Trillion - Winter Renshaw Page 0,19
clearly in their twenties. All of them worldlier than me. Their hair and makeup professionally done. Their outfits impeccably styled.
With his vast wealth and the entire world at his fingertips, I can’t help but wonder: why me?
“Did you quit your job yet?” he asks. In the blink of an eye, the scenery changes from city to suburban sprawl.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can.” He removes his hand from mine as he changes lanes.
“I like my job.”
He shoots me a quick smirk and then he chuckles. “Nobody likes being a waitress, Soph.”
I do.
“My family needs the extra money,” I say. “My mom’s not able to work right now and my sister has muscular dystrophy. We have a lot of expenses.”
In fact, we’re drowning in them …
“I told you, I’m going to take care of you,” he says.
“I know. But I take care of my family, so …”
“Let me know what you need. I’ll help you any way I can.”
I don’t know what to say other than it sounds too good to be true. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
I just want him to love me …
“I’m going to be in the city every weekend for the next year.” He turns to me in the dark. “I’d like to spend my free time with you, but if you’re working … I’m not sure how that’s going to happen. I want to know that I can call you and you’ll be there. I don’t want to wait until the end of your shift, when you’re tired. I don’t want scraps of you, Soph.”
He takes my hand again, kissing the top of it.
Our surroundings grow darker as we reach the countryside, the roads winding with every passing mile. The stars are brighter out here and the moon is as big as I’ve ever seen it. A wooden sign says we’re in Harrington Park.
We stop at a little pull-off with a guardrail and a million-dollar view. He kills the engine and unfastens his seatbelt. I do the same.
“I don’t know what this is or where this is going to go,” he says. “And maybe it’s a little unconventional. But I want to find out.”
My mouth is dry and my heart gallops so fast I think I might faint. “I want to find out too.”
“What do you make at the café?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. I’ve never told anyone what I make before except my mother. “On a good day, a couple hundred. On a slow day, half that?”
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars a week.” He doesn’t so much as hesitate when dropping that offer in my lap. “I only ask that you answer my calls and texts, and that you make yourself available to me when I need you.”
When he needs me …
I think of those pretty girls in the pictures with him. Did he pay them for their time, as well? Aren’t there other women who would be with him for free?
“That’s extremely generous of you,” I say, “but it seems weird … don’t you think?”
Accepting the fifteen hundred last time was enthralling at first, but the more I thought about it, the dirtier I felt.
“That’s a lot of money,” I add. Though I suppose it’s pocket change to a millionaire. “I don’t want to feel like I owe you something.”
He chuckles, his hand cupping my cheek and his head tilting. “You owe me nothing. I want to be with you, and your time is valuable. That’s all.”
The warmth of his cologne invades my senses as it emanates from his wrist, and before I have a chance to respond, he silences me with a kiss—lip gloss be damned.
I melt against him and quiet the storm of questions swirling in my busy little head.
Something tells me my mind might win the battle, but it’s going to lose the war.
It’s him my heart wants.
Eleven
Trey
Present
The infinite expanse of my home greets me with my own echoing footsteps after dinner. The housemaid left a note by the backdoor, telling me the dry cleaning has been hung and that the gardener had a family emergency and wasn’t able to prune the boxwoods this afternoon.
I crumple the paper and toss it in the garbage.
The caretaker’s cottage is dark, Mr. and Mrs. Petroff are likely visiting their grandkids tonight, as they do most Friday nights.
I stop by the study on my way to bed and pour myself two fingers of Four Roses bourbon, a quick nightcap to take the edge off my thoughts.
Collapsing in my