Buying Her Time (Price of Love) Read online

  BUYING HER TIME

  DANI WYATT

  Copyright © 2022

  by Dani Wyatt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  www.daniwyatt.com

  Editing Nicci Haydon

  A NOTE TO MY READERS:

  I appreciate every one of you.

  DEDICATED TO:

  CP. May all your father/son tag team

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Dani’s Other Books

  Let’s Stay Connected!

  About Dani

  CHAPTER 1

  Isabel

  Am I the only one that gets high anxiety over a mani-pedi?

  I chew on my bottom lip as I look over the rack of shiny little bottles, then finally settle on a deep shimmery purple, the color of juicy blackberries. Clutching the glass bottle in my palm, I make my way back to the massaging foot-soak chairs, take off my foamy complimentary flip-flops, and totter awkwardly up the rubbery steps.

  On the massage chair next to mine sits my best friend, Elana. We met at orientation, both of us in different programs, at Cranbrook Academy of Art graduate program. She’s perched elegantly and comfortably, multi-tasking with a brilliantly-pink hibiscus lemonade in one hand and her cell phone in the other.

  She’s good at this, all this pampering and self-care. With her easy confidence, olive skin, and fierce winged eyeliner, she’s got a very Gen-Z Cleopatra thing going on. If Cleopatra wore floral leggings and thumbhole-hoodies, that is.

  Not me.

  I’m feeling as awkward as always here at our weekly Friday afternoon appointment at Nailed It. A glance across at the wall of mirrors facing us is enough to reinforce the reason why. Elana is lean and lithe, statuesque and gorgeous, whereas I’m just…well, me. I suck in my tummy a little, lift my chin to give myself some sharper angles, but who am I kidding? It makes no difference. No matter what I do or what I eat, I’m just me.

  Curvy and creamy and soft.

  Although, I will say, going platinum-blonde last year when I got accepted into the graduate program at Cranbrook was a good move. It suits me way better than I ever imagined and I’m not even mad when I have to order the Oribi Bright Blonde shampoo and conditioner at $46 a bottle.

  Every week we have a mani-pedi date, but it never gets less awkward for me. I never feel beautiful looking at myself here. And it feels so strange, having the ladies who work here massage my feet, buff my nails, and thread my brows.

  All this for the sake of the clients. All this for the sake of the men.

  But it’s not what you’re thinking. I promise.

  I manage to get up the steps without slipping—for once—and get somewhat comfortable in the massage chair. But right now it’s set on some diabolical vibrate sequence, which makes me feel like I am riding over really bad washboard roads like back in Wheeling where I grew up.

  Elana takes a sip of her hibiscus lemonade, puckering her luscious Angelina-Jolie lips.

  “That’ll look good with your dress.” She lifts a perfectly-bladed eyebrow, glancing at the purple bottle.

  I nod with a happy grin, starting to relax finally, and punch the button to stop the chair from jostling me around. I hold the bottle up to the light, admiring its plummy undertones. Picking out the color is the one thing I do like about all this nail salon pampering. Because I might not be very good at enjoying paraffin dips and cuticle oil treatments, but I am definitely good with color. I’m not going to art school for nothing.

  “Tonight’s dress is crimson velvet. So I thought this would really pop,” I say as I set the bottle down for the young woman who will be tending to my toes.

  “Mmmhmm,” Elana hums into her straw with another pucker. “I’ll tell you what else those guys would like to pop…”

  I let out a groan. “You know that is not why I am doing this.”

  She makes a sassy little sound, never looking away from her Tik-Tok feed. On the screen, I watch a poodle in a tutu do a twirl in time with a Dua Lipa song. “It’s all fun and games until someone pulls their dick out.”

  I swallow hard, choking back a snort. “I’m serious. It’s not why I’m doing this. I’m putting myself through grad school, not getting myself knocked up before I can get my degree. I’m already in deep with my student loans.”

  “Pshaw. Who said anything about getting knocked up?”

  I let out a grumble of indignant protest, but deep down in my caramel center, I do know what she means. Because by some unbelievable accident of the universe, I have not just one but two gorgeous men buying my time lately.

  And both of them are responsible for an uptick in my need to purchase new panties—because they are destroying them in record numbers.

  The older one is named Hale—a little less than twice my age, businessman, salt and pepper in the temples, strong and confident. Thick, not fat by any means, just like a solid wall of man. His face is hard, angled, but so beautiful I want to reach out and touch him to be sure he’s real. He’s also a protector. He calls me “Baby,” and says he’d do anything for me. He’s my date for the event tonight. The only information I was given was it is formal dress for a charity and to wear my hair down.

  An excited shiver races through me thinking about him giving me those little instructions with every date. Little ways he wants me to do this or that, what color panties to wear even though there’s no chance he will ever see them. Gah, it’s such a turn on and my walls are struggling to stay sturdy around his calm, demanding persona.

  The younger one that’s been on my schedule on the regular is named Flint—much closer to my age, football player, likes to keep things private because evidently, he’s something of a celebrity in the local sports world, which I know nothing about, but he doesn’t care and I get the feeling, he almost prefers it that way. He’s both extremely cocky and unbelievably kind. He calls me “Babe,” and says I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

  With me, he says, he feels like himself for the very first time.

  He has his own ways of making my belly flutter. At the beginning of every date, he asks me to show him a picture of something that made me happy, or made me smile, since he saw me last. I swear, when he looks at the photo—whatever it is—when he listens to me describe the scene or the event or whatever, it makes him happier than it does me.

  The thought of each of them makes my mind go all swimmy.

  And the thought of the two of them together makes my clit clench like it’s doing the same pliés and pirouettes as the poodle on Elena’s phone.

  I’ve known them both for just under two weeks, and it seems the more I see them the more they want to see me
. This week has been a whirlwind with the two of them.

  On Monday, Hale took me to an advanced showing at the museum of modern art.

  On Tuesday, Flint took me to a private room in a fancy fondue restaurant.

  On Wednesday, Hale brought me to a restaurant opening downtown.

  On Thursday, Flint set up a special private visit for us at the zoo.

  So I’ve spent the week seeing beautiful art, eating delicious meals, and petting baby zebras…and my entire semester’s tuition is now paid.

  And I know that even if I had to choose, I couldn’t.

  You’re being ridiculous. Reee-dick-you-lusssssss.

  I scrunch my toes into the textured bottom of the tub and chide myself. It’s a hard rule that we don’t develop feelings for the clients. A firm boundary that professional not become personal.

  So all these feelings, all this excitement, have to stay on the other side of my heart.

  Because this is business. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Taxes, paperwork, the whole nine yards. We even work for an agency,

  The Cherry on Top, and as far as such things go, it’s quite upstanding. The whole thing is that the girls are smart, accomplished in our own ways—attractive of course—and capable. We are no-strings-attached dates who are here for company, not for sex. Though I’m sure the sexy stuff does happen. I have just never crossed that line.

  For me, it’s a side hustle that pays my tuition and means I don’t have to eat off-brand ramen noodles for every meal. It means that I get to wear my Doc Martens during the day and Louboutin’s at night. It means I get to wear my thrift-store jeans with Chanel lipstick. It means I get to start to carve out a little life for myself, starting here and now.

  And all the men who have bought my time have been wealthy and respectful.

  And sexy, at least lately I think, with a fluttery explosion in my stomach, imagining Hale’s marble jawline and Flint’s muscular veined forearms.

  God.

  “But I’ve got some hot goss’ for you.” Elana lowers her already sultry voice, dropping her phone into her lap. “Apparently two guys got into a bidding war over you for tonight.”

  I turn to her, blinking, while the bubbles hiss and pop around our calves. “They did?”

  “You’re so cute when you pretend to be surprised.”

  Of course I know which two without even asking, though I had no idea there was a bidding war for little old me. I knew I had a date set up with Hale on my calendar but there would be no way I’d know anything else.

  My body responds at just the thought of them, a molten rush of heat through every cell.

  Stop it, I scold myself. Stop. It. I pinch my thighs together, but it doesn’t help at all.

  “Apparently, they decided they were both hell-bent on having you as their date tonight. See? The group chat with the work girls is all about it.”

  I hate the group chat. I can never keep up, so I don’t even try. Instead, I try to still my nerves. I tap on my work phone to open it and check my calendar again. I only use this smartphone for work, and I’m feeling pretty proud that I’ve had this one for six whole weeks and haven’t lost it or broken it. Yet.

  Hale‘s gorgeous face looks back at me from the Cherry on Top scheduling app. Just so handsome. More George Clooney than Clooney himself.

  “Well, I have no idea if that’s what really happened. I just know if it did, the older one won.”

  She lets out a horse-breath of exasperation. “You’ve got two stallions in a bidding war over you. Meanwhile, I’ve got to be arm candy for the world’s most boring accountant. But at least there’s gonna be champagne. And you’ll be there.”

  As usual, she’s only done half her research. I swipe my phone and show her the screen. “Champagne and puppies.”

  “Oh god,” she says, melting a little when she sees the image that is on the website for the gala. A whole pile of puppies playing with various stuffed fruits and vegetables. A Labrador with a carrot. A Jack Russell with a pineapple. “Puppies do make everything better.”

  I reach over and take a sip of her lemonade. “And even though your accountant is boring, at least your taxes will be done right this year.”

  Elana snorts, stealing her lemonade back from me and jiggling the ice. “Yeah. It’s all 1099s for me. But maybe tonight it’ll be 69 for you.”

  And I feel my face flush, hot and embarrassed, right up to the tips of my ears.

  Forty-five minutes later, those awful little spreaders are separating my toes, and my fingernails are drying under the UV light. I lean back and look at my nails. Even though I hate all the buffing and roughing and trimming and filing, they do look quite beautiful in the end. So shiny. So smooth.

  So pretty and clean and nice.

  I think my aversion to all this pampering comes from my upbringing. My parents were salt-of-the-earth types. Dad was a mechanic. Mom did ironing and laundry for the wealthier occupants of Wheeling, Missouri. They believed your station in life was where you’d always be. Your children as well.

  Don’t get uppity my mother would say to me at least once a week since birth and I guess deep down, any sort of pampering ignites my inner child trying to shrink back. Fit it. But, I never really did. Once I’m fairly sure my fingernails are dry enough, I tap my phone into awakeness again and go back to my calendar for the night. Hale has booked me for tonight, but now I see that Flint has already booked me for tomorrow.

  I pinch out on my calendar, careful not to let my nails touch the screen, then position it so I can see both of their profile pictures, side by side. Hale has shorter hair. Dark almost black with silver starting to glimmer at the temples where Flint’s hair is a rich brown, longer, but neat. As I look at them, I feel that familiar clenching and churning deep in my core.

  I want them. Both of them. And it’s even worse because I know I shouldn’t want either of them like this at all.

  Men use this service because they don’t want entanglements. Or just sex. They want different things, but what I can pick up from Hale and Flint is for the most part, they want to be left alone and in an ironic way, I’m a means to that end.

  I take a deep breath to try to quiet the burning feelings in my belly. For my Short twenty-one years, I’ve never had romantic feelings before. I saw something on my newsfeed once about people that are what’s called aromantic. I like men. I can be attracted to them, but I never felt that…boom, buzz, wow until Hale.

  And Flint. Go big or go home, my Uncle Terry used to always say.

  But now, for the first time, I study them side by side. And I realize, they look a little bit alike.

  Maybe just a little.

  Maybe just a bit.

  I look across the drying table at Elana. “Do you have a type?”

  She looks up at me from her phone, squinting slightly in the afternoon light. “A type of what?”

  God, I love her. “Of man. Is there a certain type of guy that is your type?”

  She clicks her tongue. “Sure. My type is whoever pays me best and doesn’t give me shit for sleeping until noon. How about you?”

  I look back down at Flint and Hale. They really do have a number of features in common. The jaw. And the cheekbones. Dark eyed, exuding confidence and intensity. As well, they both have that dominant, borderline bossy vibe that makes me shiver and wonder if I’m going to have my feminist card revoked.

  Seeing them both makes me feel like hot little flames are lapping up my legs. And there’s no point in pretending to myself anymore.

  I have the feels for both of them. Big time.

  “I think maybe I do.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Hale

  The Michigan Humane Society gala is top notch and high end, but I don’t give a fuck where I take her or what we do together. As long as I’ve got her with me, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.

  She’s turned me upside down from that first night. I took her to this stuffy as fuck dinner at a colleague’s hou
se. I knew his wife would have some conveniently single friend of hers there trying to set me up.

  My personal assistant Marjorie listened to me bitching about the upcoming evening and told me about this agency, Cherry on Top, and I made the call and the rest is history.

  I’ve been trying to figure out how to get this lush creature into my life permanently ever since but she’s a slow burn and has shut me down more than once.

  This is professional, not personal, remember?

  It’s fucking personal to me and pretty soon, I’ve figure out how to show you just how personal things are going to get.

  The valet moves to open the passenger door, but I wave him off with a growl and do it myself. I offer her my hand, and she takes it, looking up at me, fingers entwined in mine.

  She’s fucking takes my breath away every time I look at her. I might need to start pulling a oxygen tank with me if I’m not careful.

  She slides her legs out of my Mercedes, her gold stilettos glinting, the slit in her red dress making my dick throb, the glimpse of her angel-white skin making my temples pound from my racing pulse. She rises from the back seat like a Hollywood starlet. Every move is smooth and elegant as she takes my hand properly, holding my arm close like we are walking down Fifth Avenue in New York, circa 1949, all high glamour and proper etiquette.

  I inhale her scent. Her warmth and honey. And for one fucking second, I’m dizzy on it. High on her presence. Like I am every single time I’m near her.

  “This is amazing,” she whispers. Pretty little lashes dust her cheeks. Natural, a bit of mascara but not encumbered by a set of huge falsies which would only detract from what God already gave her.