Closer

by Aria Hawthorne

  He waited for her to confirm there were far more water lilies than twenty.

  “There’s at least twenty little ones in the dappling beneath the bridge’s shadow,” she confirmed. “You can’t see them from there?”

  Sven didn’t glance up. He didn’t need to. “No…not anymore.”

  “Hm.” She surveyed him like she was assessing how that directly affected her—and their arrangement.

  He topped of her drink. “Vodka, Chambord, and fresh lemon juice, which will have to substitute for pineapple juice.” He started down the half-flight of stairs, but forgot to count the steps. He stumbled on the final one, losing his balance and a bit of his dignity.

  “Damn it,” he cursed at himself. The drink splashed across his hand and seeped into his cuff of his sleeve, the raspberry Chambord immediately staining it pink.

  “Here, take it off so we can run it under cold water,” she offered.

  Skeptical, he peered at her.

  “The quicker the better,” she insisted, taking the martini glass from his hands and setting it down on the end table. She reached out for his wrist and started to unfasten his cufflink.

  “I have a hundred shirts like this one. Let’s not make a production of it.”

  She firmly placed the diamond cuff link into the palm of his hand. He winced as she dug it into his flesh. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of these billionaires who just throws dirty shirts and towels and sheets away instead of laundering them. Please tell me that’s something they make up in celebrity magazines for us plebeians to snicker at because it makes us feel better, not because it can possibly be true.”

  He didn’t respond. There was truth in it and he didn’t have the energy to deny it. He hated stained clothes, towels and sheets.

  “Busted,” she sassed and deposited the second cufflink into his palm. Without permission, she tugged his hands out of his sleeves before drawing off his shirt completely.

  The cold air pricked his skin and his muscles flinched under her gaze. He heard the hesitation in her breath, as if she had just realized what she had done. She had just undressed him—and they both knew it.

  She was close enough now that he caught the scent of her detergent, or shampoo, or deodorant—something scented like lilacs and mint.

  “Okay, let’s see some of this plebeian magic,” he quipped.

  She dropped her gaze and turned away. “Bloody noses,” she said, traveling into the kitchen and guiding the conversation away from the fact that he was half-naked and rather enjoying it. “I used to get bloody noses all the time, and my grandmother used to soak my clothes in cold water. ‘Straight away,’ she’d always say. ‘No time to waste if you expect to wear it again.’ ” Her voice faded behind the rushing spray of the faucet.

  “She sounds like a sensible woman, your grandmother.”

  “Tough as nails, too.”

  “Like her granddaughter,” Sven confirmed.

  Inez didn’t respond. She either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. It was a test, but she avoided it. She was always sidestepping him, and he liked the challenge.

  She cut off the faucet and held up the wet silk, inspecting it in the clarity of the overhead lights.

  “I think we salvaged it,” she said. “But just in case, I’ll let it soak for a bit.” She plugged the stainless steel sink and filled it with water before drowning the shirt beneath it.

  “Your drink,” he lamented, nodding to the half-empty martini glass. “I apologize for ruining it.”

  “You substituted pineapple juice for lemon juice, Sven. It was already ruined.”

  “Touché.”

  He sunk into the sofa and fell quiet. She followed his lead and didn’t force him to talk. Thank God she wasn’t like most American girls who needed to keep the silence filled with aimless babbling. He liked that about her.

  After another minute of reflection, he finally spoke. “It’s starting already. I thought I had at least another week. Certainly a few more days.”

  “What?” she asked, slipping onto the bar stool.

  “My dependency on you.”

  She shrugged. “You’re paying me five Gs to be here. Might as well use me.”

  She stood up and approached him. “Where are your clothes? Why don’t I go and get you another shirt—”

  “Let’s not treat me like an invalid in my own home. I’m paying you to pretend to be my girlfriend, not my bed nurse.”

  The moment he had said it, he regretted it. Such a pity, he thought, scolding himself. They had connected so briefly only to be torn apart again by his own elitist pride. He bowed his head and cursed under his breath, waiting for her to retaliate. Instead, she simply scooped up the martini glass and dumped it into the miniature sink beneath the bar cabinets. He swallowed hard, listening to the lonely silence between them.

  His phone rang. “Yes?” he answered, firmly.

  “A delivery from Miss Ebony Walsh, sir,” the doorman said.

  “Send it up.” Sven glanced sidelong into the bar. “Your dress is here.”

  “Thrilling,” she replied. He heard the daggers flinging out of her glare, attempting to sear a hole into his bare chest. He understood. He deserved it.

  The door buzzer rang. Rising from the sofa, he exhaled and crossed the living room, striding down the corridor towards the front entrance.

  “Door—open,” he called out into the air. The door clicked ajar and swung open, allowing the delivery man to roll the clothing rack across the gleaming black floors.

  “Thank you, leave it there.” Sven nodded, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and offering him the one hundred dollar bill. American dollar bills—the cruelest game on his senses. It was impossible to feel or see the distinction between a one dollar bill, a twenty dollar bill, or a one hundred bill without holding it directly in front of his unpatched eye. And so, Sven had decided long ago not to bother with discerning the difference.

  “Sir?” The delivery man gazed down at the tip in disbelief.

  Sven shook the hundred dollar bill again, encouraging him to take it.

  “Th-a-n-k you, sir.” The delivery stuttered out his appreciation before shutting the front door behind him.

  Sven waited. “Aren’t you going to come see what she’s sent over?” he called out to Inez.

  “You’re the one without a shirt. I’m still wearing my clothes.”

  He smirked. Fair enough. He investigated the leather clothing bags, zipped up tightly like precious cargo.

  “I will need you to assist me. I’m terrible with zippers.”

  It was enough of a command that it did the job. She appeared behind him, surveying the deliveries. She picked out the longest clothing bag. He heard her drawing down the long zipper almost all the way to the floor.

  “Holy hell.”

  A flash of glitter and fire caught his good eye. Rhinestones and sequins trimmed the strapless notched neckline of the scarlet cocktail dress.

  Peeling back the clothing bag, Inez dug through its contents and slipped out a strapless black corset and matching G-string panties. “She must be joking?” She held up the flimsy lingerie set, dangling off the hanger like she had caught a strange species of underwear.

  “Cinderella cannot wear cotton white panties to the ball. Try it on.”

  “And what? Just strip down right here? In front of you?”

  “Well, I’m already half-naked. I don’t really see the problem.”

  “Wow…Ebony wasn’t kidding. You don’t stop trying to get laid any chance you can get, do you?”

  He flashed her a cavalier smile, but only because he wasn’t intentionally trying to get her naked. If he actually wanted to bed her, she’d know it. “I cannot see you clearly, so it’s hardly a proposition.”

  “You can see blurry shapes and colors,” she tossed back. “And at least twenty water lilies.”

  “Interesting,” he said, noting the edge of discomfort in her voice. “I didn’t peg you as the shy, awkwa
rd type in the bedroom.”

  Without warning, a searing pain spread across his chest. She had found one of the few chest hairs along his pecs and plucked it out without mercy.

  Speechless, he covered his heart with his hand. “What the hell did you do that for?” He tried, with great difficulty, to keep his composure and not to raise his voice in fury, but it climbed an octave anyway.

  “You’re right. You never saw that coming,” Inez replied. “And just so we’re clear—there’s nothing shy or awkward about me.”

  “No, apparently not,” he agreed, backing away and adjusting his eyepatch, half-expecting her to go after another chest hair, just to prove it.

  “And I’m certainly not shy about taking off my clothes. I just don’t make a habit of doing it in front of my new boss. Where’s your bathroom?”

  “I have four,” he replied, edging away from her, uncertain that her retaliation wasn’t complete. “But the most spacious one is upstairs next to the guest bedroom.”

  He pointed to the black iron spiral staircase ascending to the private suite. “My maids clean it every day, but it’s been untouched for months. The stairs are hard for me to navigate now and I rarely have guests anymore. You’ll have the whole upper level to yourself.”

  He didn’t wait for her response. It was late and they were pressed for time. “I’m going to take a shower now, but I will need you soon. So please prepare yourself as quickly as possible, then come downstairs.” He turned and headed for his own master bedroom.

  “What do you need me for?”

  He turned back to her. It was a fair question, but he wasn’t sure how to answer it. “I’ll need you to assist me with my own wardrobe,” he admitted after a long pause. “New suits are difficult for me to piece together and I suspect whatever Ebony sent over from Luxembourg is going to pose a distinct challenge. Do you understand?”

  Their eyes locked. He tried to bury the sound of his wounded pride, but failed and he was certain that she noted it. Although he had brushed off her attempts to help him with his clothes, the fact of the matter was that he needed her help—whether he liked it or not.

  He waited to see if she would confront him with callous sarcasm. But she fell silent and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  “Good,” he replied, satisfied that they had moved beyond their confrontational differences into mutual agreement. “Oh…and by the way, the slender part of the G-string goes in the back.”

  “I have plenty of experience wearing G-strings, thank you very much,” she slung back.

  He smiled before disappearing through the private corridor towards the master bedroom, content with the fact that he was certain she didn’t completely despise him anymore. It was a start.

  * * * *

  Inez stood in front of the mirror inside the guest bathroom, pumping milk from her left breast while attempting to finish her eye makeup. Since having a baby and breastfeeding or pumping at least eight times a day, she had become a kickass ambidextrous multi-tasker. She surveyed the bathroom, noting how it was almost bigger than her bedroom in her grandmother’s house. The bathtub was definitely bigger than her own twin bed, and the adjacent glass-paneled standing shower was far bigger than her tiny closet. But it was the mirror that was the most intimidating—a floor-to-ceiling sheet of reflective glass, spanning the full width of the entire room and stretching upwards, curling like a decorative ripple of icing before spreading itself across the ceiling in delicious frosted waves. As she pumped, topless and pantyless, she had the pleasure of critiquing her full figure and every dimpled, cellulite pocket that puckered back at her. She had wide shoulders, wider hips, and a curvy ass—and the mirror certainly didn’t pretend to hide any of it.

  The reflection of the black G-string on the countertop glared back at her. She had lied to Billions. She had never worn a G-string in her entire life, and the suggestion that she should strut around in one tonight—like it was the most natural thing in the world—was the most hilarious joke the universe had played on her in a long time. Maybe if she actually had made wearing slinky lingerie a regular habit, Enzo wouldn’t have cheated on her.

  She dropped her mascara wand and watched the last bit of milk drip into the plastic bottle, filling it, and thought about all the different ways she had gotten to this exact moment in her life. Yes, clearly the universe was having the last laugh.

  “Miss Sanchez!” Sven’s reprimanding voice boomed up the spiral staircase.

  Ugh. Inez rushed to unharness her breast from the pump and scrambled to finish brushing on her mascara.

  “Miss Sanchez!” he hollered again. “It’s getting late.”

  “I’m shaving my legs!” she yelled back through the closed door and hurried to brush through her long hair. She eyed the G-string eying her back.

  “Inez!” he called out with fury.

  “You don’t want a date with Sasquatch, do you?” she protested.

  Silence followed. That seemed to shut him up. Note to self—continue to use threat of hairy legs in the future.

  She shut her eyes, picked up the G-string, and shimmied it over her thighs. She slid it in place, and surprisingly, it made her feel like she wasn’t wearing any underwear at all. She quickly moved on to the black corset. Boned along the ribs. Loop fasteners to cinch the open seam. She inspected the breast cups. Thank God…no fake padding. Like her bad attitude, extra cleavage was something she didn’t need any help boosting.

  She reapplied her lipstick and studied her reflection like she was watching a stranger. The corset cinched her waist into the perfect hourglass shape, allowing her hips to flare out like a seductive tease while the French-cut G-string sharpened her soft curves into naughty forbidden lines. She unzipped the garment bag, took the cocktail dress off its hanger, and squirmed into the hip-hugging skirt and strapless notched bodice, beaded with crystal rhinestones and rouge sequins. Ebony was right. The right underwear did make all the difference. And with her “Roxanne Red” lipstick, buxom cleavage, and cinched waist, she was almost disappointed that the night held no prospects for getting laid.

  Billions.

  She tried to put him out of her mind. And though she hadn’t intended to undress him, after it had happened she wasn’t exactly sorry about it. She was more surprised than anything else, surprised that she had actually caught herself staring at his exposed sculpted shoulders, muscular biceps, six-pack abs and tapered waist. And now, she caught herself thinking about the sensation of his bare chest against her fingertips. Firm and unyielding, like he feared nothing except being pitied by her. He was wrong. She hadn’t pitied him. She knew he wasn’t an invalid and she had no intention of treating him like one. She simply wanted to get him dressed because she feared her own attraction to him, and the last thing Inez needed was to be attracted to her new boss. As she stared at her siren lipstick and considered how her naughty new G-string made her feel, she pinched herself with a vicious twist—a warning that nothing would be gained by turning into his paid prostitute. Definitely not tonight.

  She quickly unzipped the second garment bag, revealing a crystal sequin clutch purse and a pair of translucent Cinderella slingback high heels, tagged with a note:

  I know you hate heels, but Sven’s right…you can’t wear a high-slit dress with Mary Jane ballet flats. I spent three-thousand dollars on these beauties. I compromised—three inch stilettos instead of five. I promise you won’t even feel them. ~E

  Inez sighed, unable to stomach the note or the shoes. At least Cinderella was smart enough to ditch her heels. She held the strap of the slingback heels between her teeth, dangling them like a dog while transferring her belongings from her crochet purse into her new clutch. Searching for a safe place to deposit her clothes, breast pump, and bottles, she rummaged through all the seamless compartments of the floating vanity, but stopped when she uncovered something unexpected in its top drawer.

  There, preserved like a precious memory, was a framed photograph. But not just any photograph. A recent photograp
h of Sven—handsome, smiling and relaxed—posing for the camera on the deck of a yacht with his arms affectionately embracing a young, attractive woman. And brunette, Inez noted. Then, she narrowed her eyes as she studied the photo, noticing the one thing missing from Sven’s face. It wasn’t the glare of derision she had come to know so well in such a short time; it was the lack of his black eyepatch and the way he stared into the camera with boyish joy.

  “Inez, please…” He groaned her name like it was his final plea for mercy.

  “Coming,” she replied, her voice muffled by the heels, stuffing the photograph back into the drawer.

  Barefoot and disheveled, she shuttled down the spiral staircase, expecting to see Billions, fuming and enraged, at its base. She was only greeted instead by eerie silence. She crossed the living room and listened to the wind whipping along the high rise’s panoramic windows; she shivered, as if the natural draft within the expansive penthouse chilled her exposed shoulders and neckline. She glanced into the exercise room and Sven’s study before pushing forward down a private corridor towards the master bedroom. She shivered again; the cool marble floor chilled her bare feet. Without a proper coat or shoes to protect her against the merciless Chicago wind, she was certain she would freeze to death. Not even a fancy scarlet dress and naughty lingerie could make hypothermia look sexy.

  She approached the bedroom door. “Sven?”

  She slid it open without waiting for his response, her gaze immediately falling on him. Fresh from his shower, he stood naked, with only a black towel wrapped around his waist, and his hands on his hips, scrutinizing the new black suit lying flat across the king-size platform bed. Steam wafted off his sculpted shoulders while water droplets flecked his pecs and biceps. As he ran his hand through his hair, slicking it back from his high forehead, she tried to ignore the way his towel barely clung around his tapered waist.

  The exercise room. Inez had just seen it. Clearly, he used it. Everyday—without fail.