver makes himself at home right away. In less than a minute, the door is closed and ice is clinking at the bottom of a fresh glass of scotch. With a heaving sigh, Oliver sinks into the wingback chair across from my desk.

Suddenly, I’m hit with the sensation of déjà vu. We were in this exact same place only two weeks ago. I chuckle.

“What?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Nothing.” I sigh. What a simpler time.

Oliver stares at me over the rim of his tumbler. “Hmm.”

“What?” It’s my turn to ask.

“What’d you do to piss off your intern?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you two fuck?”

“No.” I’m not sure Oliver entirely believes me, and he shakes his head in dismay. “But I told her,” I add.

“Told her what?”

“About my girls.”

At first, Oliver looks confused. Then shocked. Then intrigued. “Damn.”

Tell me about it. “What do you think about that?” I want to know if he thinks I made a mistake. Hell, I want to know if I think if I’ve made a mistake. There’s a reason I haven’t gone public about my daughters. I don’t want the media’s attention.

“I think that’s a big deal.”

“I know.” I lean forward, holding my head in my hands. A tension headache is starting to form and my neck feels stiff.

Oliver’s hand on my shoulder brings me back. “Let’s take off early.”

I open my mouth to object, but he swipes my car keys off my desk too fast. Unable to help it, I crack a smile.

I don’t deserve his friendship, but I damn sure need it.

• • •

“Guess who’s here?”

My girls stare up at me with big eyes, practically bouncing with excitement. Just behind me in the hallway waits Uncle Oliver, their favorite surprise guest.

“Who? Who?”

Fran shakes her head and chuckles at their excitement. “Not that young woman, I suppose,” she says with a wry smile.

I give her a look to say don’t get their hopes up.

“Say good night to Franny first. Then I’ll tell you.”

“‘Night!” they cry, impatient.

The sweet woman kisses them each on the cheek—and one extra on Emilia’s bruise.

When Oliver steps inside, the girls squeal with excitement.

“Uncle Oliver! Up! Up!” Lacey cries.

He lifts her like she’s a bag of flour and places her on his shoulders. Emilia takes his hand, her tiny one completely engulfed in his much larger one.

“Look,” she says, pointing to her forehead.

“Oh my! What’s that?”

“A bruise.”

“From what?”

“I fell.”

“Oh no.” Oliver kneels down, Lacey still perched on his shoulders. “You know, I get bruises, too.”

“Why?”

“Well, when Auntie Jess gets angry with me—”

“Okay,” I say quickly, pulling Emilia up onto my shoulders.

I shoot him a look, and he smirks at me. What a fucking goof.

Tonight, there are no rules. We eat our roasted veggie dinner picnic-style on the kitchen floor with Uncle Oliver, who barely gives the girls a chance to eat their carrots between tickles.

“Promise me you will never, never, never-ever like a boy,” Oliver says, pinky finger outstretched. They both reach out and hold his finger with their tiny hands.

“You’re a boy,” Emilia says, ever the rational one.

“Only me, then.”

“And Daddy,” Lacey says, reaching for my hand.

I set down my fork and kiss her little fingers before pretending to gobble them up. “Cheers to that,” I say, lifting my beer to Oliver’s.

“Cheers!” he says. “Lift your cup!”

The girls lift their sippy cups and giggle. Oliver is a hit with kids, always has been, always will be.

I find myself wondering what life would be like if . . . well, if I were Uncle Dominic instead of Daddy. Coming into someone else’s home, simply to wreak controlled havoc until bedtime, and then going back to my own bachelor life. Choices unhindered by—

No.

That’s not what I want. These girls are my life now. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

For some reason, the image of Presley comes to mind. I remember exactly how she looked, sitting across from my daughters at the kitchen table. Her smile was warm and her eyes full of wonder as she whispered with them. Her soft hair fell in messy waves across her shoulders. She was disheveled from the abrupt departure that morning, but she didn’t mind at all. She was there, in the moment, giving Emilia and Lacey her undivided attention.

And then I went and ruined it.

Like a total asshole.

I stand up from the kitchen floor with a stretch, dishes in hand. Oliver has the girls hanging on his every word, particularly the part where he agrees to come to their tea party, which is scheduled for right now. It’s easy for me to pull out my cell phone and send a quick text. Which is probably a bad idea, but that doesn’t stop me.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

Yes. Definitely a bad idea. Minutes pass before my phone buzzes.

Me or my mouth?

I surprise myself by laughing. Shit. I deserve that.

You.

No response.

I said some stupid shit. I do that when I’m scared.

What am I even saying? How do I articulate this? How do I—

I scare you?

Can I call?

Sure.

Let me put the girls down first.

Okay.

With the dishes in the sink, I turn back to the tea party on the floor. “All right, girls, what time is it?”

“No!” Lacey whines, knowing exactly what time it is.

“Bath time.” Emilia stands and dutifully plants the most charming little kiss on Oliver’s cheek.

“Wow, thank you so much,” he says with a chuckle. “I’ll see you guys soon, okay? We’ll continue this tea party. Half the guests haven’t even arrived yet.”

“Okay.” Lacey pouts, clearly unsatisfied with this, but being such a good girl.All text © NôvelD(r)a'ma.Org.

The three of us all see Uncle Oliver to the door. When he’s gone, I take the girls to the tub in the master bath for one of their favorite rituals—bath time. There’s minimal splashing tonight; Oliver has them good and tuckered out. When footie-pajamas are on and the girls are snug in their beds, I only have to read a few pages of Goodnight Moon for them to sail away into their dreams.

I owe you one, Oliver.

I sneak away to my bedroom, cell phone in hand. I’ve been anxious to call Presley and explain myself, but it occurs to me I don’t know what I’ll even say. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at our texts.

Fuck it.

The phone rings three times before she answers.

“Hello?” Her voice is as smooth as that first sip of ice-cold whiskey.

I swallow. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she says cautiously.

“What are you up to?” Small talk couldn’t hurt. Maybe I’ll find my bearings somewhere in conversation.

“Oh, just cards.”

“Tarot?” I am so fascinated by this hobby of hers.

“Yeah.”

“What does it say?” Hopefully nothing about leaving insensitive assholes in the past.

“I don’t know yet.”

I can hear her smile through the phone. Good. She can still smile when speaking to me. Maybe all hope isn’t lost.

“Did I interrupt?”

“It’s okay. There’s no time limit.”

“So I can talk to you all night, that’s what you’re saying?”

She laughs. The sound floods my head, eradicating any remnants of the tension that has been gripping my temples for days.

“Well, that depends,” she says, tone careful.

“On what?”

“Rumor has it there’s an apology coming.”

I grin at her boldness. Presley is certainly unlike any other young woman I’ve met. She catches me off guard and challenges me. She doesn’t care that I’m a powerful, wealthy CEO and that she’s just an intern. She pushes my boundaries every single chance she gets. It’s refreshing.

“There is. You’re right. Again. I’m sorry. I acted like a dick. I shouldn’t have left things like that.” The words are true, spoken with the confidence of someone who knows they’ve royally fucked up and deserve whatever is coming. “I hope you can forgive me.”

The line is quiet for a moment. I close my eyes, imagining what her expression might be. I wonder if she’s frowning, if there’s a crease in her forehead as she weighs my words.

“Apology accepted.”

I smile. “Thank you. Can I take you out to dinner?”

“Um,” she stammers. “For what? Roger again?”

“No, just dinner.”

“Just dinner?”

I can practically see her narrowing her eyes in disbelief. I’d be bracing myself for rejection if I weren’t so charmed by her.

“Just dinner. Just us,” I say.

She’s quiet. I wonder if she’s looking at the cards.

“I could do dinner.”

And with those words, the universe is on my side for the first time in a long time.

“Tomorrow night, after work,” I tell her.

“It’s a date,” Presley whispers.