PAIGE
I whip around with a scream on my lips to see, shocker of all shockers, Silver Eyes standing there, framed by the light from the restaurant.
He looks like a god with that backlighting. Like something on fire. His gray suit fits his shoulders perfectly, and the snowy white of his button-down shirt glows in the moonlight.
I'm honestly stunned that he followed me out. He didn't strike me as the kind of man who chases after things. Life just falls in his lap effortlessly. But chase me he did.
I don't know if I like that or not.
I wrench my wrist out of his grasp, though the heat of his touch remains like a brand on my skin. "Hands off."
"You're a sensitive one," he remarks.
"Yeah, well, I've had a pretty shitty week. I keep running into assholes."
He tilts his head to the side. "There's a saying about that: when you meet an asshole, you just met an asshole. When everyone you meet is an asshole, you might be the asshole."
His breath fogs in the night air. Truth be told, I'm a little dizzy from the sudden deluge of calories and emotions, so I'm having a hard time puzzling out what he's trying to convey.
"Are you calling me an asshole?" I ask at last.
He chuckles. "I'm offering you a place to stay for the night, Paige. No expectations. Just a soft bed and a door that locks."
My frown deepens. "No expectations?"
"None whatsoever." He holds up his hands to show me they're empty. His watch reflects the streetlight overhead and inky black tattoo tendrils crawl up the underside of his wrist.
They really are big hands. Capable hands. Dangerous hands.
"Fine," I say. "But you'd better keep those to yourself." I point at his hands so he knows what I'm talking about.
"As you wish." He tucks them into his pockets, then looks over my shoulder.
I follow his gaze to see a sleek black Porsche purring at the curb. "That's yours?"
"That's ours," he corrects.
He walks around to the driver's side while the valet opens my door. I get into the passenger's seat, trying to decide if this is a hunger-fueled fantasy or if this is really happening.
Either way, I decide to see it through. For right now, as we pull away, I enjoy the wind running cool fingers through my hair and the comfort of having someone by my side.
Reality can bite me in the ass again tomorrow. I'll take a beautiful lie for tonight.
6
PAIGE
My heart is hammering so hard that the walk from his car through the hotel lobby is a blur. I'm barely standing, let alone taking in my surroundings. I only clock back in when I walk into the sprawling, palatial suite that he had the audacity to call a "room."
"What on earth is this?" I blurt, pivoting on the spot. "Who are you?"
To say this place is fancy is like saying the ocean is deep. There's a sitting room with white plush furniture to my left, glass double doors that open onto a private balcony with a marble-lined jacuzzi, and a wet bar off to the right. Around a corner is another set of doors that leads to what I assume is the bedroom. Looming over the living room is the head of an honest-to-goodness rhino. I shudder to think what the ivory in those tusks might be worth.
He flicks off his shoes one by one and strips off his jacket, then folds it in half carefully and lays it over the back of the armchair. I watch as he rolls his sleeves up to reveal brawny, rippling forearms. They're borderline pornographic, to be honest. And, like his eyes, he knows how to use them.
"My name is Misha Orlov," he says at last when he directs his gaze back to me.
"That doesn't really answer my question."
"Maybe it's best we keep it that way." He leads me into the living room.
"This place is a freaking castle," I say, following after him because I'm half-afraid of getting lost in this five-star labyrinth.
"It suffices."
"Beats the trailer," I snort. He raises an eyebrow and I blush. "I, uh... I lived in a trailer until I was seventeen. This is better than that, is what I'm saying."
"I see." Misha goes to the bar, leaving me fidgeting awkwardly in the middle of the room. "Would you like a drink?"
I refrained back at the restaurant, but my stomach is full and I'd love to ease the strain between my shoulders. "Okay. When in Rome, I guess."
A minute later, he brings back two champagne flutes brimming with beautiful gold liquid.
"Are we celebrating something?" I ask as he hands me one.
"We're celebrating your full stomach. And Francesco's continued good health."
I laugh against my better judgment and follow him out onto the balcony. There's a table set up there with two ornate white garden chairs. He sinks into one of them and crosses an ankle over the opposite knee. I take the other, though I stay perched on the edge of it like this might all go topsy-turvy any second.
I take a sip of the champagne and have to stifle a gasp. It's like drinking starlight.
Speaking of starlight, I look out over the balcony. The night sky is huge and dark violet, studded with glowing white pinpricks. The stars almost seem within reach from here.
"Your trailer park probably didn't offer a view like this," he remarks.
I wince. "I shouldn't have mentioned it. I don't like talking about that part of my life."
"Which part of your life do you like talking about?"
"More than you seem to think. Up until Anthony skipped out on me, I had a lot to be proud of."
"Like what?"
I finish the flute of champagne and place it on the table next to me. "Anthony and I started a business together. Just a small print shop, but it paid the bills. It allowed us to buy a house and go out for dinner a couple of times a week. I honestly thought we were living the dream."
"Until he made it a nightmare?"
"Yeah. Something like that." Humorless laughter escapes through my lips. "I thought my lowest point in life was living in a trailer with parents who hated me. But I guess it's all about perspective, you know. Even a trailer beats being homeless."
I reach up and twist my pendant between my fingers. For reasons I can't explain, I feel like the floodgates have opened. I want to talk, even if all he does is sit there silently and drink champagne and watch me with those molten eyes.
"I'm being a little dramatic. I'm only homeless for three more nights. Then I get to move into a shitty little studio apartment on Elston Avenue and start a shitty little job at some shitty little company."
"Crash on a friend's couch until then."
If only. "You say that like it's easy. I... lost touch with my friends over the years. Anthony was all I had by the end."
"Then I offer you my condolences. Life without friends is a lonely endeavor."
I eye the champagne bottle where it sits on the bar. Misha follows my gaze and, without asking, rises to go retrieve it. I'm about to protest that he doesn't need to do that, but I get a little caught up in watching him move.
