C13, PT. 1

Heads turned as they crossed the lobby. She resisted the urge to fuss with her hair and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. This was the last time she ever left the penthouse without makeup. Roth didn’t seem to care, but she didn’t want to show up in photos looking like a hag. Ugh. She needed a spa day where she got the works—hair, nails, wax…

She sucked in a breath when they left the building. Thankfully, the Bentley was at the curb. She paused when Roth directed her to the front passenger seat. After a moment, she obeyed the light pressure of his hand on her back and ducked in. After he closed the door, he turned to Mo and Johan.

“I’m driving,” he said curtly before he rounded the car.

Jasmine and her guards stared at one another. Mo raised a brow. She gave a slight shrug to convey that she had no idea what was going on. Mo and Johan waited until Roth was behind the wheel before they made their way to a familiar SUV.

She glanced at Roth as he pulled into traffic. He rarely drove because he preferred to maximize his time during commutes by returning calls, reading, or answering emails. Did he want to tell her something that he didn’t want Mo or Johan to hear? Her hand fisted at her side as she waited.

“You aren’t dressed for the weather,” he observed as he adjusted the vents for her.

“I was in a rush to leave the penthouse.”

“To meet Sarai?”

She tapped her boot, miffed and impressed that he managed to remember that tidbit amidst her moaning and begging on his desk. “You said Mo texted you that I was going out?”

“It’s protocol.”

“Your protocol,” she corrected him.

He glanced at her. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“With you knowing my every move?” In all honesty, it didn’t bother her as much as it would someone who hadn’t spent their life in the public eye. She spent her younger years being monitored in some way or another. And after getting her inheritance, she would have had her own security team, who she might not like as much as Mo and Johan. But that wasn’t the point. “You want to be interrupted during your meetings to be told I went for a coffee?”

“I want to be kept in the loop.”

“Why?”

He slipped his hand beneath her clothing to grip her chilled thigh. “I want to make sure my wife’s safe.”

She ignored the flutters in her stomach and asked, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just a precaution.” His fingers stroked her skin. “I’m surprised you met up with Sarai. I didn’t think you could pry yourself away from Ballad of Deception.”

She jolted. “You know the name of my book?”

He shot her a level look. “Hard to miss the title of the book you’ve been so engrossed in that I had to force you to put it down to eat last night. I’m a reader as well. We automatically take in details like that.”

Her lip curled. “You read non-fiction.”

His beard twitched as his lips curved. “For the most part. But, I do pick up fiction. I’m partial to an author who’s obsessed with me.”

She tried to push his hand off her leg, but he latched on and made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m not obsessed with you, asshole! Speaking of, why do you have my books in your office? They stick out like a sore thumb in between all your business books.”

“So?”

“You want people to notice them?” She couldn’t hide her horror. “Roth!”

“People want to be surrounded by the books that shaped them into who they are. Your books are just as much a part of me as Les Nightingale’s. I find myself reaching for them often to read certain passages or chapters I watched you write. It’s familiar and comforting, something that lulls me when I’m aggravated. I have a set in each of my offices.”

When she said nothing, he gave her thigh a light squeeze.

“I want to hear about your day. I assume you got together with Sarai to discuss the book, which she read on our last trip. What’s the verdict on this second chance, forced proximity, enemies-to-lover’s triangle with slow burn, angst, and non-con?”

Her mouth dropped. “Did… did you just recite those tropes in the exact order Sarai said them in Copenhagen?”

“Of course.”

Damn photographic memory. “Do you know what any of that means?”

Another thigh squeeze. “Your readers were happy to explain.”

Her upper half whipped toward him. She braced her hands on the console, hoping he was joking. “You wouldn’t…”

“I introduced myself as a shy divorcee who was trying to figure out what went wrong in his marriage,” he said without an ounce of shame as he switched lanes. “I told them that I thought reading my wife’s favorite series would help me figure out where I went wrong.” When she sat there in stunned silence, he added, “Your community was very sympathetic and welcoming.”

“I bet they were,” she muttered. What reader wouldn’t want a man who read the same shit she did? If her readers knew Rex was in their midst, they’d lose their collective shit. “What’s your username?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why?”

“You’ll block me.”

He wasn’t wrong, and that fact irritated her because she hadn’t made the leap yet, but he already had. “There can’t be that many men anyway.”

“You’d be surprised how many clueless men are looking for answers. I doubt they’ll find it in the romance community.”

She waved her hand. “What women want in real life and fiction are completely separate.”

“You’re the exception to that rule.”

She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“You put your desires, fantasies, and fears right there on the page, assuming no one would discover your true identity. But life has a way of bringing certain things to light, no matter how hard you try to hide it.”

“I’m banking on it,” she said with such conviction that he took his eyes off the road.

They stared at one another long enough for her heartbeat to accelerate. Just when she was about to tell him to watch where he was going, his eyes flicked back to the road. She inwardly cursed his nerves of steel as he cruised along 6th Avenue.

**This is a raw draft of Bitter Confessions. Please do not share or distribute.

Copyright © 2024 Mia Knight. All Rights Reserved.