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

by S. Ann Cole

  “Hello,” a voice greets my rear. The voice is female, older, and very familiar.

  Still on all fours, and suffering an unusual combination of scared-shitless and disgracefully-awkward, I glance over my shoulder to a gorgeous middle-aged dark-haired woman, dressed impeccably in a cream pantsuit and flats, a Prada handbag dangling from her wrist, hair wrapped in an elegant coiffure. She looks like money. Crisp, fresh-from-the-bank money. And she’s watching my rear with the most bemused expression.

  I know her. At least, I think I do. She looks crazy familiar. And maybe if I get off my darn hands and knees and turn to face her properly, I might be able to place her. “Uh…um, hi. Yeah, hello.” I give an awkward wave.

  Okay, so, she isn’t Andrew. Thank heaven’s bells for that.

  The woman purses her red-painted lips. “Do you want to get off your hands and knees and tell me who you are and what you are doing in my son’s apartment?”

  Son? Ohhhhhhhh. She’s Noah’s mother. Well, now I don’t just look like an idiot, I also feel like one. Clambering to my feet, I wipe my palms down the front of my uniform and turn to face her.

  And now that I’m facing her full-on, I recognize her. She’s Gloriel Van Der Wells. Nate Van Der Wells’ mother. Which makes no sense whatsoever if she’s also Noah’s mother. Noah doesn’t have a brother. At least, not that I know of. Is Noah a bastard? Is that the reason he’s ostracized from the original family? Because he’s an ugly secret? Is Gloriel Van Der Wells living a double life with—

  “Charlotte?” Gloriel cuts through my thoughts. “Charlotte Cooley, is that you?”

  Oh, sweet swing-songs. Of course, she remembers me, too.

  My mouth opens and closes, as I debate whether or not I should agree that I am indeed Charlotte Cooley. I can just duck my head and deny it, tell her she’s mistaken. I’m not sure I want to revive my past. The embarrassment is too great. Or, I could—

  “It is you, isn’t it?” she pushes on, cocking her head, green eyes wide with wonder. “Those eyes. I could never forget those eyes!”

  Oh, frig it. Makes no sense lying now. Giving yet another tiny wave, I smile. “Hey, Mrs. Van Der Wells.”

  With an elated smile, tainted with a splash of confusion, she regards my uniform. “What is—what’s going on? I don’t—“

  “Oh, uh,” I glance down at my outfit and shrug. “You know my story. Dad. Embezzlement. Jail. No money. Shunned. Yeah. It hasn’t gotten any better. Noah hired me as his live-in maid.”

  Her brows furrows. “When?”

  “Ah, roughly two weeks ago.”

  “Two weeks?” She sounds indignant and offended by this. “You’ve been here, in Nate’s apartment, working for him, for two weeks, and he’s said nothing to me? He knows I’ve been worried over the years whether you were doing okay or not. How you’re getting along. And he’s said nothing?”

  “Noah,” I correct. “It’s Noah who hired me. How is Nate, by the way? Did he stop running after I left?”

  Gloriel gives me a weird look, her face the ultimate picture of bewilderment. “I named my son Nate. I refuse to call him anything else no matter how many times he changes his name. And, yes, he never stopped running. He ran off a hundred pounds. Shouldn’t you know this? You’re living with him.”

  Oh. My. God.

  My jaw hits the floor.

  No way.

  No. Way.

  No. Freaking. WAY!!

  ‘Gotta say,’ mutters Rational Lotty, ‘I did not see that one coming.’

  ‘Whoa,’ Reckless Lotty whispers, ‘Fatty Nate has transformed into Hottie Nate.’

  Nate has been pretending all this time? Why? Why not say anything? Is he embarrassed? Going from fatty to hottie, what’s there to be embarrassed about?

  Before I can be consumed by all the WTFs and OMGs going around in my head, Gloriel is in front of me and enveloping me in her arms.

  “Oh, honey,” she chimes, “you have no idea how much it thrills me to see you’re alive and well.” She draws back and scans me again, before hugging me even tighter. “A little too skinny, but nothing beats life.”

  I hug her back. For a long, not-so-weird moment, she just holds me.

  Finally releasing me, she gives me a warm, bona-fide smile, accompanied with an arm-squeeze. Her delight to see me seems veritably genuine. And damn if that doesn’t make me feel better about myself, that someone actually gives a hoot whether I live or die.

  “What are you doing with yourself now, Charlotte? Apart from cleaning up my lazy son’s mess, of course.”

  It doesn’t surprise me that she makes no inquiries about Mom. My mother made herself an enemy when she wrecked the former Cooley family. She was never forgiven, was never pardoned, and was basically the pariah on this side. It’s somewhat head-scratching how they accepted me with open arms. Me, the product of the affair. Possibly, because Sarah accepted me, everyone else followed suit.

  One of my 101 reasons for wanting to flee to Brazil is that I fear ending up like Mom. An outcast with no friends; less than a handful of people at my funeral when I die.

  “Oh, not much. Online college. Surviving. Saving for law school.”

  “College!” From the gleam in her eyes, it’s clear that’s what she’d been hoping my response would be. “Wait, law?”

  Lifting my shoulders to my ears and dropping them, I affirm with a, “Yep.”

  Her grin is broader than Broadway now. “You, Charlotte, will make a wonderful lawyer. Come, help me unpack the groceries.”

  She whirls in a jitter of smiles and claps and tappity-tap-taps, all but skipping off to the kitchen, expecting me to follow. I do. It’s my job, after all.

  In the kitchen, there’s a fit, African American man unloading boxes of groceries from a flat-bed trolley. When he’s through, Gloriel tips him a fifty, their hands lingering a bit too long in each other’s with the money exchange. As if finally remembering I’m there, the guy gives me a polite nod and leaves.

  Hmm. Well, that’s not strange at all.

  Setting her handbag on the kitchen counter, Gloriel removes her gloves—only the insanely wealthy wear gloves in Spring—and begins unpacking the boxes.

  “Um, Mrs. Van Der Wells, why don’t you leave these to me, and I’ll make up a cup of—“

  Head rotating to me, she gives me a no-nonsense look. “Aside from the fact that I look forward to swinging by every Saturday to help my son out in whatever way I can so I still feel needed, I do not agree with Nate hiring you as his housemaid. He could’ve given you something to do at the office, and if you needed a place to stay, there are four unoccupied apartments in the building, he could’ve let you live in one until you are able to stand on your feet. Suffice it to say, Nate and I will be having a little chat.”

  I’ll drink to that. Nate and I will be having a big chat. A really big chat.

  Now that I know Noah is actually Nate Van Der Wells, all the questionable grandeur of his lifestyle, the hookups with Sienna Sullivan, the generosity and over solicitousness becomes clear. It’s because he knows me. We were friends once—as inappropriate as it was at the time. We were running partners, teased each other, challenged each other.

  My mind catapults back to the night I drove him home from Brooklyn, the jaw-dropped expression on his face when I got out of the cab. He’d recognized me then. Played me. Is it possible that running into him at the park was no coincidence, and the “something” he was searching for was me?

  Gloriel’s rant is warranted. See, Nate Van Der Wells is a mega-billionaire. There’s no rags-to-riches story. No difficult past and horrible childhood. VDW is an extensively successful real estate company founded by his megalomaniac grandfather, passed on to his father, and then passed on to him. Grandfather Van Der Wells had been no rags-to-riches mogul, either. He emerged from a prestigious lineage; old, pompous money. This means Nate was born rich and spoiled, and accustomed to getting whatever he wants.

  Going by Gloriel’s comment that there are “four unoc
cupied apartments in the building,” I’m assuming this Wells Height Complex is his, too.

  To stop myself from screaming, I bite down on my lip. I’m going to strangle the life out of that frustratingly hot-as-flames man!

  But first, I have to have sex with him.

  He’s an incomplete conquest.

  Three years ago, I set out on a mission to get in Fatty Nate’s pants, but life interrupted that mission. Now…here’s to second chances. Once I’ve completed my three-year-old goal, then I will strangle him.

  “No, no, he did offer me one of the apartments but I refused,” I fib on behalf my renewed conquest. “And I wasn’t qualified for any of the open positions at the office.”

  Gloriel slaps a vehement palm to the counter. “He should have insisted. Also, that is nonsense! He’s Nate Van Der Wells, he can get you a position anywhere regardless of your qualifications.”

  “I know but—”

  “Stop finding excuses for him,” she cuts me off, disapproval strong in her voice. “He will be answering to me when he gets back.”

  To save Nate a lashing, I’m about to offer even more excuses when my phone hollers from the living room. Jogging to pick it up, I glance at the screen. The concierge.

  “Yes, Mr. Informer?” I snap into the phone. He has to be the one spying on me for Noah, er, Nate.

  “I-it’s…Mr. Adams,” he corrects, sounding confused. “The concierge.”

  “And I say it’s Mr. Informer, informer.”

  Silence extends on the line for a few seconds before he clears his throat and carries on. “Miss Kiera Noel is here to see you. Should I—“

  “Send her up,” I cut in and hang up. My curtness might be a smite rude, but I’m not a fan of people spying and informing on me. Let him report that to Nate. That is, after all, report worthy.

  “Who was that?” Gloriel asks absently as she unpacks the groceries. Quinoa, tofu, pearl couscous, Weetabix, spinach, kale, grains…I cringe for Noah.

  “The concierge. He spied on me for Noah.”

  Gloriel lets out a laugh. “Everyone spies for Nate. These days they trip over themselves trying to please him.” She raises her head, a pack of flax seed in one hand, and blinks at me. “Funny, isn’t it? The difference between being overweight and being, as you young people say, built. He’s the same man, the same man, merely one hundred and plus pounds lighter, but the difference in respect between then and now is an eye-opener. It’s sad. Really sad how this world is.”

  “This is the world we live in,” I say. “So, you bring groceries every other Saturday?”

  She nods, resuming her task. “Clean up after him and do his laundry, too. It’s something to look forward to, as I’ve been feeling so unwanted of late. No one needs me for anything anymore. After Jim died, I felt this way for years. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Until Nate’s heart attack and subsequent divorce. He needed me then, and I felt useful again, being needed. Then you got him to start running. He kept on running, exercising, eating healthy, losing the weight…everyone wants him now, and he no longer wants me.”

  Oh, God. And here I am taking away her job. No wonder she’s so mad about Noah hiring me. “Gloriel, I-I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have…I can quit. It’s no big deal.”

  Her hand goes up to stop me. “No, no dear. Don’t do that. I’m just a whiny old bat.” For a minute she studies me, then her eyes brighten as she clasps her hands in front of her. “How about you let me take care of you?”

  Huh? I don’t get a chance to ask what she means because the elevator pings, and I can hear Kiera on her phone, sounding nettled. “…told you that if I hear from her you’ll be the first to know…Yes, Andrew…I don’t know, but I’ll keep you posted. Gotta go.”

  I’m in the foyer and pouncing on her before she can pocket her phone. “Kiki!”

  Caught by surprise, she stumbles back as I slam into her. Regaining her balance, she laughs out, “Nice to know you actually miss me.”

  Pulling away from her, I smack her arm. “Are you kidding me? Of course, I missed you!”

  Kiera Noel is part Trinidadian, part French; her Mom the Trinidadian, her Dad the French. With flawless mocha complexion and so-light-brown-they-could-be-gold irises, she’s not slim, not too thick either, having just the right size that renders her some ridiculous curves and a booty to match. Her hair, almost as mocha as her complexion, is what I envy the most: natural curls, arm-pit length, soft and pretty, and encourages finger combing; tight and bouncy when it’s washed and left as is, loose and wavy when given some TLC. She has an arresting beauty and could pass as the thicker, curvier version of Eva Marcille.

  Back in school, Kiera was the unique one. We never paid her much attention because she wasn’t thin like us, or blonde like us, or blended in like us. Sadly, when we’re younger, we don’t realize that being unique is a precious gift. Because now, as I stare at her, I can admit that while we all looked the same, she was the masterpiece that stood out. The gem in our posse I was too blind to see.

  “Well, I wouldn’t have guessed from the way you’ve been giving me the runaround,” she says, thinning her lips. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were living with Nate? I wouldn’t have worried so much. Nate would never touch a hair on your head.”

  I heave out a sigh. “Long story.” Then I frown. “Wait, was does that mean?”

  But she’s already looking over my shoulder. “Hey, Mrs. Van der Wells!”

  Gloriel breezes past me and pulls Kiera in for a hug. “Kiera, dear.” She pulls back and smacks Kiera on the arm like I did. “I’m tired of telling you to call me Gloriel. How is your father doing?”

  “Miserable as all get out.”

  Gloriel laughs out loud. “That’s Noel every day of the week. Come, come. Charlotte and I were just unpacking some groceries. But you two can go ahead and relax on the balcony, and I’ll bake you girls some turnovers.”

  As Kiera starts to object, I discreetly elbow her. She lets out a grunt and I cover with, “We’d love some turnovers, Gloriel. As long as there are no apples or nuts involved. Kiera is allergic.”

  Gloriel appears so delighted by this new task that I’m left feeling a little worried for her. We all have our own brand of loneliness. Mom had nothing but sickness and a daughter who cared. Gloriel has everything; health, wealth and a son who cares. Yet her loneliness resembles my mother’s in so many ways.

  Grabbing Kiera’s hand, I haul her off to my room.

  “Was that Andrew on the phone?” I ask the second the door closes behind us.

  “Dope help quarters,” Kiera comments with a smirk. “Are you sure the only thing you’re shining here are floors?”

  I make a face. “Disgusting much? So, was that Andrew or not?”

  “Yep. Dude’s annoying the shit out of me,” she answers distractedly, touching things, opening drawers. “What’s it like living with Nate Van Der Wells? He’s transformed into such an unattainable stud. Chased hard and never caught. The big fish in the sea every woman wants to hook, reel in, and scale. Me included. I mean, have you seen that man’s chest? I could just straddle that chest and rub myself against it until I come and all will be right with the world.”

  And this is Kiera. How are you liking her so far? This chick. Always horny. Almost every other sentence that comes out her mouth is an innuendo to something sexual. A total commitment-phobe. You couldn’t tell she’s a nymphomaniac by looking at her, but she’s a shameless one. A nasty Scorpio. To the core.

  Walking to the dresser to grab a pair of shorts and a tee, I question with a smack of jealousy, “When did you get to see his chest? And what did Andrew want?”

  “Who hasn’t seen Nate’s chest?” she returns, incredulous. “He jogs for miles every morning almost naked, and never wastes an opportunity to go shirtless. It’s like a big ole ‘Look at me now, bitches!’ to the world.”

  Zipping out of my uniform, I giggle.

  “As for your ex, he’s just freaking out because he can’t fi
nd you. He calls me like a billion times a day asking if I’ve learned anything new.” She stops perusing the room and turns to me, crossing her arms over her chest. A fun lime-green dress and some killer wedge heels, her curls falling around her face, large golden hoop earrings going faultlessly with her skin tone and eye color. “Speaking of, you mind telling me what the fudge happened?”

  Delaying, bracing, I take my time changing from my uniform to jean shorts and tee. Moving to the opposite side of the bed, putting distance between us, I let my hands fall and dangle at my sides, then, taking a breath, I confess, “He hits me, Kiki.”

  Kiera blinks. “What do you mean?” A small crease forms between her eyebrows. “Did you, like, get in a fight or something?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Kiki, he beats the shit out of me for everything and nothing. He takes away my privileges. He cheats, all the time, and I’m forced to accept it, because if I say anything about it, he hits me for saying something about it.”

  My best friend stares at me. I can see how this kind of thing might sound foreign to her. She stares and stares, until tears pool in her eyes. “How long?” Her voice is nothing but a rasp of air. “How long has he been…doing that to you?”

  “About a year?” Shamefaced, I drop my head and mutter, “First time it happened was around three months after we started dating. My life has been hell since then.”

  Kiera’s chin hits her chest. “A year? You’ve been going through this for a year and you’ve said nothing to me?”

  “Kiki, I—“

  “I’m your best friend!” she explodes, the tears rolling now. “I’m supposed to know these things! I’m supposed to…I’m supposed to be there to help you, to protect you! And you…you hid…” She hiccups a sob and clutches her stomach, then shakily lowers herself the edge of the bed.

  Rushing around the bed, I sit down beside her, taking her hand in mine, and before I can speak, she whispers, “I should have picked up on it. I’m such a horrible friend. The signs were there. No cellphone, how bossy and possessive he was with you—which I naively thought was hot—the hostility between him and Graham…for crying out loud, he proposed to you in a cemetery at your mother’s graveside. How could I have been so blind?”