by Vivian Wood
The same situation applies for the desk I was renting at the co-working space. I'm trapped in a one-year contract that won't end for another three months. All of my stuff is still there, and as long as it's still there, as long as I still have a place out in the normal world - quite literally - I feel reassured that I'm still me. I had to leave everything behind when I agreed to become Jared's "partner," as he likes to call it, but keeping that desk space means that there are still traces out there to remind me of who I was before this.
"You're silly."
The echo of my voice cuts through the weird silence like a knife, even though it was a whisper. Yes, I am silly. I’m still the same person I was just a few days ago. I’m being melodramatic to think otherwise.
I roam over to the kitchen and immediately notice that it has been stocked with food. There was nothing but whiskey and coffee here this morning before Jared and I left for his office, but now there’s a bowl of fresh fruit, filled to the brim in the middle of the kitchen island. I gasp in awe when I open the giant fridge and find it filled with vegetables, meat, eggs, and cheese. Someone has also stocked the cabinets with spices, rice, and pasta.
I furrow my eyebrows. Does this mean that he expects me to cook for him after all?
I head over to the entryway where I left my handbag with my new phone. Jared gave it to me the day I signed the contract, and so far, he's the only person I've communicated with.
"Do you expect me to cook for you?" I type the text angrily, sending it before I can change my mind.
His reply follows within less than a minute.
"No, but I expect you to eat."
I roll my eyes, and luckily he can't see it this time. Why does he agitate me so much? I feel on edge and don't know what to do with myself. My stomach is growling, and though the obvious choice would be to take advantage of all those options in the kitchen, I can't eat when I'm so unraveled and flustered. I am tense and full of questions, and numerous thoughts and contemplations about my current situation roll through my head. I may be hungry, starving even, but my appetite is hidden somewhere behind the turmoil churning inside me.
I take a deep breath and walk up to the giant window in the living room, taking in the view of the city while I try to sort my thoughts. But it doesn't work this way – it never has. I've never been a person who can just sit and think. I always need an outlet, to be able to visualize what's going on inside my head.
I need to write.
I haven't written a word since I signed the contract, and now that I think about it, I’m not sure why. Writing has always been more than just a job for me. It has been an outlet for anything occupying my thoughts, good or bad. It's no surprise I’m in such an emotional turmoil; I need to let it out on paper.
A smile spreads across my face. I’m going to write. He never said I couldn't, he just said I couldn’t share it or publish it. And I've never had a better place and opportunity to write than I do right now, in a beautiful and empty penthouse, with an amazing view to spark the creative flow.
Chapter Seventeen
Jared
The first thing I notice is the smell. I scrunch my nose as the elevator approaches the top floor. It smells like something is burning, but the smell is so faint that I can't say for sure. I begin to worry when I notice the smell getting stronger - and lose my shit when the doors open and I'm welcomed by a thick cloud of smoke obscuring most of my living room and the entrance area. The scene is accompanied by the shrieking sound of my fire alarm.
"Button!"
I dart into the apartment, covering my mouth as the thick, hot smoke burns my lungs. I hear the sounds of her coughing coming from the kitchen, which seems to be the source of the blinding clouds. I can barely detect her through all the smoke, but I see her holding a fire extinguisher, helplessly fiddling with it as she tries to get it to work.
"How does this fucking thing wo-"
She's consumed then by a terrible coughing fit, and I rush to her side, grabbing the fire extinguisher from her hands and removing the cap. It's now that I finally recognize the source of the fire. It looks like my entire stove is encased in flames, even though they appear to be surprisingly small considering the amount of smoke. I push Button to the side, stepping in front of her before I release the foam jet.
She yelps, hopefully in surprise and not pain, as I aim at the smoldering flames. The extinguisher is so powerful that it stops the fire within just a few seconds, and as soon as I can be sure there are no more flames, I toss the extinguisher aside and grab her, dragging her out of the kitchen and toward the living room window. The giant panoramic windows don’t open, but there's a row of smaller windows right above them that can be opened with the flip of a switch. The fire alarm is still shrieking when the windows open far above us, letting in currents of fresh air. I can feel the effect immediately, as breathing becomes so much easier within seconds.
Button is coughing next to me, holding nimbly to my suit jacket. I turn around to her, holding her by the shoulders so she faces me.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?!"
She looks up at me, covering her mouth as another coughing fit overcomes her.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine, I-"
"Are you sure?"
Her eyebrows furrow. "Yes, damn it. I’m fine."
"What the hell were you doing in there?!" I yell at her. "You could have gotten yourself killed!"
"I was trying to cook for you!" she snaps back.
"Cook what? An open fire barbeque?"
She glares at me. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I destroyed your kitchen. I didn't mean to!"
"Fuck the kitchen! Why would I worry about that?!"
Her face changes into a mixture of outrage and confusion. "Isn't that why you're so mad at me? Because I fucked up your kitchen..."
I'm startled by her assumption, but not as much as I am by the realization that she's completely wrong. I didn't think about my damn kitchen for one second. I only thought about her. The thought that she could be hurt just tore my insides apart, and when I saw her standing there, completely lost and helpless with that damn extinguisher...
"No, I'm not mad at you," I say softly. "I was just..."
"Worried?" she asks. "About me?"
A cheeky grin widens on her pretty face, and in that same moment, the fire alarm quiets. The place is still congested with smoke, but opening the windows has helped to freshen the air enough so that we’re able to see, even though the smell is still unbearable.
Button sighs with relief. "God, that sound was annoying."
I huff. "It might save both of our lives, if you ever try to cook again. How did this happen?"
She sighs again, casting me a look that I've never seen on her face before. It reminds me of a little kid who's grumpy that she got caught doing something naughty.
"I... I might have forgotten that I had things on the stove and...," she bites her lower lip, visibly embarrassed. "And I think there was some plastic bags or wrapping lying right next to the pan. Things got too hot and kinda’... caught fire?"
"Kinda’ caught fire?" I repeat. "Where were you? How could you forget about turning the stove on?"
"I...," she utters, turning around and pointing toward the seating area in the back of the room. One of the armchairs has been moved closer to the window and there's a blanket lying on top of it, along with her laptop. "I was writing."
"You were writing? Right there? How could you not have noticed?!"
I didn't mean to raise my voice at her again, but she leaves me no other choice.
How could she have been so careless? And what kind of excuse is this?
"You were right there!" I yell at her, pointing toward the armchair. "How could you not notice the fire just a few feet away from you?"
"Well, first of all, it's more than just a few feet away," she retorts, waving her arms in a wild gesture. "This is a damn hall. Who the hell has a living room shaped like this! It's not like I was sitting right next to the kitchen, it's all th
e way ov-"
"I don't want to hear this," I cut her off. "This is ridiculous."
She glares at me, biting her lower lip as if she was stopping herself from saying something stupid, something that would infuriate me even further.
I leave her side and walk back to the kitchen to inspect the damage now that the smoke has cleared and the fire alarm is no longer ringing in my ears.
It's not as bad as I expected. From what I can tell, she hadn't done much more than start boiling some water in a giant pot, probably to cook pasta. The pasta is still lying right next to the stove, though it’s been turned into a batch of charcoal-black sticks. It's hard to tell what else she had planned to make because the area around the stove is pretty messy and black.
"I really am sorry."
Her voice, coming from behind me, sounds small.
"I know you're going to punish me for this."
I turn around to look at her and am met with a face that makes my heart ache. It pains me to think that she expects me to punish her for something like this. She does deserve punishment for a lot of things, but definitely not for this.
"Don't be ridiculous. It was an accident," I say. "Things like this happen, even though I'm still not quite clear how it did."
She presses her lips together and crosses her arms as if to embrace herself.
"I was distracted."
"I shall say!"
Her expression changes to a frown. "You don't understand! It's... difficult, when you're writing."
"You're right, I don't understand. And I don't think I need to - just don't let it happen again."
She's still frowning at me, sadness in her eyes, but she nods reluctantly. "Yeah."
"You know I don't like that response," I tell her. "Besides you really need to-"
"I get it, okay?!"
Her sudden change in temper surprises me, but only for a moment before my bewilderment changes to anger. No one, absolutely no one, yells at me like that, and especially not her.
She inhales audibly when I approach her, but she doesn't try to escape when I reach for her arm. I yank her close and then grab her damn ponytail and pull on it, forcing her head back into her neck.
She grimaces with pain. "So much for not punishing me."
"This is not for almost burning my place down, Button," I hiss at her. "This is for raising your voice to me."
Her eyes flicker, but she doesn't say a word.
"Never speak to me like that again, do you understand?"
Our eyes are locked onto each other as I await her response. She knows what I want to hear, but it's still hard for her to say it. Understandably.
"Yes, Sir."
The words sound forced and lack the sincerity I prefer, but I'll take it for now. I let go of her hair, but I don't let go of my embrace. I like her pushed up against my body like this. Her heart is racing against my chest, and I can feel the outline of her delicate features pressed against my hip. Tonight may be the night.
"Get changed," I tell her. "We're going out to eat."
She looks at me questioningly, causing me to sigh.
"We can't eat here. I'll have someone come over and clean up the mess you created. Hopefully the kitchen will be as good as new by the time we get home tonight."
Her expression changes to disbelief. "I don't think that's possible."
"A lot is possible when you're me. Now, go get dressed."
I give her a kiss on the forehead, something that surprises both of us. Her face is laced with confusion when I let go of her and beckon her to walk up to the bedroom to change.
Why did you just do that? The question is written all over her pretty face, but I can't give her an answer.
Because I don't know.
Chapter Eighteen
Ann
I feel horribly underdressed for the place he chooses to go. It's another five-star restaurant, very similar to the place where we met the first time. I don't feel comfortable in establishments like this. They're so overpriced, stiff, and luxurious in an obnoxious sort of way. How are you supposed to enjoy your minute portions of food when all you worry about is your appearance and manners?
"Usually I'm more of a pizza-on-the-couch kind of girl," I let him know after we've ordered our food.
He smirks at me and raises his glass of champagne to me in a toast before taking a sip from it.
"Delivery pizza, I imagine."
"Sometimes. But those are expensive. Frozen pizza can do the job, too," I say, winking at him. "But despite whatever you may think based on tonight, I'm actually a good cook!"
He laughs. "I have little reason to believe you, Button."
I reach for my own flute of champagne, a drink that I used to consider special to me, but it seems that we drink it almost every day. His eyes are glued to my every movement, observing me as if this was the first time he's ever laid eyes on me. I try to ignore his intense stare and sip at the delicious liquid. While I don't care much for the posh environment, I could really get used to drinking champagne on a regular basis. The taste is more exquisite than anything I've ever tasted before in my life.
Our appetizers are served, and we eat in silence for a few minutes, only commenting on the dishes before us. Everything is so beautiful to look at that it feels kind of wrong to eat it, even though the taste is as good or better than its appearance. I had been going to make pasta with a cream sauce and steamed vegetables, one of the few dishes I'm able to cook without a recipe. I may have exaggerated when I said that I was an excellent cook, but I usually don’t start fires. Regardless, this food is a thousand times better than what I would have cooked up.
I've ordered fish for my main dish, and find a chance to embarrass myself when the waiter comes by to ask me what wine I would like served with it. I like wine, but it's not like I've ever had the chance or the money to develop a palate for good wines. I usually bought whatever was the cheapest, as long as it's dry. So when the waiter lists off several options that supposedly would go well with my dish, I just give him a blank stare that Jared catches all too quickly.
"She'll go with the Puligny Montrachet," he steps in, helping me out of my misery, but making me feel like the smallest person on Earth at the same time.
I send him a quick glare to let him know how I feel about it, but I refrain from saying anything. The looks he gives me in return is enough for me to know that he knows how I felt about his input.
It helps that the wine he picked for me actually tastes great, and it does go well with the fish. Yet I can't get myself to admit it out loud. I don't want to compliment him and make him feel like it's okay to step on my toes like this. After all, I could've had my own idea about what kind of wine I wanted to order, right?
Our plates are cleared away, and then he decides to make another decision for me by ordering dessert.
"You'll have to enlighten me on the rules of all of this," I say, once the waiter is no longer within earshot. "This whole 'bending to your will'-thing, does it translate to me acting like a silenced housewife from the 1950s who has no opinion or can’t make choices of her own?"
He shakes his head and laughs.
"You're overanalyzing this, my little Button," he replies. "Why do you always assume the worst? Why so suspicious, when all I did was help you make a choice you were clearly having trouble with?"
"I-"
"You always sit on watch, waiting for someone who's trying to get you. Always trying to be one step ahead of the bad guys," he interrupts. "Is that why you're always so feisty when you're around me?"
I stare at him, dumbfounded and unsure how to respond. I don't even know where this is coming from. All I do know is that I've heard these words before. Brandon said something very similar about me shortly before I ended things with him. And there was another guy a few years back, a guy I had dated for almost an entire year, the longest relationship I ever had, who also said something along those lines. He called me "feisty" and constantly "on edge,” and “ready to burst at any mome
nt.”
I shift awkwardly in my seat, unsure how to feel or what to think. I'm certain this is different, that Jared King is different. None of the other boys were anything like him. Yet they all came to the same conclusion about me.
And Jared doesn't even know me. We've only been living together for a couple of days.
"Hit too close to home there, didn't I?"
His voice rips into my inner monologue, forcing my mind back to the present.
"Maybe," I admit. "I'm sorry. I just don't like when you make dec-"
"I know you're uncomfortable with it," he interrupts me again. "But sometimes you'll just have to trust me."
"I also don't like being interrupted!"
He chuckles, and I think this is the first time that I notice the cute little dimple that appears on his left cheek every time he smiles like that.
"Granted. No one likes that," he says. "I guess you could call this my greatest weakness."
"Interrupting people?"
"Impatience."
He looks at me, a serious expression on his face that seems to come more naturally to him than smiling.
"I'm an impatient man," he clarifies. "I want a lot, and I want it now. Of course, in most cases, that's not possible. Controlling that trait is one of the biggest challenges for me."
He catches my gaze, curious to hear my reply.
"Challenge, huh?" I say. "You're really into that, aren't you? Challenges?"
He nods. "I guess you could say that. Everyone needs goals in life, the more you have, the more you live."
"Is that why you want to be elected to Congress?" I ask. "Because you need a new challenge?"
His nod is accompanied by a sigh this time.
"There will be plenty of time for us to talk about the campaign," he says. "Right now, I want you for something else."