Touch Me, Daddy

8 - Sadie.

For the next few hours, Stefan Rodriguez is my handsome, brooding shadow.

He stands so close our arms brush as we greet the guests arriving on the rooftop; he fetches me drinks and canapes, fussing over whether I'm hydrated. When my shoe strap comes undone on the way to check on the band, it's Stefan who kneels down and fixes it, those blunt fingertips brushing over my bare ankle and making me tingle.

Mind games.

That's what this is.

Just another ploy by my wily boss to make me want to stay with him, fetching his coffees and scheduling his meetings for as long as we both shall live. Another attempt to wear me down, crumbling my will power with sweet gestures and rumbled kind words.

No! It cannot work.

I can't stay.

"Would you like to dance?" Stefan asks as I hover at the edge of the dance floor, checking for dropped glasses or any other trip hazards. Nothing. The staff are doing a great job tonight, but I can't seem to unclench, no matter how reliable they are.

This party is my responsibility. And now it'll be the thing everyone here remembers me for—if they remember me at all.

A lump sticks in my throat. I blink up at Stefan, confused. "What?"

"A dance." He takes my hand, his expression more patient than I have ever seen, and tows me gently into the crowd. "You've watched enough people having fun, Sadie. Now you should try it."

"But I... but we..." My legs are clumsy as I trip after the boss, and when he turns to face me, I practically fall against his chest. "Okay, fine."

Curious glances flick toward us from all directions—because Stefan Rodriguez does not dance. He does not engage with mere mortals. And yet here he is, lifting my arms around his neck before placing his hands on my waist, the heat of them searing through the thin fabric of my dress. Here he is, turning us in steady circles as the band plays a smooth song, staring down at me with those frosty blue eyes.

Stefan's mouth curves up on one side. Holy s**t, is that a smile?

"You needn't look so terrified, Sadie. I won't step on your feet."

"Only metaphorically."

His laugh is rumbly and so nice.

"Stay," Stefan murmurs, squeezing my waist with his big, gentle hands. "Stay with me."

"No."

Emotions war on his face, battling for dominance, and I watch them play across his features, fascinated.

I'm used to Bored Stefan. Irritated Stefan. Focused Stefan. Angry Stefan.

Not Emotionally Tortured Stefan.

"Tell me why," he demands.

My fingers scrunch against his lapels. "I can't."

"Can't stay? Or can't tell me why?"

"Both."

The boss puffs out a breath, but he doesn't scold me or storm off, even though this conversation must be maddening for him. Instead, he moves us closer, hands gripping possessively at my sides.

My tummy quivers.

My heartbeat pulses between my legs.

Thumbs trace along my sides, tickling me through my thin dress.

Stars wink overhead, and laughter and chatter buzz beneath the music. The rooftop is thronged with guests, everyone bright-eyed and excited to be here, on the mysterious boss's rooftop. Seeing his pool, eating his canapes, drinking from his open bars. Stefan Rodriguez is secretly a generous man—people just don't notice that fact when he's glaring at them.

"Will you tell me before you leave?" Dread curls through the boss's low voice, his expression pained.

"Yes," I promise.

I can do that much. After everything Stefan Rodriguez has given me, surely I owe him the truth.

One final confession, one rip of the band aid, and then we'll draw a line under this whole messy affair.