Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance)

by S. Ann Cole

  His eyes go all warm and soft and tempting again. “You don’t?”

  Caught off guard by the question, I suck in a surprised breath. My heart does a back-flip as something unfurls in my stomach. Annoyed at all the sensations coursing through me, I scowl at him. “No! God, no.”

  Mischief swirling in his depths, his mouth turns down at the corners. “Shame.” He makes a tutting sound, then turns and strides off.

  ‘What the fudge?’ Reckless Lotty carps. ‘That’s it? He’s not gonna try harder?’

  ‘Does a man even have to try with you?’ Rational Lotty fires at her. ‘You’re like a twenty-four hour joint: Always open.’

  Reckless Lotty flips Rational Lotty the bird.

  I ignore them both, distracted by the sheen of sweat between my cleavage, the sopping wetness between my thighs, and the throbbing ache of my nipples.

  It’s been less than an hour since I showered, yet I feel a pressing need for one right now. Abandoning my coffee, I shoot off to the bathroom, strip down to nothing, and finger myself under a scorching hot shower for the second time that morning.

  Noah’s eating his breakfast and sipping my abandoned coffee when I return from my “shower.” He’s looking like the picture of wealth in a gray V-neck sweater and black slacks, damp hair finger-groomed back from his face.

  He scans me as I reenter the kitchen, while I raise an eyebrow at my coffee in his hand. “You showered again?”

  My palms smooth down the front of my uniform. “Yep. Felt a little icky from the spilled coffee.”

  Taking a sip of my coffee, he shifts his eyes to my hair. “Coffee got in your hair, too?”

  My hand reaches up to pat my hair. It’s damp, held up with a claw clip. Uh-huh, I’d ducked my head under the shower to drown my pathetic masturbation noises, because, well, I’m hella vocal.

  “Yes,” I stress, fixing a hand to my hip, daring him to challenge that, even though he very well could, considering he saw and knew the coffee splashed only my feet. “And why are you drinking my coffee? You couldn’t pour your own coffee?”

  Cutting a piece of pancake, he slathers it around in a sea of syrup before forking it into his mouth. “I pay you to do that.”

  He has a point, so I don’t lip further and pour myself a new cup of coffee.

  Noah finishes up, wipes the corners of his mouth, and fixes his gaze on me. Again. “I notice you don’t run at all. Mornings, or evenings. That morning in the park in Brooklyn, was that a one-time thing?”

  “Nope.” I shrug. “I love running actually. But I guess I just don’t have the motivation to anymore.” Translate, not even my love for cardio, sweat, and a palpitating heart can get me to leave this apartment.

  “I can be your motivator,” he volunteers. “Run with me in the mornings.”

  “Nah, I—“

  “Er, I’m sorry, I just made that sound like a suggestion, didn’t I?” he cuts in. “It’s not. You run with me in the mornings. New amendment to the contract. Also, I’m told you order groceries in instead of going out?”

  What the hell? Who’s ratting me out? Does he have people watching me or something? “I wasn’t feeling well those times,” I prevaricate.

  “You do realize you haven’t set a foot out of the building in over two weeks, right?”

  “I have agoraphobia,” I lie again, staring him head on.

  Unbeknownst to me, the bastard has been paying more attention than I knew, observing, studying. And now he’s digging. He’s not stupid, so he’s probably figured out by now than I’m hiding and is curious or concerned about from who or what, thus poking his nose were it doesn’t belong.

  “Really,” he stresses, amused, lips twitching at the corners. “That would have been the perfect answer if I didn’t know you’re lying.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Save it, Lotty,” he curtails. “You’re running from something, and I wish you would just tell me so I can help you.”

  “I don’t need your—”

  “Until you learn to trust me as more than your ‘boss,’ I’m going to need you to re-sign this amended contract. Before I leave.” With one finger, he pushes the suspicious manila envelope that’s been sitting next to his plate across the counter to me. “If you do not agree with the amendments, your employment is terminated, effective immediately.”

  I stare at the envelope, not wanting to open it. Employment terminated. Effective immediately. If I disagree. And disagreeing is not something I can afford at this juncture. I don’t have enough saved up, plus the penthouse is spectacular.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah with all those boring points,’ Reckless Lotty mumbles with an eye-roll. ‘What about his chest, and his throat, and his super intense, intimidating hot-as-sin stare?! No, we most certainly cannot disagree until we’ve had our fill of him.’

  Rational Lotty groans, “Oh, dearest Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, why do I even bother?

  “Just tell me what you added,” I mumble begrudgingly. “In case you haven’t noticed from the last contract signing, I don’t like reading boring crap.”

  “And she wants to become a lawyer,” Noah murmurs as he draws the envelope across the counter back to him, opens it, and slides out the contract. He shakes the envelope and a pen falls out. Placing the pen on top of the contract, he pushes it across to me once more. “I’m responsible for your well-being, your safety, and your comfort. You run with me in the mornings. You will have a driver slash bodyguard assigned to take you wherever you need to go and keep you safe—you’ll meet him this afternoon. It is my duty to provide you with anything, material or otherwise, that will contribute to your comfort here and peace of mind in my home slash your workplace—and you deserve the right to ask for what you need whenever I fail to recognize that need.”

  Mouth hanging open, I blink at him. Then, I explode, “Are you kidding me?! I don’t need to have a law degree to know that this is bullshit! You do not find terms like that in a contract unless it’s for a pimp and his hooker!”

  “A contract is a contract. Doesn’t matter what’s in it. There’s no standard format to draft a contract. It can be as informal as two signatures on a napkin. Once you sign it, you adhere to the terms.”

  “I’m your housemaid. What the hell? You want to buy me stuff, assign me a bodyguard, and force me to run with you? What’s the next amendment going to be? Huh? That I’m required to be naked and spread-eagled in your bed before you get home in the evenings?”

  His casual, amicable demeanor shifts as his whole body goes rigid. Eyes frosting over, lips pressing together, he picks up the contract and shoves it back into the envelope. “You don’t want to sign it, fine. I was trying to help because that’s who I am. I help people. I don’t take advantage of lost and screwed-up little girls. I crossed the line with you a couple of times when I knew I shouldn’t have, and I apologize for that. It was not professional.

  “But you know what, I’m done caring. You’re as jumpy as a rabbit, goddamn terrified of who-knows-what. You have no phone, you take classes on a piece-of-shit laptop, and you use a handbag that’s held together with a safety pin. I have a habit of caring too much about people, and that’s where I always go wrong. Obviously, girls like you prefer the callous type, the men who show no attentiveness or care at all, the men who notice nothing, that way you can analyze the shit out of it and convince yourself that it means the opposite. But the one who does care, the one who sees you, he’s the one accused of trying to take advantage. My bad, Lotty. My bad.”

  Tall, dark, and seriously pissed-off, he tucks the envelope under his arm, turns, and strides off.

  ‘Way to go,’ Reckless Lotty grumbles. ‘That’s what happens when you listen to Rational—’

  ‘Hey!’ Rational Lotty snaps defensively. ‘I did not tell her to disagree. Frankly, I think it’s a good deal. She screwed that up all on her own.’

  “So, does that rant mean I’m fired?” I call after him.

  Noah stops and begins to turn, but then t
he elevator pings, pausing him.

  “Goooood morning, Mr. Van Der Wells,” I hear a sexy-as-hell male voice sing with a panty-melting British accent, followed by strong footfalls across the wooden floors.

  Noah frowns. “You’re early, and I told you I’d meet you downstairs. That keycard I gave you is for emergencies only.”

  “But I do have an emergency,” the sexy-as-hell British voice returns. “I needed a place to hide my hard-on. This tight little wench downstairs, a total prick tease—”

  “Too early,” Noah clips with a mini eye roll.

  The owner of the sexy-as-hell voice turns the bend just then, and…wow. Wow. Just…wow.

  Reckless Lotty faints.

  Rational Lotty is speech impeded.

  This man, or this Adonis, or this Roman King, is hot. Great height, really great bod, lush brown hair cropping just below his ears; brilliant, mischievous blue eyes; and nice, luscious lips fixed into a smirk. Light denims, a white-as-heaven button-down shirt, a lock of brown hair flopped onto his forehead, masculine hand holding a Starbucks cup. He appears to be around Noah’s age, but his aura tells me his disposition is less mature.

  I’m standing there ogling the Adonis when his wandering gaze locks on me, and his smirk morphs into a grin. “Yes, yes, yes,” he says cockily, answering a question no one asked. “I woke up like this.”

  Usually, I hate cocksure pricks, but I can’t help the giggle that escapes me as I purposely step from around the kitchen counter so he can get a full view of me. Without hesitation, I would have a fling with this man in a broom closet or in a men’s public bathroom if he demanded it. Then I would kick him to the curb for being an arrogant ass wipe.

  Noah’s frown deepens as he glances between me and his friend.

  Adonis shifts his gaze to Noah, taking a sip of his coffee before saying, “I see now why you wanted me to wait downstairs, old chap.” Bedroom blue eyes moves to me again. “Is he treating you fair, pretty filly? If not, I have an open position, yeah? I know nothing about cleanliness. I’m a nasty, dirty, filthy little lad.”

  Smiling coquettishly at him—yes, I’m playing a game here. Unfortunately, Reckless Lotty is still unconscious, so I have to wing this one—I bite my lip and glance down coyly at my shoes, swaying ever so slightly from side to side. “Actually, that would be great. I just got fire—”

  “You’re not fired,” Noah’s hard voice slices in. He looks as if he’s about to combust. So green he could be a tossed in a salad bowl.

  Booyah! Right where I want him.

  Raising wide, artless eyes to him, I ask with feigned timidity, “I-I’m not?”

  Now Noah’s frown dips so deep it can pass as a scowl, and I bet he’s wondering what on earth is going on, who’s this innocent, wide-eyed girl, and what am I playing at?

  Keeping my job, that’s what I’m playing at. Because I screwed up royally.

  “No, you’re not,” he grounds out. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

  Like a kid on Christmas morning, I clap my hands and bounce on my toes, before advancing toward him with my hand out. “Here, let me sign this real quick so you can go.”

  Noah watches me like he has no idea who I am as I extricate the envelope from under his arm, slide out the contract and pen, hastily scrawling my signature. Handing it back to him, I smile something brilliant. “There.”

  Turning to Adonis, I say, “Sorry about that. Turns out we just had a misunderstanding.”

  “No worries.” He gives me a licentious scan. “Do you have a bloke, sweetheart?”

  Before I can get a response out, Noah growls, “She’s nineteen.”

  Eyes glued to my rack, Adonis replies, “Turn that nine upside down and I might care about age. The younger, the tighter.”

  I tamp down my snicker, only because Noah looks like he’s this close to ripping his friend’s head off.

  Completely oblivious to Noah’s bristling, Adonis seizes my left hand and gallantly presses a kiss on the back of it. “I’m Q for Qwesie. Qwesie James. Noah’s wingman, the horns on his temples, the venom on his tongue…” He pauses, frowns. “No. Wait. That doesn’t sound right.”

  This time I laugh out loud. Noah doesn’t. Still scowling.

  “If I were you,” I advise Q, “I’d let my hand go. My boss is this close to head-butting you into unconsciousness.”

  Qwesie cocks his head to look at Noah, and then back to me. His mouth forms a silent ‘oh’ as he releases my hand. “Why didn’t you say, old chap? I wouldn’t have—“

  “There’s nothing to say,” Noah grunts. “She’s my maid.”

  Q waggles his eyebrows knowingly, and winks. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Sure. Your maid.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Noah mutters, tossing his eyeballs heavenward. “Let’s just go.” To me, he says, “Keep your phone charged and on so I can reach you. And for the love of God, try to get out of the house, Lotty. At least for an hour.”

  As he strides over to the sofa and grabs his pull-along, Qwesie winks at me.

  “Lotty.” He nods, as if liking the taste of my name. “I’d call you Little Lotty if we were both naked and coll—”

  “Q,” Noah warns.

  Qwesie grins something wicked and walks off to the elevator. The demon.

  At the last minute, I catch up with Noah just before he enters the elevator. “Oh, I meant to ask you, can I have visitors?”

  Noah’s eyebrows shoot up as though this request surprised the hell out of him. “Visitors?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?” he asks. “I didn’t think you any had friends.”

  “Just one. Kiera,” I tell him. “And my brother, Graham.”

  “Kiera? As in Harold Noel’s daughter?”

  “Yeah, she’s my best friend.”

  He gives me this strange and unsettled look as if he’s not so keen on the idea, and I wonder for a second if he has some kind of rivalry with her father or something because he seems terribly uncomfortable with the idea of me having her over. “Sure,” he says, but it seems begrudging. “Your friend and brother can visit. But check with me first before having anyone else here.”

  Emitting a humorless laugh, I assure him, “Trust me, there’s no one else.”

  He lingers, staring down at me, like the last thing he wants is to get in that elevator and leave me. I can see his heart beating in the pulses at his clavicle, and it’s not a normal tattoo, that’s for sure.

  “See you when I get back?” he asks in an exceptionally soft and almost imperceptibly shaky voice.

  Frowning, I move in a little, bowing into him, pulled in on a hook by his scent, that glorious scent. “Where would I go?” I all but breathe out. “You’re putting me up, remember?”

  He shakes his head. But it’s more at himself than at me. “Just…be here when I get back.”

  “Aw, for peaches sake, just bloody well shag and get it over with,” Qwesie grumbles from the elevator. “Bloody Christ. All that unnecessary sexual tension for what? ”

  Noah cocks his head and glares at Qwesie, but the guy is unrepentant, lounging against the wall, feet crossed at the ankles, slurping his coffee. A Brit who drinks coffee, what are the odds?

  Noah’s attention is back on me. “Call me if you need anything, alright?”

  Chomping down on my bottom lip, I stare pensively up at him. Something important is happening here. If Reckless Lotty were conscious right now, she’d be able to figure it out and direct me. But she’s still out cold, and Rational Lotty went mute the second she laid eyes on Qwesie. I’m on my own with this one.

  Noah wants me to know something. Noah is afraid of me knowing something. And Noah wants something. Pretty certain I can guess the last, but the first two are a mystery.

  “I will.”

  He delays for a moment longer before turning and getting into the elevator. He’s staring at me, I’m staring at him, and Qwesie is rattling off some inconsequential question. “Yeah, mate, like I was saying about that prick tease downstairs with
the peach little arse—”

  The doors slide close. And I know, feel it in my gut, that when Noah gets back, it’s going to be a whole new game.

  EIGHT

  THE SECOND NOAH is gone, I phone Kiera and rattle off my whereabouts.

  “Be there in an hour,” she tells me, mad excited about my return to the Upper East Side.

  I call Graham afterward, making his day with the news that I’m no longer with Andrew, and assuring him I’m safe and sound. I hold off on telling him where I am and why I left, however. Better for me emotionally to do this one person at a time.

  Having nothing on my to-do list today, I eat breakfast and laze around the house, listening to music and stalking pretty people on Instagram with a fake account I created out of boredom last week. Question: What’s up with women making videos of themselves just looking pretty in the camera and saying nothing? Really, what’s up with that? Vain and annoying much?

  Tired of all the waist-trainers, fake eyelashes, overdrawn lips, and big booty pics, I toss my phone aside, kick off my stupid tennis shoes, and make myself comfortable on Noah’s sofa, thinking this is the longest hour ever. I’m so bored. Kiera needs to hurry up and get here.

  I’m just picking up the remote to power on the television when I hear the ping of the elevator. I know it’s not Kiera because the concierge would’ve called to confirm sending her up.

  This person has to a key. Or they broke in.

  I’m frozen on the couch, my heart ricocheting in my chest. I knew it was too good to be true. Believing this apartment would keep me safe. Andrew has found me, and he’s going to drag me back to Brooklyn and beat the ever-loving shit out of me for trying to leave him.

  I hear footfalls, more than one set. Rustling, like bags. Rolling, like wheels. What the heck?

  Slowly, quietly, heart in my throat, I slide off the couch like a snake and drop on my belly. As a set of footsteps approaches the living area, I push up on all fours and try to scurry around the back of the couch without a sound.