by S. Ann Cole
With both hands, he clutches the straps of my bag, letting it dangle in front of him. Seconds cruise by before he answers, “As a matter of fact, I am.”
I laugh as I pry, “What’s with the long, dramatic pause? You two don’t get along?”
He makes a disgruntled sound in his throat. “As far as I’m concerned, Nate no longer exists.”
‘Drama Queen, much?’ Rational Lotty snorts.
“Pity,” I mumble, shrugging. “I was hoping you could tell him howdy for me. I knew the family growing up. Yes, yes, I was an Upper East Sider like you once upon a time. But shit happens. How about his mother, Gloriel? You on the outs with her, too?”
“If you knew Gloriel, then you’d know no one can be ‘on the outs’ with her. She’s a nettlesome pain in the ass.”
“Yep, that’s Gloriel.” I grin fondly at this, remembering Nate’s insistent mother. And then Nate. “Don’t tell Nate I told you this—well, of course, you won’t. You hate him. Though I can’t understand why because Nate’s one of the realest people I’ve ever known—but when I was young, I had a monumental crush on him. I’d stalk him in the mornings like a creeper. Tried to bait him into noticing me, but he wouldn’t bite. Jesus, thinking back, I was an errant, perpetually horny little teen.”
“You’re still a teen,” he points out.
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“And Nate was married.”
“I said crush, not affair.”
“Not to mention repulsively fat.”
“Repulsive to you, maybe,” I defend, put off by his meanness. “And is it a sin to be attracted to a man who doesn’t look just like every other guy in the city? Also, as far as I can remember, he was married to Sienna Sullivan. Sienna Sullivan who was dubbed the sexiest vixen in the city. Obviously, she had good taste in men.”
“Sure. That’s why she cheated on him,” he mutters, laying on the sarcasm.
Ping! goes the elevator doors, and I turn to glare at him. He’s studying me hard, and try as I might, I can’t decipher the emotion behind those eyes.
“Is that why you hate him much? Because he’s ‘repulsively fat’ yet still managed to score Sienna Sullivan? What, was Sienna your dream girl? Didn’t think he deserved her? Jealous that he got the vixen and you—the model-hot relative with the roguish smile—got the…cheating Japanese whores?”
Flattening his lips, he shakes his head and steps out of the elevator. “You’re quite defensive of Fatty Nate. It’s been how long since you last saw him?”
“Three years and change,” I fill in, following him into the apartment. “And yes, I did grow to care about him. After Sienna, he always seemed so…lonely.”
Tension stiffens his broad shoulders as he leads me through the apartment. Maybe there’s more between him and Nate than my wild and baseless assumptions. I can’t make that my problem, though. I’ve got too much crap going on in my life to worry about rich people squabble.
Therefore, lest I cost myself this job, I decide to shut up about Nate, and follow where he leads.
He takes a left off the left gourmet style kitchen, which leads into an all-glass area with a wet bar, a roulette table, a blackjack table, and a pool table.
Off this fun area, he takes a right down an abbreviated hallway with a door at the end. An isolated yet intimidating black door which perfectly reflects its owner. Turning the handle, he pushes it open, and I’m hoping it’ll make even a slight creak, so I’ll know for sure I’m not following the Devil straight into hell.
There’s no creak.
I follow him in.
An office.
If this is hell, it sure has a heavenly view. The entire room is of floor-to-ceiling spotless glass, without as much as a smear. No bookshelves or decoration of any kind. Smack in the middle of the room is the biggest, longest office desk I’ve ever seen. On each end are a number of compartments which serve as limited bookshelves and stationary storage. Must be customized. There’s a wingback office chair, and two boxy gray chairs in front of the desk. And that’s it. Nothing else is in the room. Consequentially, this renders a completely unobstructed view of the city from all angles. Genius.
Cold and clinical, it does stand apart from the rest of the penthouse which is warm and homey with its exposed bricks and dark-wood floors.
Moving behind his enormous desk, Van Der Wells eases down in the chair.
“Weird office,” I comment as I clap down into of the comfy boxy chairs.
Wordlessly, he opens a drawer—this, too, makes not so much as a squeak—and takes out a manila envelope, plucks a pen from its holder, and then slides them across the desk to me.
I watch him for a second too long. He looks different. Half familiar, half stranger. He’s not the same man I got on the elevator with. Something I said earlier must have his panties in a bunch. Just my luck. I’m the type who never knows when to shut the hell up. I tend to push and pry until I get my ass blacklisted.
“You seem upset with me. I’m sorry if I said anything to—”
“Read. Sign,” he clips, nodding at the envelope.
Nope. Nope. Nopety Nope. I’m desperate, but nope.
With an abrupt push to my feet, I grab up my bag from where he’s placed it on top of the desk and throw it over my shoulder. “Hey, buddy, I really wanted this job, and I honest-to-God don’t have a clue where I’m gonna go when I walk out of this building right now, but this right here is sign number one. So I’m running. Out. Done before it’s begun. Have a nice evening, Abercrombie.”
I’m across the room and almost out the door when he asks, “Sign number one of what?”
Stopping and turning in the doorway, I tell him, “The whole bossy, tyrannical thing. The cutting off my sentences. The oblique castigations that I am woman, you are man; therefore I amount to nothing, and you amount to everything.”
A dozen heartbeats of silence, and then the face I’m familiar with returns, as the hard, impassive dominant fades.
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” I go on. “But I just don’t think I can endure being barked at and bossed around.” My voice drops to a pathetic whisper, my eyes closing briefly, as I mutter to myself, “Not anymore.”
He steeples his hands under his chin, a contemplative expression before responding, “I understand if you need to…run. But please consider this before to you do: I’m signing up to be your boss, not your boyfriend. If I’m not happy with you, I’ll fire you, not hit you.” He removes his hands and folds them in his lap his gaze, like laser beams, burns right through me. “I’m a very wealthy businessman with far too much fish on my plate than I have time to fry. As a result, I have mood swings. Unpredictable. But based entirely on stress. At times I’ll be snappy. I’ll be impatient. I’ll bark. I might get bossy. But again, this is based solely on whatever the hell’s going on in my head. Not because I think you’re nothing, or weak, or a woman. If you can’t separate this from whatever it is you’re running from, then I agree, maybe you should go. Because I’m human, so I can’t promise you I’ll always be in a good mood.”
Lingering by the door, I think his words through. His honesty is brutal. In no way is he being unreasonable. I’ll be living in, and he’ll be my boss. I can’t expect him to tiptoe on eggshells around me in his own home just because I’m scarred from a year of abuse. Besides, where on this earth am I going to find a job where I don’t get bossed around?
If I intend to survive life, then I’ll have to learn to face my fears, and trust that not everyone is out to hurt me.
It’s on the heels of this thought, that I remember Dan’s words: Be careful, Lotty. But also be brave.
Resolving not to let fear control me, I redirect my steps back to the desk. Setting my bag on the ground, I sit and pick up the envelope, sliding out a contract and a personal form requesting my full name, date of birth, account number, email address, etc.
After filling out the form, I lean back, cross my legs, and peruse the contract, tapping the bottom of t
he pen on the desk as I do. I depend on music to concentrate, so when there’s no music I create my own with whatever is available—hence the pen-tapping.
The contract is practical. And boring.
Employer is to provide employee with meals, where applicable, and adequately ventilated living quarters, yada yada. Employee is forbidden to discuss private matters witnessed within the employee’s residence, yada yada. Already bored less than halfway through, I begin to skim, humming along to my pen-tapping.
The one thing my eyes keep flicking back to, at the top of the page is his name: Noah Van Der Wells.
Named after God’s favored prophet himself. Not a Dick or Daemon. But a Noah. Smooth, sexy, tantalizing name.
Noah Van Der Wells, the ultimate man to rock your boat down to the very last nail. And then rebuild it.
‘Oh, Christ,’ Rational Lotty mumbles, rolling her eyes.
These are the kind of thoughts that remind me how immature I still am. Rock my boat? Seriously? Who am I, Aaliyah?
A giggle accidentally pops out, and I bite down on my lip to stop myself. Glancing up, I find Noah is watching me. Hard. The green of his eyes are like emeralds today, they’re so heated. I’m not sure what that sudden heat is all about. No one’s ever looked at me like that before. Is it anger or impatience?
Forcing my attention back to the contract, I read on. When I find myself at the payment and work hours section, I sit up straight.
First and foremost, live-in maids get advance payment? Whoa. Second, I’ll be getting a fixed weekly salary, not an hourly rate. And the amount is ridiculous. Big whoa.
“I—do housemaids really get paid this much?”
He gives off a sound. Something between a snort and grunt. “You said you want to be able to cover your online tuition. You said you want to do law. A standard housekeeping wage will not be able to cover your tuition, let alone allow you to save up for law school. You would have to defer and get a second job in order to save up enough to cover all of that.”
“So you doubled the standard wage so I can cover my tuition and begin saving for law school?”
“You may say thank you.”
I inform him, “I plan on deferring anyway.”
“Why is that?”
“Because there are limitations to having an online law degree. The American Bar Association doesn’t really accredit online law schools. Only California allows one to sit in their bar exam with an online degree. I’m only getting the basics out of the way right now to prepare for law school.”
“You said you plan on deferring,” he says, looking confused.
“Yep,” I reply slowly. “That’s because I won’t being studying here in the U.S.”
He stares. For a long moment. “You’re migrating?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Brazil. My mother has relatives there.”
“So…you’re migrating with your mother? Or is she already there?”
Averting my gaze just over his shoulder, I find sudden interest in the sky scrapers outside. “No, just me.”
My sharp peripheral vision shows him staring at me, but I don’t meet his gaze. “Is your mother comfortable with you being some womanizing bastard’s live-in help?”
His self-description shocks me. A womanizing bastard. Coming straight from the horse’s mouth. I’d do well to remember that brutal—or pompous?—self-assessment.
“She wouldn’t care if I were selling dope or blowjobs. Even if she were alive.”
Noah jerks upright, bringing my attention to him, his eyebrows intensely furrowed, effecting a deeply bewildered expression. “Your mother is dead?”
“Uh-huh.” I say this with complete insouciance, forbidding myself, as hard it is, to feel anything at all for her.
“When? How?”
“Weeks ago. Cancer.” My brows pinch together as I take in his shocked and disbelieving expression, greatly confused by his reaction. “You’re acting like someone dying is foreign to you. Relax. People die. It’s not like you knew her or anything.”
He scowls. “Forgive me for being human. You seem pretty apathetic for someone who lost her mother mere weeks ago.”
Gripping the contract, I ostensibly flip through to the end, then glance back at him. “I’m sorry, but it appears the ‘Passing Judgments’ section of this contract is missing.”
Flicking a dismissive hand at me, he leans back in his lofty chair and mutters, “I keep forgetting you’re still a child.”
Every time he says I’m young, or a child, or whatever, something in me winds tightly. Like a coil of righteous anger building. Temping me to spring wide and wild, and show him just how much of a child I am not.
Seething, I grip the pen tight, tick the “I agree to the terms and…” box, and then all but scratch out my signature along the dotted line.
Shoving the contract across the desk to him, I stand, picking up my bag. Glaring at his stupid diamond-patterned blue tie, I ground out, “I would like to be shown my quarters now, Mr. Van Der Wells.”
FIVE
“MR. VAN DER WELLS?” Noah smiles wickedly. “I’m not Abercrombie anymore?”
“Before, you were Abercrombie. As of ten seconds ago, you are my boss.”
“Noah will do.”
“I’m comfortable with Mr. Van Der Wells.”
He stands, straightening his jacket. “You want to keep this job, you’ll call me Noah.”
Biting my tongue to refrain from acting out like the little girl he thinks I am, I try seething in silence. But that lasts all of two seconds. “If addressing you appropriately—that is, by your surname—is such a big deal, why not just put it in the frickin’ contract?”
Lacing his fingers before him, he nods at the contract on the desk and raises a brow. “You signed without reading all of it?”
He’s got to be kidding. “That’s really in the contract? I get fired if I address you by your surname?”
He inhales a short breath as if I’m some insufferable brat, then turns and gestures for me to follow.
I want to kick his feet out from under him and watch him fall flat on his ass, but the problem with that is I also see myself straddling him after he falls, ripping that expensive suit off him and taking some serious employee to sexy-as-flames employer advantage of him. How warped is that? That I both want to injure him and screw his brains out at the same time?
I follow him to the other side of the penthouse.
While his expensive suit looks like it was made on him, for him, in this moment, I wish he was wearing less, because I know all about the fine, fine ass, muscled thighs, and hard calves that are hidden under this sharp suit.
His unhurried, almost rhythmic footfalls across the wood floors mimics the beat of my pulse. God, I’m such a slut.
He comes to a stop at the very first door on the right of a short hallway. A few feet down, another closed door is on the left.
Retrieving a key from inside his jacket, he opens the door and steps aside, waving me in. The wordless gesture is like a sharp sword beheading the pointless tension between us.
I walk in, ignoring the static, hair-raising goose bumps as my arm brushes against his. It’s an accident, I swear.
“This is some kind of help quarters,” I drone in a bored voice, even though I’m anything but. I’m, in fact, in a light haze of reminiscence, of when I used to be someone. Of when I had a life worth living. When I was happy and problem-free and wore a lot of fuchsia.
Space. Lots of it. King-size bed—say what?—with pristine white covers and violet throw-pillows. A beige love-bench at the foot of the bed. Gentle lilac accents in the paintings, curtains, lamps, and rug. A small sitting area over by the floor-to-ceiling windows, with two accent armchairs and ottomans.
Letting my bag, which feels like garbage in this immaculate place, fall to the floor, I wander around the room, checking it all out, before slipping into the bathroom. All marble. Lush white towels, shiny steel pipes and handles, jetted
bathtub and rain shower.
“The real help quarters is next to the pantry,” Noah informs me with a poker-face when I return from examining the bathroom.
Seriously? Not cool, dude. Scowling at him, I grab up my bag from the floor and throw it over my shoulder. “Then why show me this room? To tease me?”
He smooths a hand over his chin, in a way only a cocky, rich hotshot could without coming off as a slimeball. How did I miss this side of him that first night? He’s like half and half of two different persons. Half an arrogant, miserable bastard and half a normal handsome guy who can be funny and kind. And wholly a man I want to ride in reverse cowgirl, hard, until he screams my name.
‘Stop. Stop it!’ Rational Lotty hisses at me.
She can be such a boring prude sometimes.
“The original help quarters is much, much smaller. And plain. With a twin bed.” He slips his hands in his pockets. “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re staying in this guestroom instead.” He quickly adds, “If you don’t mind.”
“What? ‘Little girls’ get special treatment on this side of the city?”
He’s unamused, looking as though he’s tired of me already. “Would you prefer the original help quarters?”
Stuffing my hands in the back pockets of my jeans, I rock back and forth on my heels like a two-year-old standing guiltily before their disapproving parents. Typical me again. Never knowing when to shut the hell up. Of course, I’m not giving this room, and a king-size bed, up for some plain, tiny quarters with a twin bed. Not after sleeping on a moldy, broken-down couch for years. Therefore, I keep my mouth shut, for once, and glance around the room instead, avoiding his stare.
“Impossible,” he murmurs, eyes widening a fraction. “I cannot believe it. She does know how to keep quiet.”
A scowl pitches on my face again. “Oh, big whoop, you —”
“Your uniforms are in the closet. Unless it’s your day-off, you should always be in uniform during—”
“Are you serious? Uniforms? Do people still—”
“Oh, Christ.” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, I had no idea you would be this much of a headache. Why did you sign the contract if you didn’t read it in its entirety? Maybe we should rethink—”