by Arlo Arrow
"But Sophia," he says slowly. For one second I think he’s reaching for me again, maybe to put his hand on my knee, but no, that’s ridiculous. He picks up a piece of paper that has fallen from the file. “What do you want to do with your life?”
I feel my eyes grow wide. “What do you mean?” I say.
Grant bites his lip—shit, I definitely glance down and admire those perfect, white teeth as they—I look back up and he’s watching me. Caught.
“ Sophia, ever since the first day I met you, you give so much of yourself. You saved my life—”
I blush and pick at the hem of my skirt. “Anyone would have done that.”
“No.” This time he does touch me. He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes as he repeats, “No. Not many people would have knelt down on a dirty street, gotten themselves covered in blood, all to maybe—maybe—save a complete stranger.”
I blink. His hand is still on my shoulder, but then he removes it. Like he remembered: we don’t touch each other.
I can’t tell him what I really want out of life, because what I really want is him.
“You did it,” I point out. “You jumped in front of a gun for a woman you didn’t know. So maybe we are more alike than you think.”
His eyes seem to grow darker, heated. “Little Sophia, you have no idea what I think.”
I’m about to ask what he’s talking about—or more likely, flee the room—when his phone rings again. Grant curses softly and strides across the room to answer it. He doesn’t even say hello, just accepts the call and barks “speak” into the phone. And he doesn’t like what he hears. Within a few seconds, without even arguing or responding, he hangs up. This time he places the phone carefully on the edge of his desk.
“What’s wrong?” I say.
He looks up and for a second I think he’ll tell me. But no, of course not. He always makes sure there’s a barrier between us—or maybe that’s just my crazy imagination. Of course there’s a barrier between us. There are one million of them, not even including all his money.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry," I hear myself saying. "I won't keep you, since you’re obviously busy. I just wanted to say that I can never thank you enough. You say that I saved your life, but really, you saved my dad’s life. And mine. And so it’s the hardest thing in the world to leave you—I mean, leave this place, which is home to me. But, with my dad moving across the country, I think I'm going to have to go with him.”
Grant doesn’t move. His jaw clenches; that small muscle in his cheek pulses. He doesn't say anything, just slowly tightens one hand until it becomes a fist.
"So…I guess I am giving my notice. Dad wants to leave in a month."
He still doesn't say anything. The only thing that moves is that tiny, angry muscle in his cheek. And I find myself babbling. "Working here has been wonderful. You have been wonderful. You've been more than an employer. I just, my dad and I, we're the only family we have—"
"I understand, Sophia." Grant smiles, but it seems forced. “I’ve been waiting years to hear you say that, Sophia. You are a brilliant, accomplished, and kind young woman. I know you excelled in school. I know you can do anything you set your mind to. The only thing that I ask is that you make sure you know what you want. Not what your father wants, and certainly not what I want. The world is yours to explore. You’re young, and you can do anything. I—we will miss you here. But I want you to go take the world by storm.”
I sit there, my hands twisted into a knot, frozen. It’s really happening. I did it. I told him I’m leaving, and now…I have to leave.
"And, thank you for the month's notice," he adds gently. "So you'll be driving East with your dad, then?"
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Well, thank you.” God, I sound so lame. “I’ll never forget—I’ll never forget you. Or the home, the life you gave my dad and me.”
Grant smiles sadly. “I’ll never forget you, either, Sophia."
“Of course—”
The phone rings again and Grant glances at it, clearly annoyed.
“I’ll get out of your way—”
“Stay,” he commands, and for some reason, I obey immediately, sitting back down on the couch and crossing my ankles. "Saying goodbye to you is more important than that call."
Grant leans against the front of his desk, his massive body making the huge, shining desk appear smaller. To my immense surprise, he takes a deep breath and says, “I always admired your relationship with your father. Hell, I wish my own father had one-tenth of your dad’s integrity and kindness.”
Wow. The little I know about Grant’s family is all from magazine articles. I know he’s from old money—the kind of East Coast wealth where you don’t own a house, you own homes. You don’t have a butler, you have staff. You don’t talk about money because you have so damn much of it, it’s almost like a second skin, as infinite and invisible to you as the air we breathe.
I also know that Grant left home after college and started his own company from scratch. That’s always mentioned in the write-ups: that he did it by himself. With no help from his family’s vast resources.
Not for the first time, I wonder why.
“Is it your father that’s calling you?”
Grant laughs, a short, angry sound. “No, my father is definitely not calling me. He’s already made it known that he expects me to be back in New York by tomorrow night. My grandfather is dying.”
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. “Grant, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says. “Grant Montgomery Blackstone the First was one of the biggest assholes on the planet, pardon my French.”
I don’t know what to say. Apparently his grandfather isn't much better than his father. “So…I’m not sorry?”
He smiles at me. “Sweet Sophia, I don’t want to burden you with any of this.”
Oh hell no. He’s not kicking me out of here now! He’s—he’s actually talking to me. I want to know more. I want to know everything.
“It’s not a burden,” I say. “I’m happy to—”
But he's already standing and walking over to me, and holding out his hand. I place my small hand in his open palm and he closes his tightly around mine. He pulls me to my feet, and I can't look away from his intense, consuming gaze. He takes a step backward, and pulls me with him. We stare at each other, and time seems to slow. He—he bends his head slightly toward me. I turn toward him. Is he going to kiss me?
He opens his mouth. His eyes take in my hair, my face, my lips.
And then he says, “Good night, Sophia. And…goodbye.”
And leads me to his door.
I want to growl in frustration. Instead, I just turn around to get one last look at Grant. My Grant.
“So this is…goodbye? You’re leaving for New York tomorrow?” I pause. He might not come back before I leave. I hate it. And then I blurt out, "I'm jealous. I've never been to New York. And since I'll be unemployed in Florida, I don’t know when I'll make it to the Big Apple."
"You know I could set you up with a job in Florida," he says. "Just name the city and we'll find you something."
I smile. "I know you would. I just—I think I need to figure out what I want. Like you said. And maybe…maybe I need to find my own job. Like you did, when you first moved to California."
He nods slowly, staring down at me. And suddenly it feels like that night on my twenty-first birthday. He’s so close. If I took one step toward him, and he took one step toward me, we’d be touching.
God, I want to touch him.
Should I—should I try? Should I say “fuck it” and kiss him goodbye?
I take one step toward him. “Grant—”
And then his hands are on my shoulders. He’s so tall, so huge next to me, protective and intimidating, all at once.
“Sophia,” he whispers, staring at my lips. I raise up on my tiptoes, just a fraction of an inch—
And then he pushes me back down. “Are your belongings packed?”
I blink a few times, flummoxed by his abrupt change in mood and subject matter.
“Um, yes. I mean, I just have a few clothes, and my books, and my laptop…”
"Would you really want to see New York?"
I blink. "I—sure. What do you mean?"
Grant takes a step back, his eyes still burning into me. "I'm not staying in the city; my grandfather has a house upstate. But you're welcome to fly with me tomorrow, and use my penthouse as a base to explore New York for a few days."
"Fly with you tomorrow? On your private jet?"
He nods, like it's no big deal. "And then, whenever you're ready to join your dad in Florida, I'll buy your ticket down. It'll be my early birthday present for you."
He remembers my birthday is in three weeks.
I could fly with him. Get a few more hours in his presence.
Stay in his New York apartment. Correction: penthouse.
"Sure," I say, hoping my voice isn't too giddy. "Just let me tell my dad. I'm sure it won't be a problem."
Grant nods. "Be ready at 9 a.m. tomorrow. I’ll fly you to New York, and then after your mini-vacation there, I'll buy you a ticket to Florida.” He pauses, then winks. “Or anywhere you want to go. Sleep on it, Sophia. And decide what you really want, and where you really want to go."
And then suddenly he gently leads me out the door and closes it behind me. I can’t believe it. I just quit, and somehow I’m going to be spending more time in an enclosed space with Grant Blackstone tomorrow than I have in the past year.
I walk in a dream state back to my dad's and my apartment above the garage. I can’t believe that I’ll be leaving California, and so soon. The sweet scent of the garden flowers fills the soft night air, and a few extra-bright stars poke through the Bay Area’s foggy night sky.
Decide what you really want and where you really want to go.
Grant’s words circle in my head all night long, as I chat with my dad, pack up my few belongings, take a shower, and climb into bed.
I know I’ll never be able to answer him, because the truth? What I really want?
Is him. Grant Blackstone.
The one thing I can never have.
Three
Grant
For a certified genius and financial prodigy, I’m a fucking idiot.
“An additional passenger?” my assistant Derrick texts. He was expecting to fly with me tomorrow, but I hadn't made arrangements for anyone else.
“One additional,” I type. Then, because I'm an idiot, I change the plans again. "Actually, I'll need you to stay in California and man the offices for me."
"Sir?" Derrick replies immediately.
"Two passengers tomorrow, you stay in California. I'll call you in the morning."
Then I turn the phone off. Derrick might be a genius, as well, and one of the best assistants I've ever had, but he also can be a nosy little bastard. I just can't imagine being on the plane with her—right there, beside me—and Derrick. If this is the last chance I'll have to spend time alone with Sophia, I sure as hell don't need Derrick there.
Besides, I've never discussed Sophia with him.
I’ve never discussed Sophia with anyone. Why would I? As far as anyone knows, this is just the daughter of one of my drivers. Derrick knows she saved my life; even if Sophia disputes that fact, I'll never forget how brave and fearless she was. She was terrified, but with shaking hands she staunched my wound and knelt beside me as I flickered in and out of consciousness, praying for the ambulance to arrive soon.
Her face was the last thing I saw before I lost my battle with the darkness.
And when I found out that the beautiful angel who saved me was a homeless high schooler, I’d done everything in my power to rescue her right back. I'd given her father a job, I’ve given them a home, and I'd offered to send Sophia to any school in the world.
Hell, I’d offered to send her to any job or country in the world.
Yet she'd always chosen to stay right here, with me.
Correction, idiot: not with you, with her father.
She was as loyal as she was beautiful, in other words, unendingly so. Of course when she was underage, I convinced myself I didn’t want her. I convinced myself that all I felt was gratitude and admiration. And she grew up, right before my eyes. I sent her away to school so I wouldn’t be tempted. But every time she came home—for a weekend, or a break, or just to visit her dad for the night—I couldn’t help but notice that she grew both more intelligent, more kind, and more breathtaking with each passing year.
Since the day she turned twenty-one, I’ve been telling myself to let her go. I even considered paying to transfer her father, just to get them both out of my hair. But I couldn’t to it. And then Joe went and fell in love with some random woman in Florida.
And now he’s stealing Sophia away from me.
I strip and step into the scalding shower, though if I—again—weren’t an idiot, I’d have made it ice-cold. As usual, and against my better judgment, my hand goes to my cock. It's hard, of course. Over the past two years, it's always hard when I think of Sophia. Her long, dark curls. Her sweet, thick curves. That pouty lower lip of hers that seems made to kiss, bite, or take my cock—
I come with a growl, standing under the burning-hot water. But it's not enough. It'll never be enough. I've tried to deny my feelings for years, suppress them, date other women. I left my own damn home for two months, after the night we kissed.
Fuck. I kissed her when she was drunk. But she'd stared up at me, with those big, brown eyes. So trusting. So sweet. So grown-up but so innocent. Her nipples had been hard underneath her thin shirt. She'd leaned forward…
I'm hard again, but I ignore my insatiable cock. All it wants is her. And she's the one thing I won't let myself corrupt. The world may envy me, my self-made billions, my home, my companies.
Women throw themselves at me. Men want to befriend me. So why the fuck am I so goddamn…alone?
Because you want her.
Just take her.
I could have kissed her again, tonight. From the way she stared at me, how her breath hitched and caught. Her cheeks had flushed a gorgeous, fuckable shade of pink. Dammit, I could have thrown her down on that old sofa and made her come ten times, ten ways…
She's my charge. I can't take advantage of her.
It's good that she's leaving. She should have left years ago. I need her away—away from me. My home. That she’ll now be three thousand miles away in Florida makes me feel both relieved…and crazed.
Maybe now, finally, I can get Sophia Marina Martinez out of my system.
So why the fuck did I just tell her I'd take her on a private plane tomorrow? With me?
Now I'll spend five hours trying to ignore all the ways I want to help her join the Mile-High Club, when what I need to do is focus on my grandfather and his insane last will and testament.
Rather: I need to find a way to void it. Because as soon as the old man dies, I'm set to inherit everything. Every company, stock portfolio, house and car my old man thought he was getting, I get.
On one condition: that I'm married by the end of the year.
I groan and throw myself into bed. I should be working, trying to do what my team of lawyers couldn't: find a way out of this mess. Find a loophole. Or decide, hell, it doesn't matter. I don't need to inherit the Blackstone kingdom.
But my father is an evil old bastard. I honestly don't care that he'd mismanage the money, lose the companies, or gamble away all our assets. He can screw himself, for all I care. He certainly screwed around on my mom and me, all our lives.
But I think of the employees. The vast number of people across the globe who depend on my family for their livelihoods. I can't let my father destroy them, the way he destroyed my mother.
And tried to destroy me.
I'm going to find a way to inherit everything, I promise myself.
But, as usual, the last thing I think about before slipping away into unconsciou
s is my angel, my Sophia.
If only I could marry her. I'd have everything I want in the world.
I laugh bitterly as I turn on my side. I know I can never possess her, not the way I truly desire. But at least I'll have five more hours, to commit her face to memory. To hear her speak.
To say goodbye, forever.
Four
Sophia
“I can’t believe how luxurious this is.” I skip from leather-bound seat to seat, trailing my hands over the soft, supple surface of each overstuffed chair. The private plane is beautiful, the entire interior done in shades of white and taupe. It’s big, too. At least twenty people could fit in the cabin, though today there are only the captain, the first mate, Grant, and me.
Grant smiles and watches me from his chair in the corner. He rests his chin on his fist, and his head is tilted as he studies me.
I take a deep breath and look away. I can't focus on…on how smokin' hot he is.
Or that we'll be basically alone, in an enclosed space, for the next five hours.
I hear the co-pilot moving around the front of the plane, and I realize we won't be alone. A private jet has to have a stewardess, right? Probably one with perfect skin, perfect legs, and a really short skirt.
I swallow my jealousy and try not to regret wearing a simple T-shirt over jeans. It’s definitely not sexy, mostly because I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard. Though I still woke up an hour early in order to blow-dry my hair so it would look more curly than frizzy. And put on makeup.
And a push-up bra.
I’m such a fool.
“Is there a stewardess, too? Oh wait, that’s sexist: a steward?”
Grant shakes his head. "Normally I do have one of three women work on the plane, but this was a last-minute trip, and I decided we could get our own bottles of water and food from the fridge. Is that okay?"
I smile, for some reason relieved. "I think I can handle that."
He's still staring at me, and I'm still feeling incredibly nervous, however. I'm zipping around the cabin like a bee caught indoors.