The truth is, Winter is not beneath me. Not by a longshot. I may have more money, ungodly amounts more and a better fashion sense—mostly because of the ungodly amounts of money part—but Winter eclipses me in every other category imaginable. Her heart is pure. She’s genuine and honest. She’s funny and smart, and she’s all of those things ten times the amount I am on her worst day. Which, if I’m being honest, is one of the things I find so mind-numbingly irritating about her.

Outcome B.) We have an excellent time. As much of a nonissue that would seem to most, I’m not that fucking stupid. I know what happens after we have an excellent time. Tomorrow she wakes up with a little extra pep in her step. She starts doing little things to please me. She starts trying to get me to notice her. She flirts, but not the way she does now. Which, at times, seems accidental and immediately followed by regret.

No, after we have an excellent time, her interactions will become more calculated and planned. It will lose all of its excitement and charm. She will lose all of her excitement and charm.

She’ll like me. She’ll want me. And I’ll fuck her because I’m a heartless asshole. But I won’t want more with her because that part of me is broken. I can’t have feelings for Winter. I can’t have feelings for anyone. I can fuck her, play with her, flirt with her, even get to know her, but when our time is up, it’s up. She’ll get nothing more from me than a smack on the ass and a few dozen regrets. And as shocked as I am to say it, to feel it, I don’t want to hurt her.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table, so I reach forward, peeking at the screen. Hayden calling, again. I clear the call for the umpteenth time in the last three days and shoot Trent a text.

Me: Did you hand deliver the folder from the Garrette-Hathaway account?

One thing I love about Trent and one of the many reasons he—unlike the countless assistants who came before him—hasn’t been fired yet is that he lives and breathes his work. And ten times out of ten, he answers my texts and calls within seconds. I don’t like to wait. He knows that. Obviously Winter didn’t get that memo—or she doesn’t care—because I’ve been sitting here, ready, for fifteen minutes. My jaw fucking tics, but I digress. Trent responds like he’s been sitting at his desk, in his car, or in the shower, or wherever he is, staring at it, waiting for me to reach out.

Unlike Winter. I’m just saying.

Trent: I did, sir. Mr. Porter’s assistant reached out to make sure you’ll be attending the Zoom meeting at four o’clock this evening. Also, Hayden has called the office four times looking for you.

Me: Did Hayden sound like he was in agony? Dying? On his deathbed, or something of the like?