In the bedroom, I find a twin-size bed done up in crisp white linen, a dark wood dresser, and a matching desk. There isn’t room for anything else, and there’s no closet, but at least there’s another tall window. Nice. These pre-war buildings are always great for windows and high ceilings.
The bathroom has a shower with a tub, a pedestal sink, a toilet, obviously, and a small cupboard for storage. Like the bedroom, it is spotless. In the narrow galley kitchen, there’s a small sink, an expensive looking toaster oven, a hotplate, and a half-size fridge. Everything is gleaming stainless steel and Carrara marble.
Admittedly, the entire apartment is sparkling clean and new, but the stark white walls, the modern black leather furniture, and lack of décor give the place a cold, sterile feel.
Going back into the living room, which I cross in two steps, I stand in front of Windemere, who is sitting on the couch with a full manspread going.
“Where am I supposed to put all of my things? There’s not even a closet in here.”
“Don’t act like a spoiled brat. It’s not attractive. And I’m sure you’ll figure it out, or else you could donate your excess belongings to the underprivileged. I’m sure that would also be great for your image.”
I swallow an angry retort. He crosses the living room toa closed door and opens it, motioning for me to follow him. Down a short hallway, another door opens into an impressive professional kitchen. It looks like the set of some classy cooking show. He doesn’t move so I can enter the room and get a proper look. Instead, he turns to me and traps me in the hall.
“If this door is locked, it means I’m entertaining and you are not to join. Unless you’d like to watch. I suppose you could learn a thing or two.”
He smirks. A sarcastic, arrogant smirk.
With that, he ushers me into the kitchen and adds, “The house is not yours to utilize freely. You have everything you need in your apartment. But I’m going to give you a walk-through, so you know how to get to my room when I call you.”
When he calls me.
The part of me that was so certain this would work out in the end begins to waver. Maybe I’ve made a mistake. I don’t know anything about this man, and in the few minutes I’ve been here, my impression of him has gotten worse by the second. Although part of learning to become a trophy wife is learning to deal with assholes, I suppose. Who knows who I’ll end up with and what kind of temperament they might have?
I can learn to acclimate to arrogance and bad attitudes, but I refuse to put up with a man like my father. At the first sign that Nate Windemere is going to act anything like my dad, I’m out of here.
I’m led on my tour through the house, not really spending time in each room but nodding as Nate points out what lies where. The garden level has been converted intoa garage, housing a parked Italian sportscar and a workshop of some kind, complete with toolchests and cupboards. The first level—part of which was converted into my apartment—has an open floor plan with a living room, the massive kitchen and dining area, and a sizable bathroom. The second level is a guest room, an office, a library, and another bathroom. The third is an entire bedroom suite with a gorgeous original fireplace. Half the room is windows that overlook a beautiful park and a view of the Manhattan skyline.
A California King-size bed is angled to catch the morning sunlight. I don’t let my gaze linger on the bed or anything else in the room. The faint scent of Windemere’s cologne lingers here, making heat pool between my thighs. I back out of the space as soon as I can. I’m sure I’ll become familiar with this room soon enough.
The attic level is a storage space, apparently, which he doesn’t let me see. Instead, he leads me back down the stairs to the main floor.
I’m too nervous to fully take in the architecture of the place, but I can tell that a lot of money and effort has gone into renovating the building with a clean, modern appeal, while also restoring and preserving as much of the original brownstone as possible.
“Do you have any questions related to the house, Ms. Barclay?” he asks.
“No. And you should probably call me Piper if we’re fake-dating now.”
“And you should call me Nate,” he says. “Take the rest of the afternoon to get settled in your apartment. I have plans for us this evening, so be readyto leave by five.”
“Where are we going?”
He stands before me with a look of bemusement. As if I’m just a cute little thing who can’t possibly have any business asking such a question. It’s patronizing, and I hate it. But again, I’ll play his game if it gets me what I want in the end.
“Your job is to hang on my arm and look at me like you think I hung the moon. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, because you’re not going to complain, or make suggestions, or ask questions. You’ll accompany me wherever I lead you and you’ll smile while I do it.”
There are so many things I want to say, but all I do is smile, just like he wants me to. This seems to please him.
“You can head back to your apartment now.”
I turn and walk through the kitchen, seething but also a little intrigued about this man I’ll be spending the next six months of my life with. His voice calls out to me as I reach the door that leads into my small hallway.
“Piper, don’t forget—if that door is locked, you’re not to leave your apartment.”
He smirks again and my breath hitches this time because his lips pull just right, and his eyes spark with something dark and sexy. He might be a grade-A jerk, but he’s enigmatic too, and I’m afraid what that might mean for me.
“Unless I want to learn a thing or two. Got it.”
Fuck him and his smirk. Fuck him and his asshole charm. And fuck me for actually wanting him to teach me way more than a thing or two.
