The Rich Boy

by Scott, Kylie

  “That’s sweet.”

  “It is,” Beck agrees with a grin. “He’s more bark than bite. Ready to go upstairs?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  Beck points to a door in the back wall. “Gym, sauna, laundry, storage, and the back staircase are through there.”

  “Right.”

  And then he presses the elevator call button.

  By the time we rose for breakfast some six hours ago, our guest from the sofa had been gone. Beck chugged down the Advil, followed by several cups of coffee, showered and put on a suit, before rushing off to Elliot Corp. for some emergency or other. A meeting with his real estate agent followed. Inspecting our new place had to wait until after lunch. Matías sent a business site over for me to assess so I distracted myself with work. Nice to know his hangover wasn’t too bad.

  But back to now. Hard to know exactly how I feel about our new home or his reasons for purchasing it in such a rush. Though a tangled ball of emotions has been growing inside of me all day.

  When the elevator arrives, we only go up one floor to the ground level. Beside the shiny elevator is a polished wooden staircase winding up and up with a skylight way up high. But otherwise, we’ve walked into a huge open-plan kitchen, dining, and living room area. Lots of brushed steel with beautiful white stone bench tops in the chef worthy kitchen.

  “They’re Silestone,” says Beck, nodding to the bench tops. “Quartz.”

  “Huh. Pretty. And your mother would most likely approve.”

  Something yummy is cooking. A roast, perhaps. The dining table is wood and antique looking, seating ten people. All of the various sofas and chairs look big and comfortable and are done in navy and white. Minimalist modern art hangs on the stark white walls. It’s not exactly my style, but it’s nice. Beautiful even. Lots of windows and two sets of French doors that let in the light open up onto a back garden terrace type area with outdoor furniture. Hidden away from public view, it’s walled in by the neighboring buildings.

  “It’s like a secret garden,” I say, as excited as a child at Christmas.

  “Entry and foyer to the side at the front with staff rooms taking up the rest of the front half of this level,” he says doing more pointing. “Powder room is over there.”

  “Staff?”

  “Smith and the housekeeper.”

  “Okay.” I have questions. Lots of questions. But I save them for later.

  “Let’s keep going.” His suit-clad ass climbs higher and I follow. He has a nice ass. On the next level he stops, reaching for my hand to draw me alongside him. “Formal dining that seats twenty, second smaller kitchen, bar and wine cellar is at the back. The sitting room that also doubles as gallery space is to the front. Powder room is again straight in front of you.”

  “Second kitchen?”

  “The previous owners liked throwing parties. She often had artists staying with them and her partner was a hedge-fund manager so business soirees and so on.”

  “Got it.”

  “Up we go again.” And he’s off. My calf muscles are going to be bomb by the time we’ve lived here for a while. On the third floor, he pushes a door open leading into the front half of the building. “Office and library through here with our bedroom et cetera at the back.”

  “A library? Wow.” I say that word a lot these days. I don’t see it stopping any time soon. If anything, probably be on the lookout for an increase in usage.

  He nods, leading me back into a large bedroom with a sitting area. Antique-looking blue-and-gray patterned rugs cover the hardwood floor.

  “They’re Persian,” says Beck.

  “I’m not sure exactly what that means besides them having come from Persia? Wait, isn’t it Iran now?”

  “It means fancy, old, and expensive.”

  “Okay.” I nod. “All of the furniture and art still here comes with the house?”

  “Yeah. I get the feeling that decorating is a passion of the previous owners. She was ready to let this one go and move on to other projects. But as I said, you can change anything you like.”

  Another orgy-size bed like at the hotel sits covered in white linens dominating the huge room. You could fit my old apartment about six times in this one room. It’s crazy. Gray chairs, a three-seater sofa, and an ottoman sit in front of the gray marble fireplace. There’s also an antique desk and a discreet bar in the corner. Again, the windows are huge, overlooking the back terrace garden area.

  “Bathroom to the left, closets to the right.” He leans against the wall, watching me all the while. Like me, he seems to be running on nervous energy.

  “Closets as in plural? We have one each?”

  He raises his brows. “Beloved. Dearest. Have you seen the amount of shit you own these days? I’m honest to God worried you’re going to go in there one day and never be seen again. I’m thinking we need to have a protocol that you tie a rope around your waist and to the door handle so you can find your way out again.”

  “That wardrobe is not entirely my fault. And it keeps growing, somehow. There was stuff in there this morning I could have sworn wasn’t there last night.” When the maids came up to pack everything for the rushed move, I did another cull and sent some more things back to Rachel. Like three of the four Chanel handbags that had mysteriously appeared. I probably don’t even need the one I kept, but it’s so pretty. The orchid diamond necklace in a Cartier box also went back. My soul is stained enough by conspicuous consumption these days. “You need to tell Rachel to stop.”

  He just grins. His arsenal of smiles is unmatched. “What do you think of the place?”

  “What’s on the next floor?” I ask, taking a seat in a leather wingback and crossing my legs. Enough stairs for now.

  He sits on a long low modern gray lounge opposite. “Three more bedrooms, bathrooms, a media room, and a family room. Then there’s the rooftop terrace with a hot tub and plunge pool. That’s it.”

  “No ballroom?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Bummer. Guess we’ll just have to do without.”

  “However will we manage? Henry can have one of the rooms on the top floor. Your mom can stay up there too and have her own space.” For a minute, he waits. Before finally saying, “What are you thinking?”

  I inhale calm and exhale stress, just like the meditation app says to. “You bought it last night when you were drunk.”

  “Tipsy.”

  I frown.

  He holds out a hand. “Come here.”

  The hand guides me onto his lap, where I sit crosswise with my feet dangling just off the floor. It does feel better, getting closer. Rubbing up against the scent and the feel and the everything of him. Beck makes a wonderful security blanket. He wraps his arms around my middle and watches me closely with hazel eyes. “Listen to me. By the time I had papers drawn up and things were being signed this morning I was stone cold sober and only like…half as afraid of your mother as I had been the day before. Three quarters, max. But, beloved, if you don’t like the house—”

  “I love it.”

  “Oh, okay. Why are you so stressed, then?”

  “This is all happening really fast. Us getting together, me moving out here, you buying this place…” My throat goes tight and my eyes go liquid. Ugh. The last thing I want to do is cry. There’s no reason to cry. It’s just nerves and other assorted unnecessary emotions. “You know, I’ve bought things on a whim before. Like a few months back I decided to get a DVD player so I could watch my old movies and some BBC television series I hadn’t seen in years. But I forgot to check that it was coded for all regions and then most of my stuff wouldn’t play and the place I bought it off refused to let me return it because they’re assholes. So it cost me $29.99. Thirty bucks down the drain. I was so angry at myself for wasting that money. Just because I hadn’t been careful enough to check. But you…you buy a whole building. A beautiful building, but still. I guess what I’m really worried about is, are you sure about this? Do you really think you could
be happy here, Beck?”

  He looks at me and then he looks around, taking in the opulent room. “You know, Selah would have hated it. She wanted a big old mansion on Grandma’s street. Somewhere she could hobnob with the rich and judgmental. Sure, this place is shiny and cost a lot. But without the right zip code and neighbors to impress, what’s even the point?”

  “So we won’t invite Selah to move in with us. That’s decided,” I say. “But what about you?”

  “Do you really like it? Really truly?”

  “It’s like its own little world,” I say. “A modern-day castle in the middle of the city.”

  “Does that make me Prince Charming?”

  “Yes. And I am the poor common girl with bitchin’ taste in T-shirts who has caught your eye.”

  “You’ve caught more than that and you can be the queen of my castle any day.” His smile is slow and glorious. And he’s so close, it’s hard not be a little dazzled. “Alice, you’re not freaking out anymore.”

  “I am not freaking out anymore.”

  “Good.” His gaze is the very definition of serious. “I want this to be our home.”

  Not sure Beck’s ever even had a real home before. Or at least not for a long time. As he said, living in a hotel isn’t quite the same. And it’s not as if his father (may he rest in peace) or his mother seem to have made much room in their lives for him. Catherine, his grandmother, is somewhat terrifying and ditto with her mausoleum of a mansion.

  I smile. “Okay then.”

  Mrs. Francis is our new housekeeper. She is short, cheerful, and around fifty. Due to the place needing to be kept show worthy at all times for sale, the previous owners had kept her on and recommended we do the same. A cleaning crew also comes through three times a week. Beck can happily continue not picking up after himself. (That is a lie. I will do it because it drives me crazy otherwise.) Mrs. Francis has the staff we borrowed from the Heritage to move our personal belongings under complete control. The woman is an organizing aficionado. She’s also sorted new sheets and towels and so on for us and made a pot roast for dinner. There’s even a couple of thick pillar candles on the dining table for atmosphere. Once dinner is served, she retreats into the staff quarters in the front half of the ground level, where I presume Smith is also, and Beck and I are alone.

  “Grandma has a staff of eighteen including gardeners,” comments Beck, apropos of nothing.

  “And?”

  “It’s okay for us to have two, beloved. You’ll get used to it eventually.”

  “I don’t want to.” I lift my glass of white wine. “May this lifestyle always happily weird me out.”

  “But is it happily weirding you out?”

  I think it over. “Yes, it is. I might still get nervous or anxious sometimes, but that’s just me.”

  “Okay then.” He taps his crystal glass gently against mine. “Here’s to our first night in our new house.”

  I take a sip. “Oh, I meant to ask you, why are charities thanking me for funding their programs and inviting me to events?”

  “Actually, that reminds me,” he says, pushing a lock of hair back from his forehead. “Would you do me a favor?”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “I was hoping you’d just say yes,” he admits with a frown.

  “I’m sure you were.”

  “With the inheritance and everything, I’m in need of someone to head up the philanthropy side of things. Penny’s been helping me set up a charity foundation and she suggested that you’d be an excellent choice for director.”

  “Director?”

  “You’d be the public face and have the final word on what happens,” he continues, cutting into potato and green beans. “There’s money put aside, but someone needs to meet with the charities, decide where and how we can help. What do you think? Probably only take a couple of days a week. You could fit it in around what you’re doing for The Crooked Company.”

  “Shouldn’t you hire an expert?”

  “I trust your judgment and I’d prefer to keep it in the family, so to speak. People appreciate a personal touch when it comes to these sorts of things,” he says. “Besides, you’re good with people; they like you. Imagine how much more they’re going to like you when you’re giving them money.”

  “But I sucked at that luncheon. Your grandmother still isn’t talking to us.”

  He swallows his food. “Only if by sucked you mean completely rocked it. And Granny will give in and forgive us eventually. I think it quietly pleases her when people don’t do what she wants. Gives her something to bitch about at tea parties.”

  “Doesn’t that woman own like half of Elliot Corp.?”

  “Not quite that much,” he says. “And it doesn’t mean she doesn’t love a good tea party.”

  “You want me to do this?”

  “Yes. But, of course, it’s your call.”

  I think it over. “That’s why Penny gave you a weird look at The Downstairs Bar when I mentioned my dislike of charity luncheons.”

  He shrugs. It’s pure avoidance. What a sneak. “Question is, do you really hate the events, or did that one in particular just freak you out due to Granny’s evil machinations?”

  “Good question. I’ll ponder it.” I cut up some meat. “You’d think all of the years in customer service would make me more people friendly as opposed to less.”

  “Not sure if it really works that way. Plus, people.”

  “True.”

  A low resonant tone echoes from the front of the house. Next comes the soft sound of footsteps followed by conversation. One half of the conversation, however, isn’t soft or discreet. It’s loud and strident.

  “Where are you two?” yells a familiar female voice.

  “Having a romantic dinner on the first night in our new house,” yells Beck. “Fuck off.”

  Emma marches in with Matías close behind and Mrs. Francis trailing in their wake.

  “I tried to explain to her that this might not be the best time,” says Matías.

  Our housekeeper just stands there looking mildly flustered.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Francis.” I say to the flustered lady with a smile. “Thank you.”

  “No matter what this woman says”—Beck points at his sister with a stern face—“never give her a key or the security code, Mrs. Francis. Promise me on your life.”

  Emma scoffs. “Like I can’t strong-arm Smith into giving them to me.”

  “He’s twice your size,” mocks Beck.

  “Doesn’t mean he’s not afraid of me.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Elliot.” The housekeeper disappears once more. Having staff is odd. I bet she’s great at getting rid of door to door salespeople, but feisty Elliots are a different kettle of fish. Whether she’ll want to put up with us long-term is the next question.

  “This is nice.” Emma turns in a circle, inspecting the place. “Never been a big fan of modern art, but the black on white brush style in that piece is interesting. Love the high ceiling. And you can’t hear cars or the city sounds at all; the soundproofing is excellent.”

  “You already own a perfectly fine mansion.” Matías protests, slumping into a seat beside me. “Emma, you don’t need another property.”

  “An inner-city apartment, though. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

  “It’s not even a twenty-minute drive from where you already live, Em.”

  She sighs. “I suppose so.”

  “She never did like it when other people got new toys,” mutters Beck. “Christmas can be all-out war.”

  Emma also pulls up a seat, inspecting our dinner. “Pot roast?”

  “Would you like some?” I ask. Because one of us needs to act vaguely hospitable.

  “No.” She sighs. “I’m still in the I want to hurl twenty-four/seven stage. It’s like being constantly seasick without having the joy of being on a yacht in Ibiza.”

  Beck points toward the kitchen with a fork. “Dinner’s in the fridge if you want any, M
atías.”

  “Already ate. Thanks.” Though the man is on his feet heading toward the kitchen and opening cupboards. “I’ll have a glass, though.”

  Emma pouts. “You’re just drinking because you know I can’t.”

  “I meant a glass of water,” says Matías. “And I’m getting one for you too.” Can’t tell if he’s lying or not.

  “I’ve decided we’re having the baby and Matías is going to be a stay-at-home father,” announces Emma. “We’re going to give both therapy and marriage another go. It’s not like we were really into the whole divorce thing anyway. Otherwise we would have actually finalized it at some stage and stopped sleeping together.”

  “Don’t get us wrong, the separation was fun while it lasted.” Matías returns to the table with two glasses of ice water. “But we’re ready to move on and get back together now.”

  “Stay-at-home dad, huh?” asks Beck, setting down his cutlery.

  Matías nods. “Yep.”

  “Cool.”

  “We’ll have a nanny too, of course,” says Emma. “What if Matías goes out or something? I can’t be expected to change diapers like an animal.”

  Beck just blinks.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m more than prepared to love and interact with the baby. I’m not Giada or Dad…or Grandma, for that matter. Did you know she never even fed, burped, or bathed our father? Not once. Like ordering a silver rattle from Tiffany’s and dressing the kid in ugly lace frocks to pose for family pictures actually counts as making an effort.” Emma folds her arms across her chest. Her boobs do look bigger. Not that I generally notice other women’s breasts. But in the low-cut white sheath she’s wearing, it’s kind of hard not to notice.

  “The tit fairy has been,” she comments, noticing the direction my gaze has taken.

  “Sorry,” I say. For the tits or for looking, I don’t know.

  Matías leers. There’s no other word. “They’re wonderful.”

  “Whatever.” Emma looks to heaven.

  “Back to a topic that’s not my sister’s breasts,” says Beck. “We definitely descended from generations of warm and loving people setting us the ultimate example in quality parenting.”