Chapter 40 A Bit Tipsy
The night had settled deep, the city lights blurring past as the car rolled toward the hotel.
Matthew had been drinking, Timothy too. Neither of them could handle much, but a couple of glasses loosened Matthew's tongue, sharpening the easy charm in his voice.
"You just don't have enough women in your life," Matthew drawled, leaning back with a smirk. "That's why you get stuck on the first one."
He lifted his glass, eyes glinting with mischief. "Timothy, I'm telling you... try more, and you'll understand."
Timothy sat with his eyes closed, letting Matthew's words wash over him. His mind wasn't on the conversation—it was on Elizabeth. He saw her in his head: the red butterfly hair tie looped around her calf, the lazy swing of her leg, the delicate ankle in his grasp... flawless.
Fifteen minutes later, in a hotel suite, Matthew had arranged for ten women to be brought in—each beautiful in her own way: glamorous, fresh-faced, sweet, slender, voluptuous.
"Timothy, pick one... or a few," Matthew urged.
Timothy lounged on the sofa, one eyebrow arched. "Looks like you're used to more than one at a time?"
Matthew shook his head. "No. Always one. I'm not into group scenes."
Minutes ticked by, and Timothy still hadn't chosen. Matthew chuckled. "Are you going to pick or not?"
Timothy pointed lazily at a glamorous woman.
Matthew grinned, wrapping his arm around a sweet-faced girl as he left. The rest were led away.
The woman Timothy had chosen—Briar—let her gaze linger on him, eyes full of invitation. She was lucky; her first time here and she'd landed a handsome man instead of the usual overweight client. She swayed her hips as she approached.
Meanwhile, after leaving the children's park, Elizabeth and Quinton had gone for barbecue. They returned home smelling faintly of grilled meat. Quinton watched her walk inside before heading next door.
Elizabeth flicked on the light, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge—barbecue always left her parched. As she drank, her phone rang. Timothy's voice came slow and deliberate on the other end.
"I found myself a glamorous woman."
"You're insane," Elizabeth shot back.
Who called in the middle of the night to say something like that?
His voice was rough, lazy, with a faint laugh. "I'm at a hotel right now, about to spend the night with her."
Elizabeth blinked. "What?"
She could hear his breathing through the line. It wasn't that she was slow—it was that she hadn't expected him to tell her outright.
"You found a glamorous woman... at a hotel?" she repeated.
Timothy's chuckle was low, his tone deliberately provocative. "You really willing to let me go to someone else? An hour's work... not everyone can manage that."
Elizabeth leaned against the fridge, one eyebrow raised. "Which hotel? Room number?"
"Windward Hotel, 1001," he replied.
Elizabeth hung up and immediately called the police. Soliciting was illegal.
When Timothy heard the doorbell, he thought Elizabeth had come herself. A strange thrill ran through him. But when he opened the door, it was the police.
"Mr. Robinson, sorry to trouble you."
"All right. Thank you," Timothy said calmly, sending them away. No Elizabeth in sight.
Closing the door, he rubbed his brow. Elizabeth, when she wanted to, could be lethal. And yet... he couldn't quite let her go.
He grabbed his phone, slipped a condom into his pocket, and strode out of the hotel, heading straight for her building.
This time, he started a video call.
"Something you need?" Elizabeth asked, lying in bed, eyes sore and dry from crying too much that day. The camera showed only her ceiling.
"I'm downstairs," Timothy said with a cold huff.
"I'm not coming down. I'm busy."
He smirked. "Your little pig-print panties... I stuck them on your front door."
Elizabeth stared in disbelief. "Seriously?"
"Come get them," he said, ending the call.
She hesitated. He might actually do it. Tomorrow, someone could walk past and see them. That would be mortifying.
She got out of bed and opened her door.
Timothy was standing right there, like a hunter waiting for his prey.
He had come for one reason—to find out if she'd really accepted Quinton's proposal.
The moment she opened the door, his eyes locked on hers.
Elizabeth started to close it, but Timothy pushed in, catching her right hand in his grip. His palm was hot, his hold firm. He pulled her inside and shut the door.
He checked her right hand—no ring. Then her left—also bare.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
"Seeing what your engagement ring looks like," he said dryly. Her eyes were still red from crying earlier. "When's the wedding?"
Elizabeth finally understood his strange behavior. "Wait here," she said, trying to head to her bedroom.
Timothy didn't let go.
"You wanted to see the ring? Come with me," she said.
He followed her into the bedroom. Inside a pretty little box lay a ring—made of paper.
"You're serious?" he asked.
Elizabeth slipped it onto her right pinky. "It means protection. Not marriage."
Timothy went silent. The misunderstanding was huge.
"You called the cops on me?" he asked, switching topics.
"No!" she said quickly.
He tugged her into his lap, holding her close. His body was warm, his heartbeat strong against her ear.
"Why don't you marry me?" he asked. After tonight, he'd decided—if he couldn't let her go, the best way was to keep her close.
Elizabeth didn't push him away. Marry him? She shook her head. "I'm not ready."
He tilted her chin up, searching her eyes. "Still hung up on Armando?"
"Of course not," she said.
"Fine. No marriage... but from tonight, we're together," he said, not giving her room to refuse. "It's eleven p.m."
She frowned, unsure what he meant.
By the time he let her go, it was midnight.
"One hour," Timothy murmured, amusement in his voice.
Elizabeth managed to glare at him, even after everything.
"From tonight on," Timothy said, "Elizabeth is my girlfriend."
Her heart skipped. Maybe she could try. So far, things between them weren't bad.
Then her phone rang—killing the mood. Armando's name flashed on the screen.
Timothy's eyes narrowed.
Elizabeth stared too. Why was Armando calling her at this hour?