But now, for the first time in my life, I find myself craving something else. I have a new dream, one that doesn’t directly involve revenge.

For the first time I find myself longing for the torture of love.

chapter thirty-two

I have no idea from where Lander ordered this chilled peach soup or the grilled chicken breast with the grapefruit glaze sitting on the plates in front of us—I didn’t even know you could order such things to be delivered. But as we sit in his formal dining room, a bottle of Reserve Brut chilling in a silver bucket, I remind myself that when you’re rich anything is possible.

I wait for him to mention Travis or Jessica or the impending fund-raising dinner, but he avoids all of those subjects. Instead he works on my edges, trying to find quiet ways to push past my defenses.

“What’s your favorite book, Bell?” he asks. He dips his spoon into his soup and takes a small sip, as if the question was casual and not an attempt to learn who he’s been sleeping with all this time.

I think about making up an answer that will sound right, but when I open my mouth I surprise myself by telling the truth. “I think . . . I think The Princess Bride is my favorite.”

Lander stops, clearly surprised. “The Princess Bride . . . the movie with Billy Crystal?”

“No,” I say impatiently. “The book that came before the movie. I hate movies based on book adaptations.”

“It was a fun film—”

“I didn’t say I hate that movie. I said I hate movies based on books in general. I don’t want to see someone else’s version of a story that I’ve already played out in my head. They never get it right. They can’t. They’re playing for the masses. A movie will always belong to a crowded theater, but a book is personal. It’s an individual and intimate experience shared exclusively between the author and each individual reader, and when they turn books into movies they take that element away.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Lander admits, “but you’re absolutely right.”

“It’s just not my thing. The truth is, I’m a selfish person,” I say with a light laugh as I lift my champagne flute. “I know it’s bad, but I don’t like sharing. I don’t like sharing my experiences, I don’t want to share what’s in my head or—”

“Or what’s in your heart.”

I sip my drink and let the bubbles play on my tongue. “You’ve got to stop finishing my sentences, Lander. You don’t always know what it is I’m going to say.”

“Did I get it wrong that time?”

I smile and put the glass back on the table, unwilling to answer.

“I can finish your sentences because we think alike,” he says mildly.