by Alexis Hall
I’d said too much. I’d said way too much.
He was quiet for ages. Long enough for my insides to curdle.
And then, in the sharpest tone he’d ever used with me: “Arden, I find your persistent conviction that you’re ordinary extremely irritating.”
I stared at him, jolted out of self-consciousness about my masturbatory habits. Somehow I’d annoyed him. And it was terrifying. Like when he was aroused—the same ferocity, but none of the heat or the thrill. He was giving me frostbite in my heart.
“I’m sorry?” I tried.
“Then stop doing it.”
I nodded frantically. “I will, I will. Um, stop doing what?”
“Telling this lie to yourself and others.”
“Which lie?” My brain was so mushed I could barely remember what we were talking about. “That I’m kind of ordinary? That’s not a lie. It’s—”
His hand came down over my mouth. “What did I just say?”
“Mh mhm mgfh mh,” I explained, “mgfhmh mgfhm mhhm mh mh mhm mgh.” Which had started life as I can’t tell you, because your hand is in the way.
He stared down at me, anger fading, ice thawing. And then, very slowly, let me go. “Enough of this nonsense.”
I dazedly touched my lips, where I could still feel the pressure of his palm. I wasn’t exactly scared of him, just oddly shaken. And convinced I’d accidentally perpetrated an enormous fraud. I mean, it was super nice that he seemed to feel there was something remarkable about me but what was going to happen when he discovered there wasn’t?
“The thing is,” I said quietly, “I’ve been to Oxford. I’m sleeping with you. I know what extraordinary looks like. And I’m just me.”
One of Caspian’s brows lifted into a devastating arch. “Are you truly telling a man who made his first million at twenty-one and his first billion at twenty-five that you are better qualified than he to judge what is extraordinary?”
“Yeah but…millions. Some of my coats don’t even have buttons.”
“You’re not listening to me.” Unexpectedly, he smiled, a swift, lovely thing, as unhesitating as a rapier thrust. “That, in itself, takes a courage few possess.”
It wasn’t courage so much as utter overwhelm, but I thought it was probably best to keep my mouth shut.
His breath fell softly against my lips like its own, ephemeral kiss. “You’re always yourself no matter where you are or who you’re with. You’re generous and passionate and honorable. You make me laugh. And, though many would believe me the last person on earth to need it, you’ve always been kind to me.”
Oh. My. God.
The wanking-related blushes were nothing compared to the hellish inferno currently raging on my face. My head was Jackson Pollock whirly, and for a moment or two, I thought I might cry. But I just about managed to control myself.
Gave an unconvincing bleaty laugh instead.
“I guess you’re right,” I said, “I am pretty awesome.”
He leaned in and took my face between his hands. His fingers were cool and light, his touch so cautiously tender that I had another struggle with my tear ducts. “You are,” he told me.
I gave him the world’s soupiest smile. He didn’t return it—Caspian Hart probably couldn’t look soupy if he tried—but for a moment his eyes were summer day gentle. And I thought maybe it didn’t matter if he was right or wrong or defrauded deranged to think all these bizarrely wonderful things about me. Only that he did.
I thought he might kiss me, but he didn’t, disentangling himself instead. “I have to…that is…I should leave.”
And, this time, I knew it wasn’t rejection. I gave him my best smile—“Of course you do. Those billions aren’t going to make themselves”—and let him go.
For a long time after he was gone, I lay there in a happy stupor, in the bed that was still warm from both of us and smelled very faintly of his cologne and his pleasure. The main thought running through my head was: He likes me. He really likes me.
It was late enough that falling asleep didn’t feel like a total cop-out. Even though technically I could have got up and done useful things, or at least made myself some toast. But I just snuggled down and slipped contentedly into unconsciousness.
Had an absolutely amazing dream.
I was chained up in a dungeon—a proper one, not some sort of BDSM playroom—arms over my head in rusty shackles. Someone was hurting me, the details of it all hazy because it was a dream, until I was running with sweat and blood. And so hard I could have drilled through the stone walls. And then they were inside me. Buried deep enough to burn. One hand at my throat.
And it was Caspian.
Telling me I was generous and passionate and honorable as he took me and hurt me and left me breathless.
Though, of course, I woke up alone.
To another bouquet of fucking roses.
Chapter 19
Caspian was elusive after that. Busy, I guess? At any rate, it turned out guests weren’t a problem, as long as I gave Bellerose enough notice to clear it with security and update Caspian’s diary so he knew I wasn’t available.
I was actually super excited to see Nik. And I think he was happy to see me—although it was slightly overshadowed by his reaction to the apartment.
“Holy fuckballs,” he said, his bag slipping off his shoulder and thumping onto the floor. “When you said to meet you at Hyde Park, I assumed you were just using it as a landmark and we’d be off to some scuzzy bedsit you were renting in Peckham.”
“Yeah, I’m just crashing here while my crack den is being repainted.”
Nik turned dazedly, his eyes skidding over glass and silk and marble, much as mine had done when I’d first arrived. As, to be fair, they still did because I wasn’t sure how you ever got used to a place like this. “Seriously, Arden. How can you afford it?”
It was an entirely reasonable question. “I’m housesitting, I guess? For a friend?”
“What friend? Mohamed Al-Fayed?”
“Um”—crunch time—“Caspian Hart.”
I was being gaped at. I shuffled my feet.
“Do you want to maybe not stand in the hall?” I asked. “There’s a sitting area. And a receiving area.”
“Sure. Why the hell not. Receive me.”
I didn’t, in the end, receive him. The sitting area was cozier—cozier, that is, by the standards of the apartment. Meaning it looked basically like a magazine except the pearl-gray sofa was only very large as opposed to inconceivably vast. You could have fit all my friends and family into the receiving area with room to spare. Here they would have had to squish up.
“Let me get this straight.” Nik sank onto a chair. “Your…friend…Caspian Hart. Is letting you stay in his home?”
I curled up in the corner bit of the sofa. Sofas with corner bits were the best sofas and this one, being an elegant U-shape, had two. “It’s not his home. It’s just one of his houses. He was very clear about that.”
“Right. But he’s just letting you stay here?”
“Only for six months.”
“It’s not the duration that’s confusing me here.”
“Is it really so weird that Caspian Hart would offer his multimillion-pound luxury— Okay, yes, it’s weird. The truth is, I’m sleeping with him.”
“You’re dating Caspian Hart?”
“No, just sleeping with him.” Squirm. “And while that’s happening, this is where I’m living.” Squirm. “I know it’s a bit prostitutey.”
He stared at me. “Are you kidding me? I think it’s awesome. Look at this stuff.”
“Isn’t it neat?” I mustered a limp smile.
“Oh come on. You don’t feel bad, do you?”
“Sometimes. A little bit. I mean”—awkward gesture—“this place is just…and I’m not really…”
“Not really what?”
“Worth it.” Eep. That sounded bad. “I mean,” I added hastily, “in a literal exchange of goods and services way.”
<
br /> “You’re not fungible, Ardy.”
“Damn right I’m not. I’m very hygienic.”
He laughed. “Boom tish. I just meant, it’s all proportional. He’s a multibillionaire who keeps this place around as his spare…I don’t know what. This is nothing to him. And you’re something.”
I blinked. He actually had a point. Caspian wanted me. Within certain limitations, admittedly, but he wanted me. And it wasn’t like I’d be any less interested in being with him if the apartment was no longer on offer. Cards on the table, I was secretly hoping he’d still be into me when it wasn’t.
“Besides”—Nik was once again gazing at the magnificence—“I think I’d sleep with him if he let me stay here. And I’m straight.”
“I think that makes you heteroflexible at the very least.”
He grinned. “No, just mercenary.”
“What about the time—”
Before I could remind him about the enthusiastically received hand job delivered by yours truly, he’d bounced off the sofa. “Can I get the guided tour?”
“Um, sure.”
It didn’t take very long because everything was laid out to look as impressive as possible, which meant most of the rooms flowed together. But Nik gasped and cooed and squee-ed over everything, turned on all the devices, opened all the cupboards, poked and prodded and peered, and rolled around on the guest bed like an excited golden retriever. And, for the first time since I’d moved in, I felt…not at home exactly, but unambiguously happy to be there. It was that naughty holiday feeling you got from staying at a posh hotel, knowing you could flump around in the branded dressing gowns and use the fancy shampoo in the tiny bottles.
“This is the best.” Nik waved his arms and legs in the air. “I wish I hadn’t got onto this research project now. I could have stayed here, leeching off you.”
“No, you couldn’t. Caspian is going to want to, y’know…bone down on me at some point.” Soon, I hoped.
“You could put a sock on the door.”
“Go fuck your own billionaire.”
Grinning, Nik sat up and gave me what he probably thought was a coy glance. “Well, at least show me a good time tonight.”
I’d always been nervy of taking advantage of Caspian’s generosity. Which, in practice, meant living on Coco Pops and pretending not to exist. Honestly, if there’d been a cupboard under the stairs, I’d probably have moved into it. But he’d given me access to a lot of really cool stuff and Nik didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with what I was doing so…maybe…just this once?
“Come on, then,” I said, holding out my hand. “Let’s live the high life.”
I took him down to the pool, which was way less murdery when I wasn’t on my own. And afterward we tried out the sauna, where I got to enjoy the sight of a largely naked and incredibly glisteny Nik. Unfortunately, I think I probably just looked pink and fainty—so I removed joint sauna taking off the list of sexy things I could daydream about doing with Caspian.
I’d never quite been able to wrap my head around the fact that the building had its own spa—but it really did, and they welcomed us lavishly enough that it made me self-conscious. Nik seemed pretty happy, though, as he was whisked off to do this special gentleman treatment thing called a power lift facial that wouldn’t threaten his masculinity. Since I gave no fucks about my masculinity, I had a rose-themed series of massages that left me limp and fragrant from toes to scalp.
“Wow.” Back at the flat, Nik had raided the fridge, poured a glass of the water I hadn’t dared drink, and draped himself over the sofa I usually perched on. “I can’t imagine being able to do this every day.”
“I don’t,” I protested. “Mainly I spend my time failing to be a journalist.”
Nik gave me a look. “I think you have to actually do something to fail at it.”
“You mean I’m failing at failure?”
“You’ve hardly been here five seconds.”
“Yeah, I know.” I heaved out a tragic sigh. “But I was supposed to have applied for internships and I didn’t, so now I’ll have to approach people and pitch stuff and waaaah!”
“Hey,” he started dramatically, “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you approach people and pitch stuff?”
I pouted.
“What? You know you’re a good writer.”
“Maybe at university. But this is the real world now. The stakes are different.”
“Not really. It’s the same pool of people if you think about it.”
Huh. “I guess.”
“Then maybe…write something?”
I opened my mouth—
“And don’t whimper about it.”
“But I’m so cute when I’m whimpering.”
“Save it for your billionaire.”
I whimpered anyway. “I don’t know what to write about.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Nik gazed around the flat. “Nothing to write about here.”
“I can’t…OMG. That would be a total violation of Caspian’s trust.”
“I’m not suggesting you give us a blow-by-blow of your relationship. But isn’t this lifestyle magazine gold dust?”
“Regular reader of those, are you?”
“I went to school with half the people who show up in Milieu these days so”—he blushed—“yeah. Of course I am.”
Oh my God, too adorbs. I just had to tease him. “And how else would you know what handbag Kate Middleton is carrying.”
“Hey, hey.” Nik got, if possible, even pinker. “They do this watch and sports car pullout, which is amazing.”
More famous still was The List, which was a rundown of the UK’s top hundred most eligible single people. I could vaguely remember a time when it had been bachelors only but yay for social equality. Last year Caspian Hart had been number seven, sandwiched between Prince Harry and Phoebe Collings-James. Not that I’d looked it up or anything. Ahem.
“It would be completely amazing to work for Milieu,” I said dreamily.
“Then get scribbling.” Nik had obviously reached his limit for talking about my feelings—which, to be fair, was higher than you’d expect for someone whose preferred emotional outlet was running really fast or lifting heavy things. “Is there anything to eat around here?”
“Coco Pops? Or I could make toast.”
“Seriously? People who live in places like this dine on breakfast cereal?”
“Well, no. There’s private chefs and restaurants I could call, I guess. Or there’s…what’s it called…in-residence catering from the hotel next door.”
“Isn’t that one of Heston Blumenthal’s places?” Nik gave me starving puppy eyes.
I winced, very aware I was being a rubbish host. Bellerose had explicitly told me I had access to, well, basically anything I could imagine wanting. But running up a massive bill felt seedy as all hell. “Let me check, okay?”
I left Nik devouring the menu on my laptop and went into the hall to phone Bellerose. He picked up on the second ring.
“Yes?”
“Um.” Was I ever going to manage to talk to Caspian’s assistant, either in person or at a distance, without feeling gauche and stupid? Our survey said: no. “You know how I’ve got my friend Nik staying?”
“Yes.”
“Well, is it okay if we order dinner from the hotel restaurant?”
There was a sharp little silence.
“Yes, Arden. It is okay if you order dinner from the hotel restaurant. If you’re very good, you can even stay up till eleven.”
Great. Now I wanted to curl up and die. “This is your way of telling me I shouldn’t be bothering you, isn’t it?”
He hung up.
Ow. Ow. Ow.
Nik was still glued to the screen when I slunk back. “Ardy, this menu is totally whack.”
“Order the whole damn thing if you like.”
“Don’t tempt me.” He glanced up. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
; He held out an arm and I snuck in gratefully beside him. Tried to distract myself with the familiar warmth of his body. And the menu, which was, indeed, whack. “I don’t think I know what any of this is.”
“We could roll a dice.”
“Nerd.”
“Or pick for each other.”
Sensing a prime opportunity to troll my beloved friend, I perked up and went for it. “Let’s do that. You’re having Rice & Flesh to start.”
His eager little face went through several variations of perturbation, distress, and apprehension. “Well, fine. You can have the Savory Porridge. Which is frog legs, garlic, parsley, and fennel. Mmmmmmm. Sounds delicious.”
I’m pretty sure my own little face turned gray. “Yay,” I said weakly. “I love fennel.”
Sadly the mains and desserts offered a lot less opportunity for mischief, though we did our best. I tormented Nik by ordering him a dish just called Braised Celery, which made him get me the most expensive beef thing on the menu—bone in rib, apparently—on the expectation he could share it with me when the braised celery turned out to be a bust. Because, as Nik put it, fucking celery, man. For pudding, we went with Sambocade, which was apparently a kind of goat milk cheesecake, and an apple tart, the description of which contained absolutely no references to apples.
While I phoned through the order, Nik opened a bottle of champagne. He’d chosen one of the less-extravagant-looking bottles—just dark green glass, foil that seemed to hover somewhere between gold and silver, and an austere label reading CHAMPAGNE KRUG CLOS DU MESNIL 1988—so hopefully it wasn’t too expensive.
All that time I’d spent thinking champagne was meh? Turned out I was wrong. Very very wrong.
“This,” said Nik, “is like…if there was a unicorn made out of vanilla and sparkles, and it was running through a field of primroses on a spring morning to meet its best unicorn friend for honey cakes…like…if that was champagne.”
I nodded. “Or like…if you had a pear, right, that had lived a life of absolute virtue and had reached a higher state of pear…and if that pear was nestled into the bosom of a nymph, with flowers in her hair, bathing in a crystalline spring in the Elysium fields.”