And now, suddenly, things seem to be moving faster than I intended. Was I making a rash move?
I’d hastened to give her an out. “You don’t have to make a decision right now.”
Bailey nodded. She’d then pointed out, “This could all be moot. You could be sick of me in a few weeks.”
There was no hesitation in voicing my feelings. “I most certainly will not be sick of you in a few weeks.”
Bailey cocked an eyebrow. “You know… you’ve never mentioned going back to The Wicked Horse. Not since we returned from Chicago.”
“I haven’t really thought about it,” I admitted.
“Do you miss it?” she asked.
I really hadn’t. To me, it was a place to spend time. I rolled toward her, putting my mouth against hers. The kiss I gave her had the answer within it, but in case she didn’t quite get it, I said, “I like where I’m spending my time these days much better.”
When I’d lifted my head, Bailey smiled. “You know I will go with you if you want me to. If you ever feel that what we’re doing in this bed is lacking in some way or you want more excitement, you know I am up for that.”
I’d blinked at her in surprise, wondering why she would say that. I don’t believe I’ve given her a reason to doubt my fulfillment with her outside the sex club. My eyes warmed, and I touched her face with my fingertips. “Miss Robbins… I can assure you that I am more than satisfied with what we are doing. I don’t need or want more than this.”
However, her self-doubts are not so easily managed. “I’ll go back with you if you want. I just want you to know that. I know we started there, then this turned into something else but… I’m still willing.”
I didn’t know how to reassure her. And I was not averse to going back with her. It’s a legitimate sexual lifestyle, but I was exploring stuff I never had before. This was more exciting than anything I had ever encountered at The Wicked Horse.
But all I had managed to say was, “Maybe we will. But for now, just trust you get me riled up in ways that place never did.”
And to prove my point, I roll on top of her, then start kissing her again. I am no longer tired or ready to go to sleep.
“Mr. Blackwood,” my father’s secretary says from behind her desk. “Your father is ready to see you.”
Jolted out of the memories of being with Bailey last night, I hastily push off my chair and button my suit jacket. I grab my briefcase, nod to the secretary, and move toward the mahogany double doors that lead into my father’s inner sanctum.
He and I have not spoken since the evening I walked out of dinner with Bailey. This was not unusual, though. My father and I rarely talk on the phone. Most of our communications are in the form of company emails, discussing business matters. As I had told Bailey, there were no wishes extended on either side for a happy Thanksgiving. It just wasn’t the way we were.
I find my father behind his massive executive desk, poring over paperwork. He’s one of the hardest-working people I know, and he’s in his favorite spot right now. The trip he took to Paris with my mother this week was probably torture for him. Coming back to the Blackwood office is likely a vacation.
He glances up, curtly saying, “Have a seat.”
It’s the warmest greeting I could expect from him, yet it doesn’t bother me. If he had actually said something warmer, more endearing, it would probably freak me out.
Clasping his hands on his desk, he nods at the documents he’d been looking over. “I’ve gone over the strategic plan you emailed me, and it’s good.”
That’s the highest praise my father can offer, and I am happy to accept it. I worked hard on this project. Frankly, I didn’t expect him to find much fault.
But he’ll have questions. For the next hour, we iron out various details until he is satisfied with what I presented.
With the meeting concluded, I am prepared to head back to the airport and board the Blackwood jet to take me to San Francisco. I don’t expect my father to want extra time to chitchat on a personal level, nor would I expect him to invite me to lunch.
I start to rise from my chair when my father says, “There is one other thing I wish to discuss.”
Automatically, I settle back down into my seat, tilting my head to listen.
My father stares across the desk, his blue eyes boring into mine with such intensity I think he might be trying to intimidate me. “Are you in a relationship with that employee you brought to dinner a few weeks ago?”