Chapter 11: Santa’s Baby: Chapter 10

I stop strumming my clit, thinking it’s the fire alarm for a second, until Reuben pushes from the bed, goes over to the dresser, picks up his phone and switches the alarm off. He puts the phone down and smooths his suit jacket. I’m out of my mind as I watch my suave boss. He’s still fully dressed, whereas I’m the total fucking opposite. I’m a heaving mass of naked flesh, sweaty and sordid.

I just tried to birth a fucking dildo.

I played a game I never play. Ever.

My heartbeats are pangs of need, and I hate them… but Jesus Christ, I need more.

“Time’s up,” he says, and my guts twist so bad it hurts.

Rejection.

Rejection, after that kind of teaser…

I get a wave of sick panic, open mouthed as I stare at him.

“What?”

“Ten-hour timer. Proposal over.”

“Proposal over? You can’t be serious. I don’t give a stuff about ten hours. I’d do this through the whole fucking weekend, and then take it all over again, no problem.”

With you. That’s the part I leave out.

I’d take it all over again with you.

“Yet another thing we have in common.” He smirks. “I would too. Gladly.”

I sit up and shrug. “So why the hell are you calling time out?”

“Discipline. Common sense. Respect.”

He seems so calm, yet I’m anything but. A pair of opposites on different sides of the scale.

I don’t know why I feel so hurt, but I do. It’s like I’ve been stabbed in the ribs.

The guy across the room is still the smiling Reuben, eyes full of lust, but his self-control makes me shiver.

I’m not in control. I’m a mess who feels like I’ve ripped myself open and shown him my soul. I feel so exposed, unsure, and invested but fucking terrified. With butterflies. Swarms upon swarms of fucking butterflies.

I don’t know when I last felt like this…

Yes, I do. I’m feeding myself bullshit.

Kian.

That’s the last time I felt like this. When things were crazy good with Kian.

When I was in love.

I could hurl all over the carpet as I drag myself up and grab my underwear. I’m terrified of some unknown force at play here. A ghost in the room I don’t want to face.

I pushed for him.

I playacted.

I wanted it to be real.

“Are you ok, Tiffany?” Reuben asks me.

The walls of Creamgirl come straight back up. I shoot him a cheeky smile.

“Yeah, sure. It was fun. Hopefully you’ll book me again, User 5639.”

He steps closer as I’m trying to pull my jeans up. My legs are fucking quaking.

“No, Tiffany. Are you actually ok?”

I can’t tell him the truth.

No. I already feel like my heart’s been cracked open, thanks for asking.

I’m terrified of losing something I never even had in the first place. It’s only been ten fucking hours and I’m a pathetic mess.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, because that’s no lie. I will be fine, once I’m out of here and back onto familiar turf.

I throw on my hoodie and it’s a relief to be hidden. Covered and safe.

“Why are you racing?” he asks. “Don’t you want to shower before you go? You’re quite a mess.”

More than you’ll ever know.

I laugh. “Nah, I’ll shower at home, thanks,” is all I can say.

He’s staring at me as I get my boots. His eyes are burning me as I tighten the laces.

“Anyway, why are you racing?” I ask him. “You’re the one who called time out.”

“I’m not calling time out. I adhered to the end of the proposal.”

FUCK THE FUCKING PROPOSAL!

I want to scream it in his face, even though it’s ridiculous. I’ve been doing proposals for four years, and I’ve had fantasies and infatuations, and morning after syndrome to the max, but I’ve never felt like this before. It’s so fucking stupid, it’s embarrassing.

“You’re really ok with this?” he pushes, and I could groan at his round after round of bastard questions, but I take a breath and flash another smile.

“Yeah, of course I am. It’s only a proposal,” I laugh. “We’re cool.”

He nods, smiling back at me.

“Excellent.”

“Excellent?”

I’m so busted up that I can’t make sense of things – both inside and out. I’ll need a long, hot bath and a bottle of vodka when I get home, never mind a bastard shower.

“Yes, excellent,” he says. “That’s the reassurance we both need.”

I pull a face. “I don’t get it. What reassurance?”

His hands are tender as he takes mine.

“The reassurance that we can both handle a proposal without falling into the abyss of insanity.”

Ah, ok. The penny drops. I get it now.

He wanted to know if I could stop. If he could stop. If we could stop, with no crazy repercussions.

Thank fuck I didn’t blurt out a load of emotional crap that would have busted my fat ass.

That knowledge makes it a lot easier for Creamgirl to take back the reins. I shrug as though it’s nothing and give his strong hands a squeeze before letting go.

“Yeah, don’t worry about that, Santa. We had a good gig, and now it’s over.”

He looks me up and down. “Unfortunately so. Until next time.”

“There’s going to be a next time, then?”

A zap of horny delight shoots up my spine at the thought. And now I’m grinning like a love-struck twat.

Fuck sake.

“Of course,” he says, “And I’ll offer a better rate next time.”

I wave the idea aside. “Nah, stick to a quid an hour. It’s fun.”

With that, Reuben grabs his wallet from the dresser and pulls out a ten-pound note. I try to wave that aside too, but he won’t have it.

“Tiffany,” he says, with a serious stare. “Take it, please.”

“Cool, yeah, alright. Ta for that,” I reply, and stuff it into my hoodie pocket. I glance about the place, and it’s a right fucking mess. Should have used towels. “Need any help cleaning up?”

“No thanks, that’s my responsibility, not yours.”

“Good luck.”

It’s a relief when he laughs along with me, our connection reignited.

“I had a great time. Truly.”

“Something else we have in common.” I give him a wink. “I’ll be keeping an eye out for the next proposal. Get it in quick, my schedule is rammed.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

This place is suddenly stifling. The heat is from way more than just my hoodie. It’s from him.

I march straight over to the door with a see ya, but he steps forward.

“Wait,” he says before I turn the handle. “I wasn’t joking about the confidentiality agreement, Tiffany. This is breaking the code of conduct and if anyone finds out –”

I cut him off with a finger to my lips.

“I’m not an idiot. Pinky promise, remember?” I give him a wave before I leave. “See you around.”

“Yes. Keep an eye on your notifications.”

I make it down to reception before I start to get dizzy. Real fucking dizzy. I lean against the reception desk, trying to act casual as I get the night porter to call me a cab, dabbling in stupid small talk as I wait for it to arrive.

Had a nice stay?

Yeah, thanks. This place is cool. Time runs away when you’re having fun, doesn’t it? Loved the lasagne by the way. Yum.

The night porter seems a nice guy.

“Saw you in there with your dad earlier.”

Holy fuck, if only he knew.

I go along with it.

“We live in different places, you know. Sometimes it’s cool to meet halfway, and I get a decent chocolate sundae out of it.”

Blah blah blah.

I feel queasy at the thought of Reuben just a few flights upstairs. I’ve got butterflies upon butterflies wanting to get back up there and throw myself into his arms like a crazy bitch.

I breathe a sigh of relief when the cab pulls up, ready to drive me back to some semblance of normality, but the relief wears off as soon as the hotel disappears around a corner.

Because I don’t want a semblance of normality. I don’t want my apartment and a hot bath, and my calendar packed with bookings set to whisk me right through bastard Christmas.

I want Reuben.

I send my usual D&S message to Josh, since the proposal is marked on my calendar. Cool, he replies with a thumbs-up emoji. Have a good time?

The butterflies sail into a needy pit in my guts, ready to spill the beans. I want to tell Josh all about it – to talk through the craziness with my best friend and get some perspective. But I can’t do that. Not only because of the pinky promise to Reuben, but because he’d tell me I’m fucking insane.

Reuben is a goddamn founder, and this could cost me my whole career.

Josh would get me straight back onto my psychotherapist and have me make another pinky promise. One that states I’ll have nothing more to do with this craziness whatsoever. No Reuben Sinclair and dabbling in Agency founder business. He’d say I should never have touched it in the first place.

And he would be right. I should never have touched it in the first place – but my fingers are already burned.

It was cool, I message back to him. My butt hurts pretty bad, though.

He sends a laughing emoji.

I’d be surprised if it didn’t. I know what you’re like, Tiff.

I shove my phone back in my pocket, but it sounds out again. Another message from Josh.

Are you coming over tomorrow? Me and Ells want to see you.

Shit. I’ve been avoiding this. The inevitable conversation where the two of them try to convince me to join them at Josh’s family gathering for Christmas lunch. I usually go, even though Caroline – his youngest sister, who’s been a pain in my ass since we were teenagers – is always there, being a pain in my ass, like she always has been since we were teenagers.

I’ve been playing the Christmas Day thing down whenever it’s come up recently, saying nah, I’m busy. Or nah, you and Ells should make the most of your first family Christmas in private this year, but they won’t have it. This will be a serious ‘sit down and talk about it’ job – because Josh knows what the real deal is. Like he said, he knows exactly what I’m like.

He knows full well the real reason I don’t want to be there at Christmas dinner this year.

I won’t want to see Caroline’s baby bump as she sits there loved up with her amazing fiancé. Getting uncomfortable around smiling families at shopping malls is hard enough, but doable. Christmas dinner with Caroline would be off the scale, though. Even the thought of it gives me feel sick. Baby talk, and fawning, and Pinterest boards of nursery décor would take up at least ninety percent of the conversation all day fucking long.

And now I’ve been playing with Reuben, like that.

Even though it was just a small part of the show, I’m already feeling the backlash. The pain I’ve been burying deeper, year after year.

I won’t be able to handle Caroline. No way. So, why beat around the bush?

I’m not coming, I type. Not tomorrow, and not to Xmas dinner. I’ll get an extra special rate for a Christmas Day booking. I’ll be coining it, and I’ll be fine, seriously. Don’t worry about it. x

‘I’ll be fine, seriously. Don’t worry about it.’

I use that phrase like a mantra, constantly, and it’s usually true. It’s just now that I’m getting older, with the contrast of cute little Caroline with her cute little baby bump… it just isn’t feeling quite the same.

The wrenched apart from Reuben feeling sure isn’t helping. Jesus fucking Christ, I feel like such a gooey twat.

I shove my phone back in my hoodie yet again but get another ping straight through. No doubt some pacifying message about how Caroline won’t be such a dick, and if I want to talk about anything we can do it without Ella, in the friendship code or whatever.

I love him for it, I really do. I’ll tell him so, but I’m not going to change my mind.

Only the message onscreen isn’t from Josh. It’s a proposal notification.

Fuck. It can’t be. Not already.

User 5639. Male. 47.

Suddenly those butterflies have swarmed and my heart is in my throat.

I had a great time tonight, Creamgirl. I wish you could have stayed longer, but I know proposals are proposals, and time out means time out.

This time around, I want to book more hours with you. Go big, or go home, as they say.

I love big, Cream, as you’ve undoubtedly gathered. So, please consider my offer.

Duration: 24 hours.

Proposal fee: £48,000.

He’s having a laugh. Forty-eight fucking grand?!

I’d do it for another tenner. Fuck that. I’d give him a tenner. More than a tenner. Maybe not forty-eight grand, but I’d pay him a decent chunk.

I take out the ten-pound note stashed in my pocket from earlier, and it feels like some kind of memento. A sacred trophy.

There’s no way I’ll ever be spending this. Not a chance in hell.

Proposal accepted I click, and I manage to select my nearest calendar date before another message from Josh pings through.

This time I switch my phone to silent before I stuff it back in my pocket.

I can’t be arsed with a Christmas dinner conversation when I’d rather be in a hot bath, dreaming of Reuben Sinclair.