11
PIPER-LILY
After three hoursof trying to figure out where to put my things, I give up and leave most of my clothes in my suitcases. Half of the outfits are Cleo’s anyway, so maybe I’ll just return them to her and borrow as needed. I’m sure she won’t mind. As far as she knows, I’m still staying with my parents in the Hamptons, so luckily I don’t have to make excuses for seeing her so infrequently.
There’s just enough room in the bathroom cupboard to hold my cosmetics and toiletries, and I line up my shoes under the bed. Then I spend a fair amount of time staring at the small bed in the even smaller room, missing the slate blue linen duvet my mom picked out for my dorm room, the driftwood art piece she mounted over the headboard, the vintage rug she bought with its faded neutral tones.
With all the stark white and black in this apartment, I feel like I’m staying in the waiting room for a robotics company or something.
Yes, I’m being petty. And I really do appreciate that the place is spotlessly clean, that the electronics are state of theart, that the countertop in the kitchenette is gleaming marble. The floors are clean enough to eat off of, and the furniture is actually pretty stylish if you’re into that modern Bond villain aesthetic. Still, it’s the most anonymous, soulless place I’ve ever set foot inside and I’m not quite sure how to get comfortable here. My mom’s lifetime of decorating has ruined me for design.
And yes, I realize I am horribly spoiled. Windemere called me out on it. It’s hard not to be when you grew up with a father who insisted on the best of everything regardless of cost, with a mother who loved adding warmth and color and personality to every room, and with your every want and whim catered to. It’s going to be hard to adjust here, and not just because of this apartment.
How do I tolerate the insufferable man I’ve agreed to be tied to for the next half a year?
I’m scrolling fruitlessly through entry level job listings when Cleo texts to see if I want to go out later and sleep over at her place afterward. Not only am I not in a hurry to relive my club experience, but I’m also sure Windemere—I mean, Nate—would never agree to letting me hang out with my bestie, let alone spend the night somewhere else.It’s not on the schedule, I imagine him telling me.
Wish I could
I text her back,
but I’m not feeling the commute time tonight. Soon though? Love you.
Lying to my BFF makes me feel like crap, but until I’mready to spill the truth to her about my new situationship, it’s probably a good idea to avoid her. She knows me better than anyone, and I won’t be able to keep my secret for very long once she notices that something is up with me. And shewillnotice.
Realizing the time, I abandon my self-pity and get ready for my mysterious first outing. Nate didn’t give me a clue where we’re going, so I have no idea what to wear. Presumably if it were some kind of black-tie event, he’d have let me know.
I decide to go for classy casual. Rummaging through the generous amount of outfits Cleo loaned me, I select a pair of designer jeans, an olive-colored silk blouse, and a pair of leopard heels. I keep my hair loose around my shoulders and my makeup understated.
Normally, I love color, and experimenting with touches of bright makeup used to be a fun hobby. I’m an expert at applying stage makeup for my students and really making their little faces pop beneath the bright lights. I’m not sure I feel the same, now. It’s better to downplay my appearance and not call attention to myself. I’m a harder target for the paparazzi if I can blend in with a crowd.
There’s a knock on the connecting door just as I put in my second earring. Nate walks in without waiting for me to answer. His broad, fit chest is hugged in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled just above his wrists. Black slacks and gleaming Italian leather shoes give him a dangerous, dark edge. He looks like a sexy mafioso dressed like that. His hair is slicked back, but ever-so-slightly tousled. My fingers ache to run through the silky strands.
Damn, he looks good.
His gaze sweeps over me as I step into the living room, affixing my earring. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
Right. Just what every girl wants to hear. I look down at my outfit and then nod.
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll be changing anyway. Let’s go.”
He ushers me out to his car. It smells like leather and his body-thrumming cologne. I fasten my seatbelt and sit quietly as we head into the city traffic, fuming over the way he treated me. How dare he criticize my clothes when he gave me zero indication as to what I was expected to wear? And on top of that, telling me I’ll be changing anyway? If that’s true, why mention my outfit at all? Just to belittle and degrade me? This man is intolerable. It only makes it worse that he’s so hot.
Minutes tick by before he speaks.
“We have a stop to make and then a dinner reservation. I expect you to be amenable to whatever comes your way this evening with no more of the bratty complaining I witnessed earlier.”
I’m feeling pretty annoyed about this outing, but I know my role here, and honestly, I don’t have it in me to argue with him anyway. “Don’t worry, Mr. Windemere. I’ll be the perfect date.”
He huffs an amused breath. “Nate. Remember? You’re my pretend girlfriend. You should call me by my first name.”
“Right. Anything you wish.Nate.”
It’s meant to come out neutral, but my tone is sassier than I intended. I don’t get a rebuke, but I do notice theway he grips the steering wheel tighter. I’ve either annoyed him or turned him on. Point to me either way.
After about thirty minutes of stop and go traffic, we pull up to a luxury hotel in Lincoln Square—The Regent Hotel. It’s the same hotel where The Quattuor Group has their offices. Where I first met Nate. I’ve never stayed here as a guest, but it has an excellent reputation. It’s right up there with The Plaza, The Ritz-Carlton, and the Mandarin Oriental.
“Are we…picking something up from your office first?” I ask, ignoring the no questions rule.
