“Anything.” Just ask, angel.

“If you haven’t already told Preston about us, about what we’ve done, can you not?”

Well, this is new.

I’ve had women fight each other to be seen on my arm. A certain socialite vlogger in New York plastered pictures of me passed out in my bed to prove she spent the night in my guest room. Women typically clamor to attend publicized events with me. Last year, The New York Man magazine named me New York’s most eligible bachelor after I hosted a charity event that not only saved Angel’s Wings Orphanage from being closed, but granted them the ability to open three additional locations in Jersey, Chicago, and Seattle.

I’m a fucking catch.

But Winter Sommers of Port Blue, California wants to keep me her dirty little secret, and I don’t like the feeling.

Contrary to what people expect from me, I don’t entertain married women. If I can’t do it openly, I don’t do it at all. I have morals, after all. And I don’t give a shit what people think of my choices or my actions. But apparently Winter does.

Her eyes regard me with caution, pricking my skin with irritation.

“I haven’t spoken to Preston about our tryst, and I don’t plan on it. Anything else, Winter?”

“No.” She shakes her head, glancing through the window at her friends. “Thank you, Aleck.”

“No problem, Miss Sommers.”

She blinks her long lashes at me and smiles.

Admittedly, I woke up this morning thinking Winter and I could have breakfast together after my run. I imagined we’d take a shower together where we’d finish what we started last night. I’d fuck her under the pulsating stream of hot water, making her sing my name with that pretty voice of hers. Then we’d insist on starting our day, knowing we would only end up in her bed, then mine, then the couch, and so on…

But when she woke with the eager need to insist nothing else can happen between us, I knew she was right, yet I wanted to wrap her around my body all the same. That is not my idea of control. Not craving carbs because I’ve chosen not to have them is control.

This is like being told not to blink.

The feeling is haunting, and sticky, and loud.

Mental note: If I care about my wellbeing in the slightest, I need to stay the fuck away from Winter “Ball Crusher” Sommers.

FOURTEEN

ALECK

“Alright, alright…” Preston stands from his spot at the head of the table, Sondra to his left and Winter next to her. I’m sitting to his right, directly across from Winter. “Can we please thank Winter and Aleck for everything they’re doing? Honestly, who has someone else plan their own wedding?” He laughs, raising his flute of champagne in the air.

“Every single bride who hires a wedding planner,” Sondra quips.

“Well, it’s true I’m no wedding planner,” Winter says with a smile. “But Sondra and I planned our weddings in some detail when we were young, so hopefully you’re pleased with the outcome. And hopefully I don’t give the wedding planner a heart attack during the process.”