My shoulders droop. What’s the point if he isn’t going to be around anyway? I can just grab whatever. Maybe a taco or something.
–Nicholas: If you’re not sure yet, you can text Cody later. He’s my assistant, and he’ll take care of everything.
Nicholas sends me his assistant’s number.
I type,That sounds great. Thanks,then start to hit send, but stop. The message comes off as a little cold. But I don’t know what else to add. He’s being considerate, more so than any of my previous boyfriends, none of whom would’ve asked about a dinner they weren’t joining. I could respond how a girlfriend in a situation like this might, but something holds me back.
I end up sending the text as is. Then at five, I drive to Nicholas’s mansion.
The place is so big and empty. It wasn’t like this when Nicholas was with me. I stand there for a minute, then cup my hands around my mouth and say, “Hello?”
It echoes back, “Hello, hello, hello…” in the vast hall.
I texted Cody in the afternoon that I’d like some beef and cheese quesadillas with salsa and guacamole. I find them in the fridge, plus an array of cubed tropical fruits and cheese and other munchies.
After heating my dinner, I pull up a stool, sit at the counter and eat. The silence is heavy, despite the hum of the appliances. The kitchen might as well be a giant cave. Or the deepest, most protected section of an Egyptian pyramid, where you stick the pharaoh’s coffin.
I couldn’t feel more like an intruder.
Dinner finished, I clean up and start to go upstairs. There’s a huge, wall-mounted TV in front of a low coffee table, a sizable sofa and a couple of armchairs.
I wish Nicholas were here so we could curl up on the soft seat and watch something together. But that’s just going to remain a wish—I can’t expect him to change his routine just because of a houseguest.
I trudge up the stairs, checking my phone. No emails or texts from anybody wanting an interview. Damn it. The job market’s tight, but is it supposed to bethistight?
Rob, the real estate agent I hired, hasn’t texted with anything promising either. He only says the inventory is low unless I’m willing to up the rent I’m willing to pay. Apparently, an extra eight hundred bucks per month will do the trick.
I guess he hasn’t heard of this thing called the need to eat. A roof over your head is nice, but so is having food in your belly.
Still, it’s been less than forty-eight hours since I asked him to start looking. Something could pop up any time. And meanwhile, I’m not stuck at Owen’s place! He would’ve kicked me out for sure by end of the month, which is this Friday, so his precious Dana can move in to take my place…
Which makes me and Dana sound like interchangeable widgets. Is Owen going to get himself a new and better girlfriend if his personal brand requires an upgrade?
Maybe he’s having some kind of midlife crisis a dozen years early.
I open the door to my bedroom, then stop short, step back into the hall and look around.No, wait. Itismy room.
But I didn’t make the bed this morning. And now it’s impeccable, with the pillows arranged perfectly. It could be proudly featured on a luxury hotel website. And on the table near the reading nook is a vase full of fresh pink roses and lavender, which emit a wonderful, soothing fragrance.
In the en suite bathroom, everything’s been wiped clean. A couple bottles of lotion I left on the counter are lined up neatly along the shiny mirror. The bathrobe I used last night is gone, having been replaced by a fresh one on a hanger. The towels have been swapped out as well. The floor is spotless, and the shower stall sparkles.
I open the cabinet underneath the double vanity. The laundry hamper is there, but empty. I go to the closet and find my clothes neatly laundered, pressed and hanging. Inside the drawer, my underwear has been folded and put away. It smells faintly of the same laundry detergent that’s on Nicholas’s clothes.
Our clothes smelling the same isn’t a big deal, but seems inexplicably intimate. I didn’t feel this way when Owen and I were sharing the same detergent.
Maybe because we didn’t share the same toiletries. Owen wanted a masculine scent. He orders his soap and shampoo specially from an online store in Rome, while I just use whatever’s on sale at Target.
Then I realize a complete stranger has touched my underwear, and debate how I should feel about that. It wasn’t like Nicholas’s people were sniffing them or anything… So I should be happy…right?
In any case, it’s neat that chores I normally spend hours on every week were completed while I was at work. On the other hand, this is above and beyond what I expected when Nicholas offered me a place to stay. I thought I was just getting a bed, not housekeeping, laundry service and a private chef.
Steady footsteps click softly on the hardwood floor on the other side of the door.Nicholas.
I open the door and stick my head out. He looksdelicious. That’s the only way to describe his impact in a suit, striding like he’s master of the universe. There’s something singularly sexy about stubble shading a man’s jaw after a long, productive day at work. His cool gray eyes warm as they zero in on me, making me feel special. And I hold on to the fluttery sensation carefully, like it’s a delicate dandelion puff.
“Evening! How was your day?” he asks with a smile.
“It was good,” I say. It really wasn’t, but I shouldn’t unload all that on him. Why would he want to know about the awful texts from my dad or my unsuccessful attempts to get an apartment and a new job? “How was yours?”
