Seven Nights of Sin (Penthouse Affair #2)

Chapter 33 Presley

Presley

From the window next to this café table, the sky looks heavy with unfallen rain.

I pick at the torn edge of the menu as I wait for Michael to show up. He texted me that he’ll be a few minutes late, so I probably should have taken my time coming here. I could have taken the scenic route from Bianca’s apartment by the pond . . . no. I would just see the ducks and think about the girls. And him. And I desperately don’t want to think about him.

I don’t want to think about how Dominic’s eyes light up when he looks at me, or his laugh when his girls do something silly, or the way he squeezes me tight against his chest when we’re tangled in his bed. I especially don’t want to think about my last memory of him: the cold silhouette of his back against the TV newscast that froze out any chance of our relationship amounting to something.

Did you really think that would happen? I scoff loud enough that a barista at the counter turns to look at me with an odd expression.

I dip my head down, pretending to clear my throat. So much for making this café my usual haunt. I’m practically one step away from talking to myself.

As I sip my coffee, it occurs to me that this is the very same café where I first met Austin. It was when Michael had asked me for more money and we sat across the room in the armchairs. I can even see the case where they keep the banana bread where we struck up our first conversation.

As for Austin . . . what a colossal disaster that turned out to be. My heart aches at the memory of Dominic’s face when he found the Genesis folder in my bag. It was so hurtful that he thought so little of me, that he thought I would betray him and risk everything to help a presumptuous stranger.

But he did hear you out. He did forgive you.

I tell that annoying voice in my head to shut the hell up. Dominic also spoke to me like I meant nothing to him. He tossed money at me like I was a whore. And then I was so desperate for his forgiveness, I spent days afterward groveling.

No. I’m done making excuses for his behavior. I can’t put more effort in than he—

When the menu tears in my hands, I swear under my breath and tuck it under the little succulent centerpiece, hoping no one noticed. Now I’m turning into a crazy person . . . sitting alone in a café, destroying private property and muttering to myself.

I stare out the window, watching the hustle and bustle of the street. With each passerby, I imagine what it would be like to be that person. The man walking his tiny round dog. The woman on her morning jog. The teenagers locking their bikes across the street. Simpler lives.

What would I trade for a life with fewer complications? I could do without the couch I’ve come to associate with a perpetually stiff neck, or I could trade in my homophobic father. Instead, I have a roller coaster of emotions inside me and a complicated relationship with a man I can’t seem to say no to.

While all of these thoughts rattle in my brain, a tall iced coffee lands before me, followed by a handsome twenty-year-old.

“Hey, sis,” Michael says, all smiles. He takes off his blue beanie with a sigh and leans back into his chair. His hair is a mess, and when I lay eyes on him, I smile for the first time all morning.

“Hey, crazy hair.” Smiling, I reach over the table and pat the stray tufts down.

“I barely slept,” Michael admits, looking up at me through his lashes as I attempt to finger-comb his bangs out of his eyes. “I didn’t shower so I could sleep in.”

“Ew, is this sex hair?” I grimace dramatically, wiping my hand on his shirt.

Michael shrugs with a cheeky grin. I’m glad someone is in a happy relationship.

“Is that promotion hair?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. I have my hair up in a messy bun, like it always is when I’m not working. Copyright Nôv/el/Dra/ma.Org.

“Yep, this is my eighty-grand-a-year look.” I smirk.

Michael’s eyes go wide. “Whoa, really?”

“Thereabouts,” I say. Is it inappropriate for me to share my salary with my struggling-artist brother? Before I can answer the question for myself, Michael does.

“You are so cool. You . . . wow. You deserve that,” he blurts, his eyes shining with emotion. “You’ve always deserved it. Finally someone sees that!”

“I’m not so sure,” I mutter.

“What do you mean? Your boss must think you’re the best if she gave you that salary.”

“He. And no, I don’t think he thinks I’m the ‘best,’” I argue with aggressive air quotes.

Michael waits for me to continue, sipping on his iced coffee.

“He’s a really complicated person,” I say. “One minute I think I know what he wants, and the next I realize I’m completely wrong.”

“That’s annoying,” Michael says.

That’s one word for it. Can I tell him everything? I rub my thumb on the stains on my coffee cup.