Chasing Vivi
Page 18
“This is so sweet. Thank you, Eric.”
“I thought you’d need something to occupy your mind, other than the TV. That book is supposed to be really good. The girl at the bookstore said it was the latest in hot romance.”
Vivi likes hot romances?
“Just what I need,” she says. Vivi eyes me shyly, and it’s pretty damn cute. I wonder if she’s blushing. It’s impossible to tell because of the bruising on her face. “The crossword puzzles are sure to keep me busy for days.”
Eric makes a comment about how smart she is and that she’ll have them all completed within a week, but I’m still thinking about the romance novel and her little remark. After a few more minutes, I excuse myself and leave the two of them alone to chat—most likely about me. The last thing I want to do is crowd her. Giving her space and allowing her to feel at ease will hopefully allow her to relax here faster.
Heading to my home office, I call Grand to check in. She was concerned about Vivi and I want to find out if she may know of someone who could possibly come in and sit with her while I’m at work.
“How’s your friend, Prescott?”
“She’s settled in here, for the time being.” And I bring her up to speed on things.
“Let me make a call and I’ll get back to you.”
I thank her and try to get a little work done while I wait. When I turn on my computer, there’s an email waiting from the law firm with a list of recommendations for Vivi. It includes the names of ten psychiatrists who deal in PTSD. I print the list. Starting with the first name, I begin my research and take notes. After the tenth one, I’m satisfied with all of them. Vivi can decide who she wants to see.
Moving on to my calendar for tomorrow, I get things lined up. I have a busy day since I haven’t been in the office since Wednesday. When I check the week, I’ve forgotten that I’m supposed to go to Atlanta Wednesday night and meet with Weston and Special. We’re signing the final contracts for the franchising of A Special Place on Thursday. That means I’ll need to have someone here with Vivi, or Eric will have to stay here. I also make a note to schedule an interview with him and our interior design team. The rest of my week looks pretty set. When I check the clock, I realize how much time has passed. Just as I’m about to leave my office, my phone rings.
“Hi, Grand.”
“I may have the perfect person for you. She lives in Brooklyn and is looking for part-time work.”
“That’s great. Did you tell her this would only be only for a few weeks at the most?”
“Yes, and she was fine with that. Here’s her number.”
After thanking Grand, I call her. Her name is Regina and she sounds great. She is ready to come in tomorrow at seven-thirty and will bring a list of references with her. She gives me a detailed report of how many people she’s worked for and the reason she’s not working is her current employer is recovering from a fall and is in restorative care. She’ll be out for another four to six weeks. This is ideal—not for her employer, of course, but for Vivi. I finish up in here and head back into the living room.
Eric and Vivi are laughing. Her laugh reminds me of champagne bubbles as they float to the top of a glass. And it makes me happy to hear that sound.
When she sees me, she says, “Prescott, Eric was telling me about the restaurant. This woman came in a few weeks ago and was a real jerk to me. The manager sided with her and it pretty much pissed me off. Apparently, she came back yesterday and he had to wait on her. Even he got her order wrong and got so flustered he had to have another waiter step in and handle things.”
“Served him right, too, for the way he treated you, Viv,” Eric says.
“She must’ve been a bitch,” I say.
Eric laughs. “Or worse. Personally, I think she needed to get laid. But then again, don’t we all.”
A hush settles over the room and Vivi clears her throat.
Eric doesn’t let it go. “Oh, I didn’t mean … what I meant was—”
“We get it, Eric.” I save the poor guy from him cramming his entire leg down his throat. “I came in here to ask if you’d like to join us for dinner. I was going to order something in.”
“Yasss. Come on, Eric.”
When Vivi says that, it’s hard to say no. Eric ends up eating with us as I order in Italian from a great little restaurant around the corner from here. During dinner, I let Vivi know about Regina’s interview tomorrow morning.
“I can’t let you do that. You’ve done too much already.”
“You can’t stay alone. Besides, it’s done already.”
“It costs too much,” she insists.
Eric blinks and stares, like he’s watching a tennis match. Normally, I’d want this to be private, but he’s as concerned about Vivi as I am.
“Vivi, be serious. Do you honestly think I can’t afford it?”
She squirms. “It’s not that. Of course you can afford it. I can’t and I’d want to pay you back.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.” I stand firm.
“Prescott, I’m racking up all kinds of debt with you.”
“Um, in my book, the definition of debt is something that is owed. You don’t owe me a thing, hence no debt.”
Her arms fold over her body and she doesn’t exactly appear thrilled. This isn’t what I want. It’s not about the money and she needs to understand that. Before I can explain that, Eric comes to the rescue.
He grabs her hand. “Look, sweetheart, excuse me for barging into the convo, but this is Mr. Moneybags here. He’s not exactly hurting for pennies, if you know what I mean. Let the man help you out, Viv. My God. He’s doing everything he can to make this awful situation better for you and you’re throwing one roadblock after another at him. Not to mention, he’s right. You can’t stay by yourself yet. I can’t be here with you when I work and neither can he, which puts you in a bind.”
She sucks on her puffy lip, exhales, long and slow, and then nods. “Fine. I’ll accept your charity, Prescott. And thank you.”
Eric throws his arms up in the air and yells, “Hallelujah.”
She slaps his arm. “Shut up.”
After he leaves, I want to say more to her. I don’t like that she’s thinking of it as charity, but I’m afraid of opening up that can of worms again. We sort of closed it when she accepted my offer and I don’t want to drive it into the ground.
“So, would you like for me to wash your hair?”
“I’d love a shower, but I don’t know what to do with this arm.”
“We can figure this out.”
After wrapping it in plastic wrap, taping it, and then sticking it in a couple of garbage bags and duct taping it again, she’s ready to get wet.
“I hope this works.”
“Worst-case scenario, we send you off to get a new cast.”
She asks if I’ll stay in the bedroom in case she needs my help. We set everything out she could possibly need, and I sit on the bed, impatient for her to finish. It takes forever. I pace, then sit, then pace. Did she fall and hit her head? Should I call out to check? I don’t want to sound like an overprotective mother. Twenty minutes pass, then twenty-five. When it gets to thirty, I’m ready to storm the door down. Finally, I hear my name.
“Yes,” I practically shout.
“Can you help?”
I almost take the door off the hinges and yell, “You okay?” I must’ve scared the poor woman to death because she shrinks from my thunderous arrival. “Shit. Sorry. I thought you might’ve fallen or something.”
The fright vanishes from her face. “No. I need help in wrapping my hair in the towel.” She stands with the other towel haphazardly wound around her and any movement whatsoever will have the thing unwinding. I brush the hand holding it together aside and tighten it, tucking the ends in. Then I wrap her hair up in the other, trying to create a turban like women do. I fail. “Sorry. I’m not very good at this.”
“No, it’s good. Thank you.” Her gracious smile speaks volumes.
Then I think of something. “Give me a minute.” I sprint out and run upstairs. All the guest rooms have terry robes. One of them might fit her a little better. Grabbing one, I run back down to the bathroom.
“Here, you might like to put this on. I have them upstairs in the extra rooms.”
“Oh. Thanks. Can you …?” She aims her gaze at the door.
I leave to let her exchange the towel for the robe. When she calls out, I return.
“This is great. I had to shimmy my arm a bit, but it worked.”
She hands me a brush and asks me if I would mind. As I get rid of the tangles, she lets me know how much she enjoyed the shower.
“The hot water felt so good. And that shower is amazing.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty good.”
She lets her hair air-dry and changes into her athleisure clothes, as Eric called them. I wait for her in the living room.
“I want to tell you something, Vivi. Hear me out. I know you worry about the money I spend on you, but if the situation were reversed, I’d like to think there would be someone out there who’d do the same for me. I’m not selfish with my money. I don’t try to buy people.” Then I remember how I bribed the host at the restaurant that night and I add, “Well, there are times I use it to attain certain goals. But not in a particularly bad way. The coats I sent you a while ago, I sent those because I knew you needed them. You were struggling to get through this freezing weather. It looked bad on my part. I see that now. But I really did want you to be warm.”
A slow smile builds on her face. “Why have you turned into this nice guy? It was so much easier to hate you when you were an ass.”
“Hmm. Hate is such a strong word. I never wanted you to hate me”—I rub the back of my neck, trying to figure out what to say—“and maybe I grew tired of being that asshole.”
Chapter 22
Vivi
I’m still smiling at the idea that Prescott Beckham just admitted he was tired of being an asshole, when he leans close and kisses me. He’s still an asshole. Except, not really. Somehow the tables have turned. Now I’m the asshole who can’t stop thinking about fucking him.
“Prescott.” I don’t think about what I’m doing. If I did, I would second-guess myself. I crawl on his lap and take his face between my palms. Then it’s my turn to kiss him. Softy. Slowly. I run my tongue across his upper, then lower lip.
“Vivi,” he warns. “You’re playing with fire.”
“You’ve already lit a fire in me, so what does it matter?”
“Fire sometimes burns out of control, and even the most diligent can’t contain it.”
“We won’t know until we test it, though, will we?”
“You’re bruised, and your arm is broken.”
“I’ve been bruised and broken since I was twelve. Nothing new here.”
“I can’t fix you,” he says as he slides his hands into my wet hair.
“Never asked you to.”
“Do you know the first thing I thought when I saw you in that coffee shop? You were sitting there, looking flustered as hell, with a bunch of napkins in your hand. I couldn’t believe it was you at first. But there was no mistaking your eyes. I always thought you had great eyes. So damn expressive. They gave you away every time. As I watched you, I told myself I was going to fuck you. I’d do whatever it took, but eventually I’d be between your thighs and you’d be mine, every single inch of you. And here we are, Vivi. That opportunity sits in front of me like a piece of fruit hanging from the vine, begging to be picked, and suddenly, I’ve developed a conscience. The weirdest thing of all is I’m not even sure if it’s because you’re injured.”
He moves me off his lap and stands. After shoving his hands in his pockets, he says, “I have to admit, this is a first for me. You’ve changed the rules, and I thought I was the play maker.”
His hands fly up and rake through his hair, making a mess of it. I’ve never seen him look sexier than this moment, where he stands before me, frustrated as hell. The humanity of this situation creates a larger space in my heart, but I also recognize the danger it places me in.
“Why do you have to be so controlling?”
His head snaps in my direction, away from his feet, which he’d been staring at for some reason. He raises a hand, and then lowers it as he shakes his head. “Old habits, I suppose.”
“That’s not an answer. Before, when you were pursuing me, you were so hardened. It wasn’t like you were even nice.”
“That’s not exactly true. I was nice when I first saw you, but you didn’t give me the time of day. I’m not used to being brushed off.”
I guess he isn’t. When you’re gifted with the looks of a god, why would he be?
“You know an awful lot about my past, Prescott, but I know very little about yours, other than you went to Crestview. Why is that?”
“What do you want to know?” The question seems innocent enough, but the edginess rolling off him tells me he’s not willing to open up quite yet. I push anyway.
“Tell me about your family.”
The stiffening in his posture indicates I’m right. He definitely doesn’t like this line of questioning.
“My family.” A humorless laugh escapes him, but then his eyes light up. “Well, my grandparents are two of the most amazing people in the world.”
“Tell me more.”
“Granddad and his father started Whitworth. I never knew my great grandfather because he passed before I was born. But Granddad is more my father, really. And Grand is special. They raised me, if you want the truth. My dad didn’t. When I was young, I was a handful. So my grandparents took me under their wing and then Dad got fed up with me anyway and sent me off to Crestview.”
“What about your mother?”
His expression turns into a blank slate. “I never speak of her.”
“Oh?”
“It’s not up for discussion.” And bam, just like that, he completely shuts down.
“O-okay.” I’m shocked by his reaction. “So does your dad get along with your grandparents?”
“Hell to the fucking no on that. He’s so far removed from them in every way, and hopefully I’m equally as distanced from him.” He tells me about his dad’s marriages and briefly of his current wife. The hard edge to his voice is a clear indication of how much he dislikes the woman. “She’s a liar and, well, I’ve run my mouth enough already.” His jaws clamp together and that tiny muscle on his cheek twitches. Jeez, the woman must be a total bitch.
“I envy your relationship with your grandparents.”
His expression immediately softens. “They’re amazing. I only wish I had lived with them for longer than I did.” Then he clams up again.
“College?”
A raspy chuckle comes from him. “You weren’t there to do my homework. Take a guess at how long I lasted?”
“A year?”
“I’m not that much of an idiot.”
I wince. That wasn’t very nice. Scooting back, I pull my knees to my chest. “Oops. Sorry,” I murmur.
“You shouldn’t be. It wasn’t that smart of a move to have you constantly do my homework in high school.”
“But I didn’t do all of it.” Why am I coming to his defense?
“You did most of it. Well, in the classes we shared anyway. I could’ve never passed physics or calculus. Or those other classes for the super brilliant kids you were in.”
“Oh, shut up. You were just intellectually lazy.”
He barks out a laugh. “Intellectually lazy. That’s a good way to put it. The truth is I hated school. I couldn’t stand those asshole teachers telling me what to do. And by the way, I’m no longer intellectually lazy, for your information.”
He’s right about the teachers. Many, though not all, of them had a superior attitude. “Good to know. But if you think the teachers were assholes to you, you sho
uld’ve walked in my shoes. That’s why I studied so hard.”
“What do you mean?”
“They looked down their noses at me, because I didn’t have money like the rest of you did. I had to prove my worth through my brains. At least you had the proper financial means.” If I had known how much money Prescott actually had back then, I would have never associated myself with him. “Me, I was on the level of the maintenance man. God, I hated that place.”
“Was it really that bad?” Disbelief coats his tone.
“Every teacher, even the principal, knew those girls bullied me, and not a single one of them did anything about it. My locker was vandalized every single day. It got so bad I started carrying around all my books with me so I wouldn’t have to go there anymore. How could they not notice the nasty words, day after day, written across my locker? No one else’s had awful things on them.” Then I explain something else. “And here’s another little tidbit of information. I should’ve been named valedictorian. My grades were higher every semester than Evan Chandler’s. But when I questioned the administration about it, asked for proof, they said I was wrong. This isn’t me being petty. I know it for a fact because Evan and I were in almost every class together and the ones we weren’t, I aced. So how did he magically come up with a higher GPA?”
“Jesus. Those bastards went that far?”
There’s no reason to answer, so I shrug. “Turns out we both hated it there and didn’t know it.”
“I didn’t hate all of it. I met my two best friends there and am still closer to them than anyone. Well, except my grandparents.”
“Who?”
“Do you remember Weston Wyndham and Harrison Kirkland?”
“Oh, yeah.” Fuck, how could I have forgotten that? The three of them were inseparable. And the hottest guys anywhere. No wonder they got away with everything.
“What’s that look?” he asks. “You’re scowling.”