Highest Bidder (Salacious Players’ Club)

Daisy

My fingers graze the spines of the books on Ronan’s shelf. He has a floor-to-ceiling bookcase in his formal living room, next to the piano, and I’m browsing the titles while he prepares us both a cup of tea.

Because he knows chamomile helps me sleep.

When I spot A Moveable Feast, my fingers freeze, remembering him mention it as his favorite book. With a half-smile, I pull it from the shelf. Turning it over, I read the short description on the back. Beneath it is a photo of Hemingway, rugged and brooding, and I smile to myself. Sort of reminds me of someone.

Carrying the book to the front room, I hold it in my lap as I curl up on the oversized sofa, thanking my lucky stars that I’m not suffering through another cold night in the van. There’s a clicking sound followed by a delicate whoosh, and I glance across the living room as a fire pops up in the sleek white marble fireplace set in the living room wall. I feel the heat right away, but I still tug the blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around me.

He didn’t ask any questions after my fall, and I’m grateful for that. My shame and embarrassment for letting my blood sugar get that low is torture enough. Not to mention, my head is slightly achy too.

Resting it on the side of the sofa, I watch Ronan in the kitchen as he pulls two mugs from the cabinet before turning on the electric kettle. After placing the tea bags in the mugs, he unfastens the buttons on his dress shirt around his wrists and rolls up each sleeve to the elbow.

Why is that so sexy? His thick forearms are on display, and I briefly wonder to myself if this is what seeing cleavage is like to men.

If only Ronan was closer to my age. Would it still feel so strange to be here with him? There are so many barriers between us. Age, money, lifestyle. He’s a fifty-six-year-old billionaire. I’m a twenty-one-year-old from the Midwest, currently living in her van. My favorite food is Wendy’s fries dipped in a Frosty. I bet his favorite food is lobster tails or caviar. The most expensive thing I ever bought was my van, and I’m willing to bet the couch I’m sitting on cost more.

And, oh yeah, he more than likely dated my mother.

But when he looks at me like he is now, as if he can see right through them, it doesn’t feel like those barriers exist.

Even if we did blur the lines and sleep together, it would never be more than a crazy story I tell my friends years from now. This one time, I had a sugar daddy…

He sets my cup of tea on the coffee table before taking a seat on the other side of the sofa. We sit in silence for a few moments, and I feel his kind eyes on me. He’s not pressuring me or judging me. This sudden feeling of safety with him is so strange, especially as it begins to mingle with a subtle sense of attraction. I mean, I masturbated to him an hour ago, so I think it’s safe to say that I’m not so opposed to the idea of him anymore.

I still can’t quite get a read on what I am to him.

Flipping through the book in my lap, I read a few pages at a time, and it feels as if I’m reading a part of him. It’s all short sentences and long words, but I skim through a few paragraphs anyway.

“Do you like it?” he asks in a gentle murmur, and something about those words on his lips sends another flutter to my core, this time lower than before.

I screw up my nose as I turn the page. “You really think this is his best work?”

“I didn’t say it was his best. I said it was my favorite,” he replies with pride.

“Touché. Have you been to Paris?” I ask, knowing the question is a stupid one. No one would call Hemingway’s ode to the City of Lights their favorite without having been there, especially not a man as wealthy as him.

“I have an apartment in the city,” he says nonchalantly.

I can’t help but roll my eyes as I take a sip of my tea. “Of course, you do.”

“Was that judgment?” he teases, and I bite back my shame for letting my face express too much.

“No…” I lie. “Call it jealousy.”

“So you’ve never been?”

I scoff. “No. I’ve never been to Paris.”

“You say it like it’s so absurd,” he replies, one side of his mouth turned up in a gentle smirk.

“For most people, Mr. Kade, it is a bit absurd.”

“We should go.”

I nearly choke on my tea as he says that, and I let out a chuckle as I set it back on the table. “We should go to Paris?”

“Yeah, why not? You have your passport, don’t you?”

I’m gazing at him across the couch, my eyes narrowing as I try to discern if he’s being serious or messing with me. It’s almost too much to get my hopes up for.

“Yes…” I reply hesitantly. “My mom and I went to Canada when I was sixteen.”

“Well, I owe you a date, don’t I?”

This time, I laugh in earnest. My high-pitched squeaky giggle bubbles out of my chest, and I can’t seem to stop it. When Ronan doesn’t so much as smile in response, I start to get the feeling he’s being serious.

“You’re kidding, Ronan.”

“No, I’m not.”

“We can’t go to Paris.”

“Why not?” He seems so casual about it, as if going to France is as easy as going to the grocery store.

But when I open my mouth to argue and nothing comes out, I realize that I don’t have a single good answer for that question. I mean, the most obvious reason not to go to Paris has always been a financial issue, but that’s not the case here.

But is it wrong of me to take advantage of that? Especially when I’m harboring secrets? And a trust fund I refuse to touch? Probably.

Definitely.

But I’d be stupid to pass up a free trip to Paris, right?

“Umm…okay, I guess,” I reply, my face practically beaming as I look back down at the book in my lap. On the cover is a sprawling garden and I couldn’t stop smiling if I tried.

When I flip to the back of the book, one of the pages catches on a spot held with a photo instead of a bookmark. I slide the picture out of the book and stare at it. Ronan’s cup of tea is halfway to his mouth when he freezes in place.

The photo is older—I can tell by how grainy it is, as if it was developed from film and not taken with a digital camera. It’s a picture of a beautiful young woman, holding a little boy on her lap. She looks to be in her early twenties, and if I had to guess, I’d say the boy is about four or five.

“Who’s this?” I ask. In my head, I’m being polite and curious. Inquiring about this photo because I want to get to know him better, since I am basically living in his house and all.

But as my eyes rake over the people in the picture and I realize that it was likely hidden for a reason, I’m swallowing dread in my throat like dry cotton.

The silence that follows my question is deafening.

He lets me look at the photo for a moment, before gently taking it from my fingers. I glance up at him with regret as I watch him swallow, gazing at the image for only a moment before placing it back in the book.

“That is my wife, Julia, and my son, Miles. They were killed in a car accident twenty-eight years ago.”

The floor might as well drop beneath me. My skin is burning with shame and embarrassment as well as crippling sorrow as I stare at him, the threat of tears stinging behind my eyes. I don’t even remember bringing my hand to my mouth, but it’s there as I softly mumble, “Oh my God, Ronan. I’m so sorry.”

When he smiles at me, it’s not the full of life and weightless grin he normally dons. This one is a little sad as if to comfort me, which is ridiculous.

“Don’t be sorry, Daisy. You didn’t know.”

As he takes a drink of his tea, I’m still struck almost speechless by this new information. How many people know about this? How on earth does he carry himself so confidently while the rest of us parade around him like fools, not knowing what he’s been through, what he’s lost.

After finishing his tea, he moves to stand. “It’s late. You should get some rest.”

“Okay,” I mutter quietly.

Then he reaches a hand down and helps me to my feet. Struck by this new information, with only inches between us, I stare into his eyes. Those rich brown eyes are gazing into mine, and suddenly, I feel closer to him than I’ve felt to anyone in a very long time. Like an entire world exists between us now, and it’s only been two days.

I should say something, but I don’t even know what to say; I feel so empty without words to express how I’m feeling.

All too soon, he steps away from me, walking to the hallway that leads to the guest room, and I begrudgingly pass by him, walking to the room. Before I shut the door, separating us, I lean my head out and look into his eyes as I say, “Good night, Ronan.”

“Good night, Daisy,” he replies, and I could be crazy, but I swear he’s hesitating, too, before he finally turns around and leaves me alone.