Trillion - Winter Renshaw Page 0,11

face feels small. He presses his body against mine, delicately pinning me to the wall.

I want to curl up inside him, be here forever in this magical moment where everything is new and exciting and I’m not Sophie-with-the-hand-me-downs, Sophie with the sick mom and disabled sister, Sophie who waits tables to pay her family’s rent.

I’m simply … his.

Nothing more, nothing less.

“You’re having fun, yes?” he asks, his dark eyes dancing in mine.

I bite my lip, nodding, breathing in the sharp citrus of his aftershave.

“The people here, they have silly little rules,” he says. “It’s like a club where people use code names.”

“… but you gave them my real name.” My tongue is heavy and my words slur into each other. I can’t talk right but I can still think. My logic is intact.

“It’s different when you’re not an actual member.”

“So only the men here are members?” I ask.

He hesitates. “It’s like that, yes. Think of it as a fraternity.”

My older cousin was in a fraternity in college. I know how obsessed those guys can get. How they pledge their loyalty, become like brothers, and do anything for each other.

“Members with code names?” I still don’t understand, not fully.

“Yes.” He sweeps a strand of hair from my forehead. “Exactly.”

“Your name isn’t John, is it?” Maybe it’s the champagne, but the question leaves my lips before I consider the fact that I might not want to know the answer.

“No, Sophie.” He sighs with a smile, as if he finds my question endearing. “It’s not.”

The host calls from the next room, asking about the two empty chairs.

“We have to go,” he says. “We can’t keep them waiting.”

“Wait. I want to know your name. Your real name.” I tug on the lapels of his suit coat, bouncing on the balls of my feet, narrowing the space between us—like a silent, unconscious plea for him to kiss me.

To know me.

To be real with me.

He’s been looking at me like he wants to devour me all night, and it’s only a matter of time before it happens. I know it. I sense it in my bones. Whatever’s between us, it’s electric. The truest thing I’ve ever felt.

“You will.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and then he lowers his mouth to mine, stealing a kiss without asking—the way Kai Masterson did at homecoming last fall. Only he tasted like Burger King French fries and smelled like Axe body spray. “John” tastes like sweet bubbles and smells like a dream. His lips are hot on mine and his kiss lingers for three seconds … I count them. “We’ll talk after dinner. I’ll tell you everything.”

Slipping his hand in mine, he leads me to the dining room, and I’m grateful for the low lights that hide the blush of my cheeks as all eyes pivot in our direction, likely wondering where we ran off to and what we were doing. I imagine they think we shared more than an innocent kiss in a quiet hallway.

He slides my chair out. Pushes it in. Takes a seat beside me.

While we’re far from the head of the table, the chairs are massive and throne-like, and in a strange sort of way, I feel like his queen.

Whoever he is.

Six

Trey

Present

It’s been twenty-four hours since I gave Sophie that contract, and the only thing she’s given me in return is deafening silence.

Still not giving up.

She’ll come around.

“Let me ask you this.” I shove the stack of manila folders back to Broderick. Supposedly these are backups. But they might as well be college applications, and I don’t have time to pore over stacks of women who aren’t her. “How many hours did you waste this afternoon doing this?”

“It’s good to have options,” he says from across my desk.

“Where did you even find these people?” I reach for the top folder, flipping it open to reveal a glossy-haired brunette with double Ds protruding off her bony chest. Her smile easily consumes the lower half of her face, teeth too perfect to be real. And her eyes are sad. God, they’re so fucking sad. I shove that one aside and glance at the next. Not that I’m considering any of them. “This one’s from Serbia. Ames is going to think she’s a fucking mail-order bride.”

“She already has her green card.” He points to a paragraph on the bottom, summarizing her “qualities.”

According to this, her name is Petra and she speaks four languages. She spent eight years in the Moscow Ballet Company, one of them as prima ballerina.