LOGINWhat would you do if you walked in on your husband cheating? I'll tell you what I did: Ran out the door with nothing but the clothes on my back. A month later, I'm broke, jobless, almost homeless. But then, while filling in as a waitress at a fancy restaurant, I trip and land in the lap of a gorgeous stranger. One thing leads to another and we end up hooking up. Afterwards, he leaves. That's the end of that... right? WRONG. Because the next day, my temp agency sets me up for a job that seems too good to be true. But when I arrive for the interview, my jaw drops. It's the stranger. Turns out he's rich. Like, very rich. And powerful. Like, very powerful. And here's his offer: "Live in my house. Be my wife. Have my baby." Needless to say, I start to freak out. I stand up and stammer, "Um, I'll have to get back to you..." And he replies: "You're misunderstanding. It wasn't a question. You're not going anywhere."
View MoreHer cheeks flare with uncertainty. Before, I was just a rich customer. Now, I’ve transformed in her eyes. I’ve become something riskier, more dangerous.She still isn’t anywhere close to understanding the true scope of things.She takes a few steps forward, but she makes no move to sit down. “Who are you?” she whispers in a timid voice that sends lightning bolts straight to my cock.“Leo Solovev.”“Leo Solovev,” she murmurs. “Should I recognize that name?”“I don’t see why you would.”“You’re not some, like, prince from a foreign country or something, are you?”I snort. “I’m the farthest thing on earth from a prince. Flattered you’d think so, though.”She blushes a little. She looks up at the ceiling, at the walls, at the floor between her feet. Like she’s wondering how on earth she ended up here with me.But I know.I know exactly how.I planned it.“Willow.”Her head jerks towards me.“Sit down.”She hesitates for one moment longer. Then, setting her jaw like she’s preparing to jump
“All our friends are his friends. I have no one.”“How lonely.”I can’t look away from those hazel eyes of his. Why does it feel like he can see inside me? Like he can split open my head if he wants to and sift through my thoughts?Do I even know his name?“It is lonely…”My eyes fall to his lips. I’ve never noticed lips on a man. But his are… they’re so…“Willow Reeves?”The door to the private room opens, and I jump to my feet. I turn to the door to find the maître d’ standing there with barely controlled rage on his face.I’m guessing that control is for the guest’s benefit. It certainly is not for mine.“Please excuse me, Mr. Solovev,” he grimaces. “I’m going to need your waitress for a moment.”Solovev. The name has an Eastern European tang to it. Russian, maybe?I don’t wait for anyone to say another word. I mumble a hasty apology and walk straight for the door with my face on fire.In some ways, I’m grateful for the distraction. I felt like I was being drugged in there. Tip-toe
I’ve got five missed calls from Casey and a whole avalanche of texts. They get increasingly more irritable as they go.Text one: Hey baby. I was thinking I’d take you out to dinner tonight. How does that sound?Text two: Willow? Baby? I tried calling and you didn’t pick up. Where are you? Don’t tell me you’re at that stupid fucking temp agency again.Text three: Where the fuck are you and why aren’t you answering your phone?Text four: I’m sick and goddamn tired of this independent kick you’re on. It’s fucking pointless. You know you’re not going to be able to make any real money. You quit college, remember? You don’t have a degree or any work experience! Get your ass home now. And fucking call me!“They wanted a whole bottle of whiskey?” the bartender asks.I look up distractedly. “I, uh… yeah. Yeah. Whole bottle.”He shrugs and turns to fetch it. I look back down at my phone. I know I’m not going to get away with not answering, so I pull up our text thread and type out a quick messa
One Month Later“Are you the temp?”The maître d’ is a hook-nosed man with a permanently annoyed expression on his face. I passed by him earlier, on my way into the restaurant, and witnessed him yelling at another waitress like she was a stray dog.“Yes, sir,” I nod, trying to adjust the small white apron around my tight-fitted black uniform. “Mr. Connelly punched me in.”He looks over me with a critical eye. “You’re not wearing the right shoes,” he says, glancing down at my black flats.“I know; I’m sorry. But it was a last-minute call and the agency informed me of this shift literally half an hour before I got here. I had to—”He holds his hand up to silence me. “Not interested in your life story. There’s a group of VIPs in one of our private rooms. Can you handle pouring drinks?”I swallow past the knot in my throat. “Oh, uh, yeah. Of course. Sure.”He nods primly. “Let your hair down and drop a button on your blouse,” he instructs with a straight, dour face. “Those men in there ex
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