He stares at me, waiting to continue.
“I just think that you probably have a lot of birds flying into it.”
Mr. Whitewater takes a moment to consider the situation. “You know, come to think of it, yes, we do. It’s almost every morning or so that I find one or two dead birds laying on the back porch.”
“Oh, how sad,” I say. “Well, I guess that’s something I can try to fix.”
Mr. Whitewater smiles at me. “Perhaps, perhaps.”
“You don’t think so?” I ask. I’m usually quite good at reading people. Waitressing for seven years has taught me that if nothing else, but I find Mr. Whitewater difficult to read and analyze. Perhaps, it’s his English accent that’s throwing me off.
“No, not at all. I just wasn’t sure that would be part of your job description.”
“I’m not sure either, but I was told that I am here to be a personal assistant and caregiver of the place. Perhaps, within the scope of those duties, I can make some time to try to prevent the deaths of one or two birds per day.”
I don’t mean to be smug and condescending, but as soon as these words come out of my mouth, I realize that I am. Luckily, Mr. Whitewater lets it slide.
I follow him to the left wing of the house, past the kitchen the size of three doublewide trailers, without another word.
“Well, here we are,” Mr. Whitewater reaches into his pocket and gets a keycard. He slides it into an opening on the card reader and then hands it to me.
“This is your room. And this is your card.”
We walk into a spacious one-bedroom suite with a full entry way leading to the living room and a large bedroom. The living room and bedroom are separated by French doors and there’s also another pair of French doors leading to the private patio outside of the bedroom.
“Wow, this is beautiful.”
Mr. Whitewater puts down my bag.
“I’m glad that it’s too your liking.”
“Yes, definitely. Thank you.”
Mr. Whitewater starts to leave, but turns around.
“Oh yes, I almost forgot. Mr. Wild is expecting you for dinner at 6 p.m. There are dresses and shoes in the closet. And you are, of course, welcome to wear your own clothes as well.”
I nod, but he doesn’t let me off the hook that easily.
“Can I tell him that you are coming?”
“Yes, of course,” I mumble.
Of course, I know that I’m supposed to meet this Mr. Wild at some point. I just didn’t think it would be so soon. No, not so soon. It’s not soon. It’s in a few hours, and I thought I’d meet him right away. I just didn’t think that it would be so formal. Dinner? Why doesn’t he just come up here? Or I could come to his office? I don’t know if I can manage a whole dinner.
After Mr. Whitewater excuses himself, I open the closet. The closet is almost as big as the bedroom!
I’ve seen these closets before. Walk-in closet with shelves lining all three walls and a large island in the middle. On elegant, real wooden hangers, I find five dresses. Pink, red, black, blue and green. Each one is more beautiful than the others. One is knee-length made of chiffon. One is short and tight with built in bra cups. I run my fingers over the dresses and inhale the luxury.
Below the dresses, I find 10 pairs of different kinds of shoes. All pristine, never worn, without one scuffed up bottom. The heels vary in size, and I quickly try on each one. The flats are the most comfortable, but the high heeled five inch heels with red bottoms make me feel most like a woman.
“Oh my God! What am I doing here?” I say out loud walking out of the walk-in closet. “People don’t do this for nothing. Why does he want me here? To live here?”
Crazy, anti-social thoughts flooded my mind. He wants something from me, and whatever he wants isn’t easy to get. But what? I shake my head. I don’t know.
I sit on the couch and put my feet up on the soft upholstered coffee table. I need to decide what to do. Hours crawl by, but I am still at an impasse. Finally close to 5:45, I decide that I will go downstairs and find out what this is all about. I’m a guest here, at least so far, and I will act like a guest. But I won’t do anything that I don’t feel comfortable with.
I look at the dresses hanging in the closet. They are beautiful, of course, but I’m not a charity case. I don’t know who this man is, and I need to retain some power in this relationship. I open my suitcase and look for the best thing that I have. Jeans are too casual. Besides, I don’t really have any without any holes in them. T-shirts are also too casual. Aha! A button-down shirt and a pair of khakis. Practical. Professional. Not too sexy. Not sexy at all, actually.
Chapter 7 - Brielle
I still had some time to kill before dinner. There was no television in the room. A part of me was relieved, yet another was horrified. My phone didn’t work and, though I brought my laptop, there was also no internet connection to be found. What the hell did people do here? I wish that I brought some paperbacks from home. My mom has an extensive collection of romance books, and a handful of those would at least keep me entertained in the evenings.
I walk over to the window. The sun is setting and hugging the whole world outside with a warm, comforting hue. This is the color of possibility. Nothing can go wrong in a world bathed in this color. I feel like that’s true, but I’m afraid it’s not. I look out of the window and see horses grazing in the distance. There’s no grass to speak off, but hay is scattered for them on the ground, and they stand with steadfast calmness, which puts me at ease.
I’ve never ridden a horse, but I’ve always wanted to. There were only a couple girls from my high school who rode horses, and both of their families were quite wealthy and owned many acres of ranch land. I always found the idea of living on a ranch very romantic, but now that I was on one, I wasn’t so sure. The idea of Mr. Wild freaks me out. What kind of elusive and crazy millionaire would ask a stranger to come and live and work in his house for a year? What did he want me from me? My mind immediately went somewhere dark and scary, and I couldn’t let it wander too much. Too much thinking, too many scary thoughts, are not good. Especially since I have to be here for some time.
On the other hand, my mind continues wandering without my permission, this isn’t mandatory. Of course, he could keep me here without my permission, but I have no indication that it’s what he means to do. So far, everyone has been nothing but nice and professional. Maybe, there’s nothing sinister about this place at all!
I look at the clock again. I have ten minutes until dinner. Most girls would need more time, but I don’t. I slowly change into my khakis and a pink button down shirt. Something about the pink shirt makes it clash with the khakis, so I try on the blue polka dot button down shirt.
“Yes, this looks much better,” I say out loud into the mirror. There’s no one around. I’m not used to having so much privacy, given that I grew up in a double-wide with my mom. I’m kind of enjoying the space and the solitude.
“This looks great,” I say to myself. I take out my hair tie and flip my head over. When I bring my head back up, my hair falls with much more volume than before. Though it’s usually as straight as straw, today it’s all in waves around my face.
“Not bad,” I smile and run my fingers through it. “Not bad at all.”
Makeup. The heat from the long ride from the airport has all but melted off whatever little amount of eyeliner and mascara I’d applied earlier this morning.
I apply a generous amount of eyeliner with my mouth open. I’m not sure what opening my mouth does for eyeliner application, but it’s been a habit since I was 13. I’ve also seen girls do it on television, so it must be how it’s done.
When all of my makeup, hair and clothes were done, I again look in the mirror, then at the clock. I still have nine minutes left! How’s that possible? Should I go down early? No, I decide. I can’t go down early.
My eyes drift back to the closet. I open it again and look at the dresses. I run my fingers over the diffe
rent fabrics. Each is different from the next. All are much more expensive than any fabric I’ve ever owned.
I start to unbutton my shirt and pulling off my pants before I even realize what I’m doing. Suddenly, I’m pulling on the dress with the thick taffeta skirt on the button. The dress poofs out at my hips, and I love how small it makes my legs and waist look.
“Amazing.”
I twirl and the dress continues without me. I try on the pair of high heels that are placed right underneath the dress. I’ve never heard of the company, but I love how pointy the front is and how high the heels are.
I twirl again in front of the window.
I feel like I’m a princess. The fabric feels amazing next to my skin. The taffeta skirt hides my hips and emphasizes my breasts. The polka dots make me feel young, friendly and alive.
I look back at the clock. I still have a few minutes before dinner. If I want to change.
“You should change,” I say to myself in the mirror, but the girl who looks back at me doesn’t want to.
“If I don’t ever see Mr. Wild again, if I leave tonight after dinner, then at least I got to wear this beautiful dress once,” I reason.
I’m rationalizing. Justifying. Trying to give myself reasons to wear it. But I don’t need to. I want to wear it. That should be enough.
“Okay,” I look in the mirror. “Okay, this is it.”
I walk down the elaborate and ornate staircase in my taffeta polka dot dress and high heels. My steps are cautious and deliberate. All I hear is the sound my shoes make when they hit the marble and echo off the walls. The walls are lined with beautiful ornate rugs I’ve only seen in expensive stores on Rodeo Drive. The stairs are a little slippery, and I hold on to the railing. Why they don’t put some of those rugs on the staircase is beyond me.
I remember where the kitchen is, and I see Mr. Whitewater in the distance. Near the dining room. I take a deep breath and nearly float the rest of the way over.
“Ms. Brielle Cole, thank you for coming,” Mr. Whitewater says to me. He’s holding a tray and one tall glass with something in it.
“Would you care for some champagne with strawberries?”
I nod, and he hands me the glass.
“Mr. Wild is waiting for you in the library.”
Library? I wasn’t shown a library before! My heart skips a beat. I’m not sure who I’m more excited to see: Mr. Wild or the library. The presence of a library solves the entire problem of what the hell I’m going to do in my room when I’m not working.
Mr. Whitewater takes me down a hallway which was not part of today’s tour. In the end, he turns off to the right into a large spacious room entirely covered in books. Books line every imaginable part of it, from floor to ceiling. The ceiling is about twenty feet, just like in the rest of the house. What really makes the place special is the large bay window overlooking an orange grove.
There’s a man sitting there in the shadows. I can’t see his face, but I can see his well fitted suit and handsome profile. His hair is brushed back and his nose reminds me a Roman emperor.
“Mr. Wild. May I present, Ms. Brielle Elizabeth Cole,” Mr. Whitewater announces.
I’ve never been presented before! I don’t know what to do. Mr. Wild gets up and approaches me. His walk is deliberate and considerate. His shoes are so shiny they are bouncing light into my eyes even though it’s relatively dark in the library. So dark, in fact, that I can barely make out his face.
“Ms. Brielle Cole,” Mr. Wild says. Immediately, his voice sounds incredibly familiar, but I can’t place it. Do I know him? How in the world would I know him?
Finally, Mr. Wild steps into the light and I see his face.
It’s him!
No, it can’t be! Can it?
My mouth runs dry. I can’t speak.
It’s the guy from the café. The one who drives the Bentley. The one who asked me out twice!
“It’s very nice of you to join me,” Mr. Wild says extending his hand. I don’t know what to do. I take his hand and bend down at the knees before him. Just a bit, but enough for him to notice.
“What are you doing?” Wyatt smiles. “Did you just curtsy?”
Wyatt tilts his head back and laughs. His laugh is deep and strong and the sounds of which echo around the books in the library.
“Don’t laugh,” I finally say. My mouth is still entirely dry, but I manage to get the words out without a crack. “Why are you laughing?” I ask. I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean to curtsy, but I’ve never been presented before. For some reason, it seemed to be like the right thing to do. Agh, I’m so stupid! I feel my cheeks growing hot, but Wyatt doesn’t stop laughing.
“Why are you laughing?” I ask again. Now, my embarrassment is turning into anger. I make a fist and I get ready to punch him. Maybe not in that beautiful face of his, but at least in the shoulder, or chest or stomach, at the very least.
“I’m sorry,” Wyatt says, still chuckling. “I just never had anyone curtsy for me before. I gotta say, I kinda liked it. Maybe you can do it again later tonight.”
“It was an accident. I’m definitely not going to do it again later tonight.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry!” he says sarcastically. “I’m just having a good time with you, Brielle. Lighten up.”
I take a moment to collect my thoughts. The curtsy has definitely broken the ice, but it got us nowhere closer to where we needed to be. I have so many questions for this man. The last man on earth, I thought I would see.
“Why am I here, Wyatt?” I ask.
I’m trying to be as serious as I can be. Even though, a huge part of me is relieved that Mr. Wild is NOT some 70-year-old man with hemorrhoids.
“What do you mean?” he asks, nonchalantly. As if he has nothing to explain. Nothing to hide.
“Why am I here?” I shrug. “What do you want from me?”
He shifts his weight from one foot to another and looks down.
“I don’t know. I don’t really have an answer,” he finally says.
“You don’t? You brought me all the way over here, and you don’t have an answer?”
“No, not really,” he shakes his head. “I just wanted you to come. You didn’t want to go out with me…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. I wait for him to complete it.
“I didn’t want to go out with you, so you decided to bring me here for a year. Force me to work for you?”
That gets his attention. And insults him, judging from how red his face gets.
“You are free to leave anytime, Ms. Cole,” Wyatt looks straight at me. “You’re not my slave or anything like that. Who do you think I am?”
I shake my head. Now, it’s my turn to get incensed. “No, I can’t. Not really, though,” I say.
“Yes, you can.”
“You paid for my Momma’s very expensive treatment, Wyatt. I really appreciate it. Why? Why did you do that?”
“Because I heard that she needed help. You needed help.”
“But there are millions of people in the world to help. Why me?”
“Okay, there you got me,” he shrugs. “I did it because I like you. I wanted to help you. I didn’t want you to lose her. I heard she’s doing really good.”
“Yes, she is. And I’m very grateful for that. I want you to know that I am.”
“Great, that’s what I wanted to hear.”
“But I still don’t understand this,” I wave my hands in between both of our chests. He grabs my hand and wraps his warm, strong fingers around each wrist. My heart skips a beat. I feel a surge of electricity pass through him to me. It’s just a spark, but it makes me feel warm all over. All the shivers and uncertainty that I’d felt before dissipates. Now, I just want him to kiss me. I want him to keep holding my wrists and for him to slam his body into mine.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. I don’t know how long he’s been holding my wrists, but I never want him to stop.
“
I wanted you…” he whispers. Wyatt takes a beat and looks straight into my eyes. “I want you.”
That’s it. The words just hang there in between us. I don’t want to breath in or out for fear that I will make them dissipate.
“You want me?” I whisper. He stares at me. “You want me to do what?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Nothing you don’t want to do. I just want you here.”
I nod. I don’t understand, but I don’t really need to right now.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Mr. Wild? Ms. Cole?” Mr. Whitewater says. “Dinner is ready.”
Wyatt hands me my glass of champagne. At some point, I had put it down on the coffee table, but I have no memory of doing that.
“This is delicious,” I whisper.
“Yes, it’s quite lovely,” Wyatt smiles. “We grow the strawberries ourselves. Fresh from the garden.”
I bite into a strawberry. Its flavor explodes in my mouth and fills my nose and mouth with the most luxurious aroma I’ve ever experienced.
“Thank you for wearing one of the dresses,” Wyatt whispers over my shoulder as I follow Mr. Whitewater down the hallway. “I know it wasn’t easy for you.”
I turn back. How does he know that? What the hell do you know about me? I want to ask, but I know he’s right.
“I don’t want to make you mad. I just want to say, thank you. You look stunning.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. Though I have no idea why he’s thanking me for it.
“It’s just such a treat for me,” Wyatt explains as if he knows what I was thinking.
His words send shivers up my spine.
The large 12-person table that I had seen in the dining room earlier that day is gone. Now, there’s a small table there instead. It’s elegantly set with sparkling silverware and crystal glasses. The plates are ivory white, and the pottery is so magnificent, I can’t help but touch it.
“I love these plates,” I say running my fingers over the middle of my plate. Then I realize that this is probably really not polite. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” I say, embarrassed.
The Baby Contract: A Single Dad Romance Page 25