by P. Dangelico
Chapter Five
“Where’s the rest of your stuff?”
Mr. Etiquette is standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips, wearing a white t-shirt so completely soaked in sweat I’m surprised he’s not leaving a puddle. I look up with displeasure and watch a deep v carve itself into his forehead. Between the black slashes of his eyebrows and his bunned up hair, he reminds me of a Samurai warrior––or the Prince of Darkness.
My gaze does a cursory slide down the length of his body. The pictures really don’t do this guy justice. He looks much more imposing in person. Especially this close. When my eyes climb back up to his face, a narrowed eyed, gray glare is bearing down on me. Nothing has changed. As soon as I’m around this guy, my hackles give me jazz hands.
He barely steps aside to let me in. His nipple is practically poking me in the eye, a clear sign that he’s standing way too close, but does he step out of my personal space? No. I swear everything he does is orchestrated to irritate the shit out of me. Forced to squeeze past him, I scrape by shoulder blades against the doorjamb in an effort to avoid touching him in any way. For that cordiality, I reward him by sniffing the air for body odor and even though I get only soap and deodorant, I still make a face. Practically on cue, he volleys back his most menacing glare––no doubt meant to give me frostbite. All this transpires in the span of ten minutes. If this is any indication, I’m pretty sure I won’t be here long.
“That’s everything,” I say, shrugging. Should I antagonize him? Probably not. However, something about him brings out the worst in me, couple that with the fact that my tolerance for bullshit has been reduced significantly, for men in general but especially for entitled bullies, and you get me behaving badly.
His eyes swing from the suitcases back to me. His brow is wrinkled and his eyes watch me expectantly, like he’s waiting for me to elaborate. Which of course I don’t. All this guy needs to know is my name, where to wire my money, and that I have a clean record. Finally, he snaps out of it.
“Follow me.” Before I can reach for them, he grabs my seemingly weightless suitcases and leads me through the empty house.
“Who’s your decorator? Love what she’s done with the place.” His reply to this is a half-assed grunt. Without pausing, he continues upstairs to a large bedroom.
Wow. I mean…wow.
It’s beautifully decorated in neutral tones. The king size bed is swoon-worthy. Add to that the elegant furniture and the large flat screen television on the wall, and I’ve just moved into the Ritz. This, I can get used to––how long I get to use it is yet to be determined.
“Where’s Sam?”
“In the playroom down the hall. Do you want to get settled, or see him now?” After placing my bags down, he walks to the doorway and hovers. I don’t fail to notice how uncomfortable he seems. What a weirdo.
“I’d like to see him now, please.”
As I follow Shaw down the hall, we pass another doorway and he points and says, “My room.”
Like I care. The only reason for me to know which one is his is if he goes missing and a smell of decomposing organic matter drifts out. And even then, I’m not sure I’d care. Before we enter Sam’s playroom, I tap him on his gigantic sweaty tricep. Yuck.
“Listen, I forgot to mention that I don’t have a car.” I meet him gaze to gaze. The insufferable ass looks at me like I’m a cockroach scuttling across his kitchen floor. Holding steady, I don’t look away––high-fiving myself for that one. Only fifteen minutes have passed and I’m already exhausted.
After an agonized sigh, he says, “You can use one of mine. I’ll call the insurance company in the morning.”
Inside, Sam is kneeling in front of another intricate Lego creation. I walk over and drop to the floor close to him. Without looking up, he hands me the instruction booklet to the village he’s building. Shaw’s eyes are all over me. I can feel them burning a hole in my back. Stealing a glance over my shoulder, I find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed in front. He doesn’t bother to hide the fact that he’s staring. Jerk. My attention returns to Sam, and for the next hour and half, we work without speaking.
“Mercedes?”
“Si?”
“I can’t find the white bean soup I made yesterday,” I say as I rifle through the massive refrigerator. “The potato and string bean salad I prepared last night is also gone. And I can’t find the strawberries I bought at Whole Foods.”
Mercedes is Shaw’s housekeeper/estate manager/keeper of his secrets. She’s the only other person that lives on the property, and was assigned to watch Sam before I came along. Shaw is ocd level fastidious about keeping the house clean. Really, it’s just too large a house for one person, but apparently the Prince of Darkness doesn’t trust anyone other than his beloved Mercedes. Overworked and exhausted, I can safely say that Mercedes was probably the happiest person in the house to see me move in. Ergo, Mercedes and I bonded instantly.
She gives me a puzzled look. My thoughts immediately shoot to Shaw. I swear I’ll murder him in his sleep if I find out he’s been throwing out my food.
“I’m making bucatini with fresh tomato sauce, would you like some?” Mercedes informs me that she’s going to dinner at her daughter’s house, and departs shortly afterward.
In the refrigerator, I push aside all the containers of his food. On day two, I found out that he gets his meals prepared and delivered. A plant based diet with a ridiculous list of ingredients that he can’t consume because they cause “inflammation” in his hundred million dollar body. No tomatoes, no mushrooms––ever. No eggplant. No peppers. And God forbid you cook with olive oil. Basically, every Italian on the planet is screwed. Including, yours truly. And the list goes on and on. No coffee, no caffeine, not to mention sugar and flour. Fine. Whatevs. I get why he’s so cranky all the time now.
Tonight I’m making a fresh tomato sauce with artisanal bucatini for dinner. Super inflammatory. Sitting at the counter, Sam watches me intently for a while. Until I ask him to join me in the kitchen, where he proceeds to help me smash up the ripe vine tomatoes while wearing a big fat smile on his face. In just a few days, he’s already started to open up. I’m finally getting a vocal, albeit softly spoken, yes and no from him, and quite frankly couldn’t be happier with the progress we’ve made.
After the pasta is cooked and drained, I poor the sauce on while Sam sets up the plates and utensils on the island counter since there isn’t a kitchen table for us to sit at. I have no idea what the routine was at his mother’s house, but I suspect there weren’t many family meals.
“Sam, did I mention that my mom makes the best chocolate cake ever?” He looks up bright eyed from the pasta he’s busy devouring and says an actual ‘no.’
“Would you like to go to my parents’ house for dinner sometime?” His enthusiastic nod makes my heart hurt.
Shaw stalks into the kitchen, his expression thunderous. “Who the hell is Camillia Blake?” The jerk actually mispronounced my name.
Instantly, Sam’s whole demeanor changes. He retreats back into his shell. Which pisses me off beyond measure. Me, I’m no shrinking violet. And I grew up in New Jersey. If men shouting and throwing around macho bravado bothered me, I would’ve been confined to a padded room ages ago. However, I can only imagine how intimidating this growling, hairy beast must seem from a child’s perspective.
I throw the shackles off my tongue because the hundred thousand is already sittin’ pretty in my bank account and that pleasurable golden nugget is always at the forefront of my mind.
“That’d be moi, Calvin.” His scowl deepens. “Although, I’d prefer it if you didn’t butcher my name. It’s pronounced Camilla. Or is that too much information for your brain to process at once?”
His eyes go wide. “My office,” he snaps, stalking out of the kitchen without waiting for a response.
Sam’s big gray eyes flicker to me in worry. I run my fingers through his chestnut hair and smile.
“Eat your supper and we’ll
read a book as soon as I’m done talking to your uncle.” The doubt on Sam’s face makes me want to throat punch Shaw into tomorrow.
When I walk into his office, Shaw is standing with his extra large hands planted on his hips. For the first time in my life, I consider what it would feel like to be hit by hands that size, and my stomach does a flippy thing. I immediately play offense.
“You’ve just undone all the hard work I accomplished in three days.” I go for broke and point up at him aggressively. “He shuts down immediately when he senses your anger. Or have you been hit in the head so may times that you haven’t even noticed?” My tone sets him back on his heels. He looks unsure how to respond. “I suggest you either see a shrink, do some yoga, or get on medication. In other words, chill the heck out.” He’s shocked at my fortitude. Mission accomplished. I turn to leave.
“We’re not done. I ran a credit check,” he very calmly states. Turning, I cross my arms under my ample breasts. When his eyes flicker down to my chest, I drop them immediately, chalking this up to an involuntary reflex in all males because, God knows, he couldn’t possibly find udders on a cow attractive. His attention goes straight to the paper he’s holding.
“It says here that––”
No way am I going to allow him to rummage through the charred ruins of what used to be my life and dance on its ashes.
“It says that I was married. That I’m a widow. It says that everything I’ve ever owned has been repossessed, or impounded by the U.S. government. It says that I currently own nothing. Except for my dignity. And that, Mr. Shaw, cannot be taken from me without my consent. What it doesn’t say is that it took every penny I possessed for me to prove that I had zero knowledge of what my husband was up to when he embezzled millions of dollars. It also doesn’t say that I was a very good teacher before I was run out of the Connecticut district where I taught.” At his blank stare, I continue. “If you have a problem with anything I just told you, I’ll pack my bags. But I like Sam. And I think I can help him, so I would like to stay.”
I wait for him to say something. And wait…and wait some more. I start to sweat under his close examination of my person.
“How long?”
“How long, what?”
“How long have you been a widow?”
The question takes me by surprise. Usually, people are interested in how much money my husband embezzled. As if the amount somehow determines how big a scumbag he was.
“Three years.”
Nodding, he shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants and shrugs up his big shoulders. His pants get pushed dangerously low. Inadvertently, my eyes gravitate to the flat band of tan skin and trail of dark hair below the hem of his t-shirt, just above the waistband of his pants. Gawd, he’s not wearing underwear. I force my eyes back up to his face. Awkward.
“Do you have any more surprises for me?” he murmurs quietly.
“Nope.”
More silence.
“You think Sam’s scared of me?” He’s inspecting his bare feet as he says this, half sitting on the back of his desk and gripping the edge. Just as quickly, he crosses his arms in front. The cut muscles of his wide chest pop up in stark relief. Even with his t-shirt hanging loosely, I can tell he’s ripped.
“He’s afraid of your temper.” That gets his attention. His eyes meet mine. “I don’t know what that boy’s life has been like up until now, but I think I can safely assume that if his mom is in rehab, it couldn’t have been all rainbows and unicorns. You need to make a conscious effort to control your emotions around him…it would also benefit your blood pressure.”
This earns me one of his signature scowls. “Anything else?” he asks gruffly.
“Yeah, it would be nice if you could purchase some furniture.” I get a hum of approval. That went better than expected. “Are we done?”
After another nod from him, I head for the exit, my feet carrying me out the door as quickly as possible. I wouldn’t want to give him time to come up with more grievances. He’s got that look about him, the one that says he’s keeping score of every little indiscretion.
Sam is quiet for the remainder of our meal. I’ve already figured out not to push him with questions when he shuts down, and just allow him to work out of it at his own pace. After I clean up, we go upstairs because, of course, there’s no furniture in the family room, and watch television together in his bedroom. A sitcom. And it pays off. It doesn’t take long for his little boy giggles to fill the room. Once he’s tucked in bed, I pull out my copy of The Box Car Children.
“Cam,” he says in a quiet voice. Our first day together, I insisted he call me Cam, Ms. DeSantis sounding too formal for our arrangement. I explained that all my friends call me Cam, and since I consider him a friend, it would be okay if he did as well. Besides, he isn’t the type of child to be disrespectful, or take advantage.
“Yes.” I wait patiently for his solemn gray eyes to meet mine.
“Are you staying?”
“I’m staying as long as you are.”
“Promise?”
“Yup,” I say and watch a brief smile appear on his face. The sense of accomplishment I feel at making one little boy smile is ridiculous. Sitting on the bed next to him, I read until he drifts off to sleep.
Chapter Six
By Thursday, we’ve settled into a pretty comfortable routine. After breakfast, I start the lesson plan and Sam and I work straight through until lunch. After lunch, we explore more creative subjects. Some days art. Other days music. By early afternoon, we both need some fresh air so we head off to the park if the weather is decent.
As promised, Shaw lent me a car to drive. That went well…insert eye roll. If he was expecting me to lose my shit over his collection of expensive cars, he would have to wait an eternity. I don’t give a single crap about cars. As long as it’s running properly, I’m good. Inside his six door garage, he led me past one exotic sports car after another as if we were in an episode of MTV Cribs.
“You can drive this,” Shaw announced, motioning to a Yukon XL. The look on his face was…dare I say eager. What did he expect me to do? Fall to my knees and kiss his feet for the use of this gas guzzler?
“Don’t you have anything smaller?”
At my query, he leveled me with a narrowed eyed look of utter disgust. “Sorry ma’am, all out of compacts this morning.” Then he threw me the keys and stalked out.
Needless to say, after driving my mother’s Camry for last few months, driving this monster truck has been a trying experience. It’s fully decked out, with every upgrade imaginable. So to say I’m nervous that I may get a scratch on it and that I drive around like I got my license yesterday is an understatement.
By five, I have to be on my way to the bus stop if I’m to get to One Maple on time. I go in search of Shaw and my first stop is his gargantuan sized gym. I won’t even begin to list all the top of the line gym equipment. I’m not even sure the team facilities are this well equipped. It’s empty. Huh.
“Hello?”
“In here,” that deep, smooth voice answers.
Following the voice to its source, I peek into one of the rooms attached to the gym and…ooopsy. Shaw is on his stomach––with like, a hand towel draped over the pronounced globes of his behind. He’s in the middle of getting a massage from a petite blonde that looks like she weighs about as much as one of his arms. I duck my head out quickly and place my hands on my cheeks. My face feels blowtorched.
“Umm, I’m leaving––just reminding you,” I shout, keeping my back to him as I speak.
“Reminding me of what? Where are you going?” Then I hear a muffled, “Ahhh, Natalie take it easy.”
“I’m leaving for work. Sam’s dinner is on the stove. Just heat it up for him. Do you think you can do that?” Silence. “Hello?”
“How are you getting there?” he says gruffly. And once again, he seems pissed for absolutely no reason.
“Bus. I gotta get going. I should be home around two.”
As I turn to leave, I suddenly feel a large body right behind me.
“Hold up.” His voice sounds awfully close. Turning, I’m met by a wall of lightly tanned skin, and the blast of heat he’s throwing off. Instinctively, I freeze. I’m no prude, far from it, but there’s no safe place for me to look. Aesthetically speaking, his body is a work of art, sheer perfection. His muscles are thick and defined, the heavy bones of his six foot four stature perfectly proportioned.
My eyes fall and are met by the sight of a very large appendage tenting the scrap of towel he’s wearing. Good grief. And he’s not even hard. I almost feel bad for his girlfriend…or girlfriends. Who the heck knows––or cares, for that matter.
My gaze snaps up. His expression hasn’t changed, and yet I swear there’s a smile in his eyes. My face is on fire again. You could cook and egg with the heat radiating from my cheeks. I go for neutral and stare ahead, at his chest, the one smattered with fine dark hair, the one that apparently has the power to render me speechless.
“How are you getting there?” Huh? I shake off my scientific study of his nonexistent body fat. “Well?”
His voice prompts me to look back up at his face. “Bus.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“What? No, no, nooo,” I say, fervently shaking my head. “That’s not necessary. I gotta get moving, or I’ll miss my bus.”
His mitts are on his hips now, a deep v etched between his brows. “I have a hundred grand invested in you. I need you in one piece. Go tell Mercedes to watch Sam.” Without waiting for a reply, he stalks off. “Meet me in the garage,” he throws over his shoulder.
An investment. Right. It was the height of insanity to believe for just a second that this self-centered jerk could possibly be doing something for anyone’s benefit other than his own. We’ve barely said two words to each other since the office incident, and now I have to sit in a car with him for the thirty minute ride over the George Washington Bridge to Manhattan. Problem is, I don’t have time for a debate.