“Yes.”
He punches in the code slowly so I can see it. Then he opens the door, takes a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, and holds it out to me. “This is your schedule for the next month. You’re to follow it exactly. You should have no conflicts because I own your time now.”
Briefly meeting his eyes, I take the paper from his surprisingly beautiful fingers and step inside the entryway. I’m not paying attention to my surroundings, though,because the schedule he’s put together has my full attention. Every single day has something filled in, both morning and night.
“I mentioned to you that I teach dance three times a week,” I tell him. “You never asked me about my work hours, and on this calendar all my shifts are booked.”
“I made it clear that you’re in my employ seven days a week. You won’t be teaching during our arrangement.”
I bristle. “It should be negotiable. I’m a teacher. I can’t just abandon my classes.”
“You’re not a teacher. You’re a spoiled little rich girl who needed to soothe some misplaced guilt over your privilege by helping kids learn how to pirouette.”
Jerking back as if I just got slapped, I blurt, “Excuse me?”
My cheeks heat with anger. I knew he could be cold at times, but I didn’t peg him for a full-on asshole.
Handling confrontation has never been my forte, and normally, like my mother, I prefer to remain quiet and let the storm pass. But Windemere’s words have sparked something inside of me, and I can’t hold my tongue.
“I happen to be averyaccomplished dancer,” I say firmly. “I was majoring in dance at Tisch, in fact.”
There’s that smirk again. “Good for you.”
“Anyway, the point is, I love teaching and I’m not willing to give it up.”
“But you will.”
“I won’t. It’s good for my image,” I argue. “I’m trying to reinvent myself as a marketable wife, remember? Who doesn’t love a ballerina?”
He arches one brow, and for a second I think he’s considering it. “No.”
Okay. I’m going to have to dig deep for this, I see. My eyes rove down his body and land on his crotch before sweeping back up to grab his gaze. “Ballet keeps me flexible.”
A muscle in the side of his cheek jumps. “I…suppose we can work with it. Three times a week, you said?”
“My classes are an hour each. In the afternoon.”
“Very well.”
Huh. That was easier than I thought it would be.
He gestures for me to go inside and follows behind me. The small entryway opens into a very modest one-bedroom apartment. We’re in the living room, and from here I can see doorways leading into the bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchenette.
“This is…cute,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. I’m used to having a lot more space than this. The bedroom looks smaller than my former walk-in closet.
He moves around me and spreads his hands at the space. “This is the perfect size. It has everything you need to be self-contained and out of my hair when I don’t want to be in your company. You have recreational space, a bedroom and bathroom of your own, a recently remodeled kitchen. What the hell more do you want? It’s five-hundred square feet.”
“Five hundred?” I say dubiously.
“That ispalatialby New York City standards,” he says, clearly losing his patience.
So I’ve been spoiled. I can admit that. But the living room is barely ten feet across if I’m lucky. A sofa, chair, andglass coffee table take up most of the available area. The flat-screen TV is mounted to the wall, and a blessedly large window looks out onto a back garden and brick walls.
“How’s the wi-fi?” I ask.
“It’s excellent.”
“Hm.”
