Date for Hire (Companions for Hire, #0.5) Read online

  “But you’re gorgeous.” He pauses. “Aren’t you?”

  I laugh. I really can’t help it. He sounds so confused. “Of course I’m not gorgeous. But I appreciate the attempt to boost my ego.”

  He’s quiet for another moment, and this time I don’t know why. Then he says, “Okay. I’ll let you finish packing. See you tomorrow.”

  I hang up, feeling weird and fluttery and bewildered.

  And I still have no idea what outfits I should bring on the trip.

  THE NEXT MORNING AT just before noon, Mike and I are sitting in the airport, waiting to board our flight.

  It’s close to time, and the gate is crowded with people who are waiting like we are. Some are hovering near the boarding line, ready to pounce as soon as the announcement is made. I’ve never understood that sentiment. Why would anyone get on a plane earlier than they need to?

  Mike seems to understand my preferences. He makes no move to stand up or get his luggage ready even though we’re flying business class and so will be able to board earlier than most.

  I always fly business class. It’s one of the few indulgences I’ve allowed myself after our business started taking off. I hate flying, so I don’t do it at all unless I can afford more comfortable seats.

  “Remember when it was exciting to fly?” Mike asks, leaning over to murmur into my ear. He’s obviously been reading my mind.

  I feel his warm breath against my skin, and it makes me shiver. “When was that exactly?”

  “Didn’t you get excited about it when you were a kid?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Definitely. My first time flying was a trip we took to Hawaii when I was six and Weston was eleven. I was so thrilled about getting on the plane and looking out the window and getting the Coke and snacks.” I laugh at the memory. “And then I got really scared about the turbulence, but I didn’t want anyone to know, so I pretended it didn’t bother me.”

  “Really?” His blue eyes are focused on my face, despite the noise and motion of passengers preparing to board around us. “Why?”

  “Because it’s scary to be bounced around a zillion miles in the air.”

  He chuckles. “I get that part. I meant why did you pretend not to be scared? You were six. You were allowed to be scared.”

  “I guess. It just didn’t feel that way. It felt like a weakness—to be upset when everyone else was fine with it. Weston obviously didn’t care. He was acting like it was a ride at an amusement park or something. I couldn’t let anyone see that I wasn’t just as brave. So I held on to the armrests and stared out the window and pretended I was fine.”

  He reaches over and brushes his fingers down the length of my hair.

  The gentle gesture surprises me. As does the soft look in his eyes. “Are you feeling sorry for me?”

  “No. Of course not. I completely understand the need to put on an act for the world. I just wish little Aurora had let herself be scared.”

  The soft words feel intimate. Too intimate. I gulp and glance away, worried my expression will reveal everything I’m feeling.

  I’m saved when a voice breaks through the rumble of noise around us to announce that it’s time for our flight to start boarding.

  Three

  A FEW HOURS LATER, Mike and I get out of a taxi in front of the Manhattan hotel where we’ll be staying for the weekend.

  My stomach is churning with discomfort after the flight, airport, and long cab ride, and I vaguely wonder—as I always do whenever I visit this city—why I do this to myself.

  I could have said no to this trip, but I didn’t.

  When I see Mike giving me a sidelong look, I force a smile.

  “You all right?” he asks, obviously not convinced by my attempt at nonchalance. He puts a hand on my back as he guides me into the chaotic ground floor of the hotel.

  “I’m fine.”

  He doesn’t argue, but he also doesn’t believe me. There’s concern on his face as we head upstairs to the check-in desk, which requires maneuvering through random crowds of people whose only purpose seems to be getting in our way.

  There’s a line to check in. Of course there is. There are way too many people in this one space, and it’s making me tense. As always, I try to hide it, keeping my eyes down and breathing deeply.

  We stand in silence in the line for just over a minute, Mike’s lean body only inches from mine. He’s wearing khakis and an untucked green-and-brown-checked shirt. Just slightly wrinkled, as all his shirts seem to be.

  He leans in and mutters against my ear, “Tell me what the hell is wrong with you right now.”

  I blink at the gruff authority of his soft voice. “Nothing,” I begin. Then I see his expression and add quickly, “It’s really nothing big. I just don’t... don’t like New York.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too many people. Too many buildings. All crammed together. It makes me... anxious.”

  His eyebrows lift. “Really? Atlanta is a pretty big city. It doesn’t make you anxious?”

  “Not like New York does. Particularly Manhattan. It’s just too much, all squeezed together on a little island. I feel trapped here. Like the buildings are closing in on me. Like I can’t get away. Like the whole thing is swallowing me up. It’s not a major phobia or anything. It just makes me... anxious.”

  The line is moving. Mike steps closer to me, putting his hand again on my back. This time he leaves it there, his palm pressing gently just between my shoulder blades. It’s strangely comforting. It lessens the churning of my stomach. “Why didn’t I know that about you?”

  I sniff. “Why would you?”

  “I don’t know. We’ve known each other for three years. I thought we were...” He clears his throat. “Aren’t we friends?”

  “Yes! Yes, I think so.” Because I’m suddenly worried that he’s hurt, I start to ramble, which is something I rarely let myself do. “I just don’t tell anyone. I don’t know why. All kinds of things make me anxious, but I don’t tell anyone about them except Weston. It just feels like... I always try to put on this front of having it all together. Like when I was a girl on the flight and couldn’t admit I was scared about it. I’ve done it all my life. And now I... I don’t know how to be anything else.”

  He meets my worried eyes. His are thoughtful. Terrifyingly observant. Like he might be able to see past the composure I’ve cultivated for so long—maybe as far down as my soul. “Well, it’s worked,” he murmurs at last.

  “What’s worked?” So maybe my mind is spinning from the look in his eyes. I’m not thinking as clearly as I should.

  “Your act. The way you pretend to always have it together and be completely in control. I was... I was fooled.”

  “You were?”

  “Yeah. And I’ve got to say it was damned intimidating.”

  “What?” (Definitely not thinking at full capacity here.)

  “It’s intimidating. Believing you were really like that. Like you didn’t really need...”

  His trailing off is incredibly frustrating since I’m leaning into what he’s saying, but I don’t get a chance to prompt him to continue because a clerk calls us up to check in.

  Our rooms are next to each other, and they’re exactly the same. King-size bed with white coverlet. Walk-in shower. Expansive view. I’m surprised when, after we identify whose room is whose, Mike follows me into mine.

  My eyes widen, and I stop myself from blurting out a confused question about what he wants.

  “So what’s your plan?” he asks, his eyes surveying the clean, polished furnishings.

  “What plan?”

  “What do you want to happen this evening?”

  I gulp. Is he asking this for real? There’s no way I’ll be able to admit what I really want to happen this weekend—that Mike would fall deeply, miraculously in love with me. “W-what?”

  He gives a soft huff of amusement and cocks his head. “I know we have the brunch tomorrow and then we fly home. But do you want me to make myself scarce f
or the rest of today? I’m happy to do that, if you want to do your own thing. Or did you want to...” He makes a weird throaty noise and drops his eyes. “...to hang out with me or what?”

  I suddenly understand what he’s asking. My heart gives a ridiculous gallop at how adorably self-conscious he looks. “Oh. I see. Well, the truth is I don’t have any plans. But all you need to do with me is the brunch tomorrow, so you don’t have to keep me company today unless you...” My cheeks warm.

  He laughs for real—low and warm and husky. “Okay. I think I’ve got it. So let me lay it out for you. I’ve got nothing to do here this evening. If you want to be alone or spend time with other people, I’ll be perfectly happy to hang out in my room. But otherwise consider me available for anything you might want.”

  His tone shifts at the end of his last sentence. I’m sure it’s not intentional on his part, but the timbre becomes just slightly gravelly. Incredibly sensual. It makes my skin flush and a pressure tighten between my legs.

  Because there’s one thing I definitely want that he can provide.

  Before I let myself get carried away with that idea, I remind myself that I’m paying him for the weekend. Good money. Of course he’s going to want to make sure he provides the best service, which in this case is his company.

  He doesn’t mean what I want him to mean.

  I know some of our companions have sex with clients, and some of them probably get paid extra for it. What happens between consenting adults is their business, as long as it’s entirely off Companions for Hire’s books. But I don’t get the sense that Mike sleeps with his clients, and I’d definitely not be comfortable with that arrangement.

  I want him in an entirely different way.

  “Okay,” I manage to say. “I guess I’ll need to eat tonight, so if you want to...”

  “I’ll be needing dinner too, so I’d love it if we can go together.”

  I smile, feeling silly and fluttery and ridiculously happy. “Okay. Good. Let’s do that.”

  “Around seven?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He looks around the room again. I have no idea what he’s looking for since it’s exactly as it was on his previous survey. “I guess I’ll leave you alone to unpack and take a shower or whatever you want to do until then.”

  I giggle. I’m not by nature a giggler, so it surprises me.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks with a frown.

  “Nothing. Just that what I plan to do is bury myself under the covers for a while.”

  The corners of his mouth turn up just slightly. “Bury yourself?”

  “Yes. It makes me feel better. When I’ve been anxious or jittery or something. I like to cover up. It makes me feel safe.”

  His smile broadens. Takes my breath away. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it. I like it. I just didn’t know that about you. Why have you been keeping all this stuff from me?”

  “I haven’t been keeping it from you!” That’s instinctive defensiveness, and we both know it’s not true. So I add, “Okay, fine. But I told you before that I don’t tell this stuff to anyone.”

  “Well, you could have told me at least.”

  “Aren’t you anyone?”

  “No, I’m not just anyone. And I want to know all of it.” He takes a step closer to me, his gaze never leaving mine.

  “All... of... it?” It’s a miracle I manage to get a coherent sentence out, given the way my heart is hammering. I’m a little scared to imagine how I look right now—all wide eyes and flushed cheeks and parted lips.

  “Yes.” His eyes heat up for a moment—or maybe I imagine it. But I definitely don’t imagine the way his gaze flickers down to my chest and lingers on my neckline for longer than it should.

  I’ve got a very curvy figure—so curvy that I used to always be on a diet until I finally accepted that this is my body—and my boobs are probably my best feature.

  For one thrilling moment, I’m sure that Mike is noticing their appeal, a respectable amount of cleavage set off by the V of my top.

  But then he gives a dry quirk of his mouth. “For instance, I would have been much less intimidated by you for all these years had I known you were secretly a groundhog.”

  It’s like a blow to the gut, the sudden shift in mood. “A groundhog?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know life made you anxious and you liked to burrow down and hide yourself from the world. I would have liked to know this earlier.”

  “I get that, but do you really have to compare me to a groundhog?”

  “They’re pretty cute. What would you prefer?”

  “I don’t know. A more interesting animal. Like a wombat.”

  He’s grinning warmly. “Wombat. That’s perfect for you. They’re great burrowers.” He works on his phone for a few seconds and then hands it to me. I stare down at a photo on the screen. It’s Mike—dressed in dirty jeans and a gray T-shirt. He’s kneeling on the ground with his hand on a large, furry animal with a very cute face. “That’s from when I was working in Australia several years ago.”

  “Oh, I love him!”

  “I thought you would.” When I look up, Mike’s eyes are soft on my face.

  I gulp. “He looks very cozy and huggable.”

  “Well, it takes some work to get wombats to trust you, but it’s worth the effort.”

  For a moment I can’t look away from him. It’s not clear who he’s even talking about now. Afraid all my composure is being melted away by his warmth, I make myself say something casual. “Okay. I’ll admit it. I’ve always secretly been a wombat. I’ll try not to keep such things from you again.”

  “Be sure that you don’t.”

  He leans toward me, suddenly closer than I realized. My breath hitches as I think he’s going to kiss me.

  He doesn’t. He gives a weird little jerk and then flicks a stray piece of my hair. “I’ll see you at seven, Aurora.”

  He’s gone before I can get another word out.

  Four

  I SPEND AN HOUR OR so under the covers in bed—not sleeping, just recovering emotionally from the trip and my talk with Mike. But I make myself get up early enough to shower, shave, lotion, pluck, dress, and apply makeup far more carefully than I usually do.

  I’ve got good skin—clear and smooth—and my eyelashes are naturally dark, so I usually don’t bother much with makeup beyond a little powder and gloss. I don’t normally wear pants as sleek and sexy as the ones I put on or tops with such a revealing neckline. And I definitely don’t make a habit of more than a cursory shave a couple of times a week. But I want to look as good as I can tonight. While I know rationally that there’s not much chance of anything happening beyond dinner and conversation, a little sliver of my heart isn’t convinced.

  I’m hoping for more, so I want to be ready just in case.

  Mike knocks on my door at exactly seven—he’s always been surprisingly punctual for such a laid-back man—and I can’t help but smile when I see him. He’s changed into an untucked black button-up and nice gray trousers. He looks more put together than normal.

  As if he made an effort the way I did.

  “You look great,” he says, his voice a bit gravelly like it was earlier this afternoon.

  “Thanks.” I’m staring at the floor because I’m too embarrassed to look him in the eye. I’m not used to feeling this way. It’s thrilling and terrifying and frustrating.

  I’m never going to be good at flirting, but the least I can do is hold my head up and have a halfway lucid conversation. So I wrench up my chin. “Ready?”

  “Been ready for a really long time.”

  I have no idea what that means. I know what I want it to mean, but that’s very likely my hormone-afflicted imagination. I open my mouth to reply. Smooth. Witty. Light. Natural. Like the Aurora of all my daydreams.

  Instead, I make a ridiculous squeaky sound.

  His mouth twitches slightly, and he puts
a hand on my back to get me out of the room.

  Shit.

  This isn’t going well at all.

  Is he laughing at me?

  My cheeks are burning when we reach the elevator. I focus on the illuminated numbers above the doors.

  “Y’okay?” he asks.

  I turn my head to see he’s peering at me.

  “Yes.” I elevate my eyebrows in an attempt at cool inquiry. “Why?”

  “Because. You’re tense. And flushed. Do you feel okay?”

  I know for a fact that Mike isn’t clueless. He’s smart and observant and intuitive, so evidently I’m hiding my flustered nerves better than I realized.

  This knowledge relieves me. I give him a real smile. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just bracing myself. For being out there with all those people.”

  “Oh. Of course.” He’s relaxing too now. He rubs my back gently. “We don’t have to go out. We can just grab something to eat here—”

  “No, no. I’d like to go out. It’s not a huge deal. I mean, it makes me tense and jittery, but it doesn’t keep me from doing things. If you understand what I mean. Once I’m at a table in a restaurant, I’ll be just fine.”

  “Okay. Great. I made reservations at a place a friend recommended, but we can go somewhere else if you’d rather do—”

  “That sounds great!” When he blinks, I temper my tone. “I mean, that was a good idea. I’m not picky about food, so I’m sure whatever your friend recommended will be perfect.”

  The elevator finally arrives—stuffed full of people from the higher levels of the hotel—and I take a deep breath before I make myself step on.

  I hate crowded elevators and will often walk if it’s a reasonable amount of stairs. We’re too high for that right now, so I have to get on.

  It’s actually not as bad as it could have been. Mike maneuvers us against one of the walls and uses his body to block me from the surrounding passengers. Maybe he’s not doing it on purpose, but it’s nice just the same.

  It feels protective.

  Other than my brother, no one has ever really protected me before.