The Lie by Natalie Wrye (most inspirational books of all time .txt) 📗

is no. You would not have to clean for me. Or for anyone. We have housekeepers for that sort of task. Trust me… It won’t be an issue. As for the question of cooking, look, I’ve seen you try your hand at it when Julio the line-cook was off work, so to the question of you—preparing food? That answer would be a hell no.”

I hear rustling over the line, and I imagine he’s sitting up in bed, half-naked, sheets across his waist—dark hair tousled.

I grab for the glass of whiskey, holding it so hard my hand shakes. Taking a small sip, I set it in my lap.

“Would I have any other duties?” the liquor taking over my mouth says. “Hosting tea? Arranging flowers? Performing activities that only take place in a Martha Stewart catalogue? I’d have to be prepared for all contingencies, right?”

Andrew chuckles. “Contingencies like what? I wouldn’t be selling you into slavery.”

“Wouldn’t you?” I arch a brow, bringing the phone closer. “If not slavery, then indentured servitude, right? I mean, I’m sure I’ll have to earn my keep because me pretending to your fiancée for a loan from your family’s company is like…payment for services rendered, right?”

“Trust me: The ‘services’ you render this weekend won’t be that taxing… By the way, you’re really over-expressive when you’re drunk.” He pauses a beat. “It’s cute.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” I say, reaching for the glass again. “I am not drunk. I am blissfully relaxed. You made sure of that when you booked this royalty-sized suite.”

I can hear his grin. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

I am. More than I care to admit.

It’s the first time in forever that I haven’t thought about the bar. The first time that managing The Alchemist hasn’t taken up every ounce of space in my overworked brain since the day I inherited it from my father.

I barely recognize myself—or the version of Sophia inside me, begging to get out.

I blow out a breath so deeply that I nearly feel it in my soul, a weight lifting deep down inside.

I lean closer to the phone, liquid courage finally pushing me to the edge. I tumble over it.

Hard.

The whiskey does nothing to cushion the blow. “And what about sex?”

Andrew waits a beat. “What about it? I didn’t even know sex was the on the table…”

“It isn’t,” I correct quickly. “I’m just saying…”

What am I saying?

I don’t know.

“I’m just saying that I guess it’s possible that it could be,” I say, stumbling over my words. “I mean, if that’s what you’re into.”

“I’m into a lot of things.” His voice is low and hard.

I swallow so hard my throat burns.

“I’m sure you are.”

“I’m an open book,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes me want to choke on my whiskey. I know that tone.

The tone he used with Sheena.

The tone that says, I'm a sex God and maybe-just maybe-you should be lucky you got the chance to lick the tip of my dick.

God, I hate that tone.

It's half-condescending, half-frustrating.

And so unbelievably sexy that the apex of my thighs could wet these hotel sheets right on the spot.

“On second thought…” I start. “Ignore me. I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm—

“Wait,” Andrew interrupts, his silky words soft. “What are you…” He waits. “What are you so afraid you’re going to say?”

I am scared.

But I’m also drunk. And too emotional. And too business-broke to make any sense.

And much too horny.

The whiskey I'm drinking only fuels it.

I look down at my drink.

Andrew Fletcher has that kind of effect on women.

“I’m not scared of anything,” I bluff, not even believing my own voice.

“It's just sex,” he says.

“I know,” I say, even though I don’t.

I never know.

I don’t even know why I’m saying this, but I can take a guess if given a minute.

Because the truth is, Andrew has always had this effect on me.

Like Sophia said…

The man was fire to my ice.

And right now, listening to his calm, heavy breathing, the rough slickness of his half-sleep phone voice, I know that I’m likely to let him burn right through me.

And before I allow any of that, I have to recognize the real question that remains.

Can I do this?

The half-brain I had twelve hours ago finally interferes.

I take a deep breath that fills my whiskey-soaked body with air.

I let it out.

“Andrew, this is a ridiculous offer you're making to me, you know that,” I say, the words suddenly hurried. “I've already told you I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Of course you can,” Andrew said. “It's not like I'm asking you to marry me. I'm just asking you to go on a trip with me. We'll do a few parties, a few events, and then we'll come home. Seriously. I promise you…no sex, no obligations. You can keep your job at the bar, or go back to school, or fly to Timbuktu or do whatever it is you want to do. I'm not trying to change your life, Nancy. Just enjoy it a little.”

His words hit me like an anvil in the gut—an admission even my inebriated self can’t ignore.

I’m supposed to be talking myself out of this mess. Not slipping further into it.

I’d called Andrew hoping that he would say something—anything—that would solidify a no. Anything that would make me realize that this is all a mistake.

Agreeing to lie to someone’s family. Agreeing to sell pieces of myself to keep the bar in business.

I hadn’t even thought about going back to school.

I mean, I’d mentioned it in the past—my desire to pursue a film degree, but it’d been a fleeting thought.

It was a wish I’d only brought up in private parts of the bar where I could speculate about the what-ifs of my now life.

What if I hadn’t inherited my dad’s bar? Started working with my brother Deacon to develop it?

What if I had left it in Deacon’s hands only…like I initially planned?

I shuffle in bed, now suddenly aware that I’m in nothing but a T-shirt, one of the few