The Two Week Arrangement (Penthouse Affair, #1)

“Of course not. No sex.”

“Unless she wants it, too,” she adds with a chuckle. “But knowing your track record, she will.”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“You flatterer,” I say. Gia, the owner of Allure Agency, certainly knows how to keep her repeat customers satisfied.

“Have a lovely evening, Dom. We’ll send you the details tomorrow.”

“Good night, Gia.”

I set my phone down and lean back in my chair. I already feel better. Excited, even.

After some finishing touches on the day’s work, I’m ready to leave. I slip out through the back exit and head directly to the parking garage where my Porsche awaits. I have a small apartment that I keep in the hotel’s penthouse suite, but after the babies were born, living out of a hotel seemed much less practical, so I bought a large, four-bedroom apartment where my personal life can stay private and away from the prying eyes of my staff.

Prior to the girls’ arrival in my life, I was perfectly happy living a bachelor’s lifestyle in a hotel suite—ordering from room service and working at all hours of the day and night. Now, of course, things are different. My priorities have changed drastically.

The commute is never ideal during rush hour, but I want to see my girls. In fact, I need to. All of these thoughts about sex, exes, and secret arrangements have me in need of a little emotional cleansing. And there’s nothing purer than the glowing smiles of two little girls when their daddy comes home early for the first time all week.

“You ought to spend more time with them. You’re missing too much of their childhood,” Francine said to me the night before, after I arrived past their bedtime. My nanny is in her late sixties and is never afraid to voice her opinions about my lifestyle. She had her hands on her hips, scolding me like a mother would a child.

“The more time I spend with them, the less you’re paid,” I reminded her in a stern voice, but she could tell by my smile that it was an empty threat.

I pay her a very generous salary every week, and consistently pay overtime for any extra hours she’s needed. What I don’t pay her for is unsolicited parental advice. Especially when said advice makes me feel like shit because of how spot-on it is.

“You’re lucky my kids are both out of state and my husband has passed on,” she said with a wry smile. “I’ve got nothing better to do than love those little girls.”

In the elevator, my heart constricts with emotion, ever so briefly. Even though I’ve bantered with Fran over the point of my schedule, I know she’s right.

My keys aren’t even out of the door before I hear the tap-tap-tap of little feet on the hardwood floors of my downtown luxury apartment.

“Daddy!” Lacey races down the hall in her dance slippers and barrels right into my legs. Emilia is close behind, her face red and wet with tears.

“There’s my girls,” I murmur. Kneeling on the floor with two angels in my arms, I smell their hair, feel their tiny hands grasp at my clothes. “What’s wrong, baby girl?” I say to Emilia.

“Missed you,” she whimpers, clinging to my neck.

“Missed more!” Lacey says.

“It’s not a competition, girls,” Fran calls from down the hall, hobbling toward me with her coat and purse in hand.

“Thank you,” I say. She accepts my gratitude with a wink.

“Glad you’re home early for a change,” she says in that maternal voice of hers—an influence I’ve been sorely without for so many years now. “Dinner is on the table.”

“Thank you,” I say again. I squeeze my daughters tighter against my chest, my nose buried in Lacey’s curls and my fingers tangled in Emilia’s. They’re my whole life. My everything.

“You should smile more,” Fran says as she makes her way to the door, her purse slung over her shoulder and coat already buttoned. “It’s very attractive on a young man.”

She’s right. This is the first time I’ve smiled since . . . since Presley amused me this morning. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“Say good-bye to Franny,” I whisper to the girls. They call out their good-byes, never letting go of me.

Fran chuckles as the door closes softly behind her.

“What’s for dinner?” I ask the girls.

“Noodles!” Lacey cries, extracting herself from my arms and running back toward the dining room, but Emilia refuses to let go.

That’s all right, little one. I’ll carry you.

I sure as hell never thought I’d be a father at twenty-six. I never thought I’d be a single father at all. But I am, and I vow to be a good one. The best I can possibly be.

Better than mine ever was, at least.

Inside the dining room, I help my twin toddlers into their chairs and survey the table. There’s a dish of buttered noodles and peas for my daughters to share, and a plate of baked fish and vegetables for me.

It’s another reason why I don’t let Francine’s meddling bother me. She really does take good care of us and I’m not sure what we’d do without her.