We fall back into our rhythm when we get back to New York City, just like it was before something happened and she pulled away.
But this time it feels different.
We talk. We talk about almost everything.
I tell her about work and the things I’m working on for Baxter as well as my own ventures.
She tells me about the things she dreamed of doing as a child and having to repress them when her life made her believe she couldn’t achieve them.
She tells me about her anxiety, and how it developed. She tells me about her first ever anxiety attack was when she was at prep school and someone told her that her father was having an affair, and that one day she was going to have an evil stepmother.
Worry about the future, about things she thinks she can’t control, is another trigger. And confrontation. They all trigger her brain into fight-or-flight response, causing the dumping of too much adrenaline into her blood stream.
We make promises that she’ll call me when she’s having an anxiety attack, and no matter what I’m doing and where I am, I will make my way to her.
As much as possible, I try to work from home in the mornings, so that I can be there when she wakes up, and I can make sure she gets some food into her before she works all night.
Nights after the club closes are spent eating picnics on the bed as we wind down from the day. Public outings are reserved for occasions where we are to be photographed, keeping up the appearances of our engagement.
For all the things we talk about, there’s one thing we don’t mention, not even once – what is going on between us and this ‘fake’ engagement that we’re barreling towards.
When it was just a PR ploy, I had no problem signing a marriage license, but now that she’s become the most important part of my day, can I let her continue thinking that it’s all for pretense?
The research comes back telling me that her stabilizing influence on my public image plays well with the investors and the board has stopped hounding me. A case of no news is good news.
My plans for Patrick continue to fall into place. His last two deals fall through in the space of as many days. I spend too much time and money on my personal vendetta, and I don’t have a single regret about it.
He wanted me to finish him off? Be careful what you wish for, Patrick.
It’s the only part of my life that I keep from Clarissa. Sometimes, in a quiet moment, I see her lift her hand to her temple, and her eyes mirroring fear, remembering the incident. The only time I’ll ever bring his name up to her is to tell her that she never has to worry about him again.
Whatever happened to make her pull away before the wedding seems to have been resolved, and even though I’m glad to have her back, a part of me remains on edge, wondering if today is the day I’ll wake up… and she is gone again.
I live and breathe Clarissa Masters, and without her, I don’t know what would be left of me.
CLARISSA
I
change quickly in the car, not wanting to show up at the apartment in a skirt stained with a spilled
Bloody Mary. Matthias had asked me during the day if I could come home a little earlier so we could spend some time together because he goes out of town in two days. But the club has had a few social media posts go viral over the last few days, and there were more people than ever lining up to get inside. It was past eleven p. m. before I felt comfortable leaving my staff in charge.
I jump out of the car and check my reflection in the elevator’s mirrored walls on the way to the penthouse. I clean up good even if it’s in the backseat of a car. The thought of seeing Matthias after both of us being busy all day plants butterflies in my stomach.
But it’s dark and quiet when I get to the apartment.
“Matthias?” I call out, dropping my things on the table as I make my way to the bedroom. Maybe he’s taking a nap before coming to pick me up from the club.
He’s not there, nor in the bathroom.
His iPad is still on the nightstand, and he never leaves the house without it, so I know he must be somewhere here.
The eeriness of the silent apartment quickens my breath, and I make my way to his office. There’s a soft light emanating from under the door, and when I push it open, I’m not sure what I’m going to find there.
But it’s just him, laying with his head back on the couch, snoring softly. His laptop teeters on the arm of the couch, suggesting he was working before he took an impromptu nap.
My heart swells with emotion at the sight of him, his blond hair tousled from a stressful day, shirt sleeves rolled and pushed midway up his forearms. Will I ever get sick of looking at him? I can’t imagine I will.
I just hope he feels the same way about me.
Trying not to wake him, I gently pull the laptop off the couch and lay it on his desk. Folding up the papers next to him, I put them on top of the laptop thinking about how I can turn off the lamp without disturbing him.
When I turn around his eyes are open, gazing at me.
“You’re home,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Not as early as I wanted to be, I’m sorry.” “Come here.” He holds his hand out to me.
I take it and he roughly wrenches me onto his lap, kissing me deeply, like he’s woken up from a hundred-year slumber, hungry, thirsting for me.
Arousal hikes up from my core, and I lean into his kiss, his tongue dipping into my mouth as I open for him.
“You taste so sweet,” he murmurs, his hand raking down my back.
“It’s the Caramello Koalas,” I joke.
A soft exhale whistles out of him. He wraps himself around me as he stands up and lays me back down on the couch, pulling at the straps of my halter top.
“Did I ever tell you I’m a tit man?” he asks, as he flicks his tongue over my nipple.
“Erm, no, but I may have picked up on it,” I say, arcing my back.