Seven Nights of Sin (Penthouse Affair #2)

Chapter 17 Dominic

Dominic

The next day, I come back to the hotel early. Well, right on time by normal standards, but I had to politely fend off a dozen offers of dinners, cocktails, anything that would keep me listening to pitches for another few hours. Not that I mind skipping out. I have a five-thirty date I wouldn’t miss for the world.

When I enter the suite, Presley is on her laptop, her lips pursed in thought. Working, of course—both of us are always working. She looks up when she sees me, her lips curving into a grin.

I’m still not sure how I feel about what happened between us last night. I have the sense that I’m playing with fire and will most likely get burned.

But I return her smile, my lips twitching as I take her in—with her black leggings and oversize sweater and messy bun. She looks every bit the college coed she was not long ago, and I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t tempting as hell.

“How was your day, dear?” she teases.

I chuckle. “Just fine. Yours?”

“Same,” she says cheerily.

There’s a lot we need to talk about, but first I need to do something else. “Can I borrow the desk for an hour?”

“What?” She looks back at her laptop. “Oh, sure, no problem. I can use the bed.”

I repress a quip about how we used the bed last night and it most certainly didn’t involve working or checking email. Now isn’t the time. And as today wore on, last night’s events had started to . . . not sit right with me. But I don’t have time to examine my selfish actions right now.

I pull out my own laptop, open up video chat, and call home. After a few rings, the faces of Lacey, Emilia, and Francine fill my screen.

“Daddy!” my girls cry ecstatically, and the sound of their loving voices calms the uncertainties inside me almost instantly.

“They’ve just had their breakfast,” Francine informs me.

“What did you eat?” I ask.

“Poo-poo,” Lacey stage-whispers, and they both collapse, giggling. From NôvelDrama.Org.

“Come on, you guys,” I say, but my mouth twitches up despite myself. Their laughter is just too infectious to resist.

“Tell your papa what you really had,” Francine says.

Emilia fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “Waffle and juice and, um—”

“Presley!” Lacey screams.

I glance back at a very startled Presley caught halfway across the room.

“Uh . . . forgot my power cord,” she mumbles.

Now that Emilia has spotted her too, both girls are hollering her name over and over. Presley is watching me helplessly for some cue as to how to handle this explosion.

Francine fixes me with one of her patented looks. She has many looks that I’ve learned to read over the years since my girls were born, and this one ranks among the most powerful—the expression that says, What the hell are you up to, Dom?

Christ, all these women with their significant stares. I heave a sigh and relent. “Come say hi to them.”

A tender smile spreads over Presley’s face. I stand up to let her use the chair and lean over to one side, one hand on the desk, so I can still see the screen. Though I’m focused on Emilia and Lacey, I can’t shake the awareness of how close Presley and I are and how good her hair smells.

“How are you two little monkeys?” Presley asks.

“Good-how-are-you,” they chorus proudly.

Their twin bond is freakish sometimes. That whole finishing each other’s sentences is real.

Presley grins in delight. “Wow, so polite. Did your daddy teach you that?”

Emilia shakes her head as Lacey chirps, “Franny.”

Ouch. As if I needed another reminder that I’m never home to do anything with them.

Francine shoots me an apologetic look.

“I see. Nanny Franny is great, isn’t she?” Presley asks.

There’s little they love more than rhymes. The girls erupt into giggles and shouts of “Nanny Franny!” that restore the smiles to all our faces.

“Do you want to show them your picture?” Francine asks.

Emilia’s eyes go huge. “Yeah!”

Francine holds up a sheet of construction paper covered with a chaos of circles, lines, and scribbles in all colors of the rainbow.

Presley glances at me, looking lost, and I hold back a snort. It’s not her fault she hasn’t had as much practice as I have interpreting their drawings.

“What a cool dog,” I say. “And I like how big that tree is.”

Presley catches on right away. “I love dogs. Did you see all this neat stuff at the park?”

“We petted him,” Emilia replies. “Doggies say bark.”

“They lick people because they don’t know how to kiss right,” Lacey explains with a very solemn expression. “I know everything.”

Presley laughs, which gets them so excited that they start yelling over each other and it’s impossible to understand.

“You have to take turns talking,” I remind them.

They settle down only slightly, but I can’t bring myself to quash their energy further. It’s impossible not to smile while watching them chatter on, telling stories of the park that segue into the books Francine has read them before bed.

It’s astounding how attached to Presley they are, considering she spent about half an hour with them over a week ago. They clamored for her like she’s as important as their uncle Oliver.

I should be a little jealous of Presley apparently being a more interesting video chat partner than their own dad. But somehow, talking to them together with her feels . . . natural. Yet again the memory surfaces of Presley sitting at my table, entertaining my girls, like we were all a family. Like that was how things were supposed to be.

I shake away the thought.

The hour flies past, and all too soon, Francine says gently, “Time for us to go bye-bye.”

The girls look unhappy about this, but they both dutifully say, “Good-bye, Daddy. I love you.” Then they astonish everyone by adding, “Love you, Presley.”

Presley and I look at each other in surprise for a moment before she replies, “We love you too.”

“I wish I could hug you two right now.” I swallow a growing lump of emotion. “I’ll save them all up and you’ll get so, so many hugs when I’m home, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Promise!”

I end the call and step back to let Presley get up, stretching out the stiffness from standing so long bent over. She’s still wearing such a soft, sweet smile, and before I know it, I’m launching into my half- formed plan.

“Listen, um . . . would you be interested in going out to dinner?”

“Oh, sure. I’ll change into something nice.” Presley starts rooting through her suitcase. “Who’s coming? Other than Roger and his wife, of course. What was her name again?”

“Monica. But actually, uh, it’ll be just us tonight.” I spent most of the day with Roger, and there’s only so much of his company I can take.

She straightens up to blink at me.

I pull my hand down over my mouth. I knew this conversation would be awkward, and yet it’s somehow even worse than I predicted. “I . . . wanted to take you out to apologize for how I acted last night.”

She watches me without moving. “For which part?”

I eye her. She can’t genuinely not know, right? With time today to reflect on it all, I know I acted like a dick. The odds are high that she’s testing me. But I guess it’s only fair for her to want a more detailed apology.

“How I treated you. I touched you in public without asking first. I didn’t kiss you until you put your foot down. I played rough. I didn’t hold you afterward, even though I could tell you wanted physical contact.” I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. “Sometimes I forget that I’m the only man you’ve ever slept with.”

She cocks her head, a faint line appearing between her brows. “What does that mean?”