Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (12 page)

“What do you
‘really’
eat?”

As if he can’t bear to look at a dish of healthy food, he slams the dome back down over the plate. He then lifts the second dome and, seemingly okay with the fruits and oatmeal, plucks up a slice of kiwi and pops it in his mouth. “Fat. Carbs. Sugar. Acid. Gluten. All that’s supposedly unhealthy and unholy and hazardous to your health.”

Now my eyebrows are kissing the ceiling. “Wha—b-but how do you…” Unable to formulate the words, I gesture my hand up and down his flawless, fat-free, model-type body, which is encased impeccably in a navy-blue suit. Platinum cufflinks. Expensive watch. Blood-red tie. Shadowed jaw. Groomed black hair.

He’s too perfect to be real.

“You mean how do I eat like Henry VIII and still look like a…” He pauses. Grins. “
Abercrombie
?”

I smile. He’s back. The man who dove into the back of my cab. The man I ran with at the park. Who swore he’d come looking for me if I didn’t show up. “Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells. That’s exactly what I mean.”

His eyes knot themselves with mine. “Thought I told you not to call me that.”

Folding my arms in disobedience, I lean back against the sink. “And I thought I told you that I would.”

“I’m the boss,” he argues.

“All the more appropriate to address you as
Mr. Van Der Wells
.”

He shakes his head, incredulous. “Why are you so determinedly stubborn?”

“Because I can be?”

He watches at me with an expression I don’t quite understand, his eyes steady on my face, as if memorizing every detail, before dipping to the modest neckline of my uniform. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.” The words come out in a hoarse mumble, and it sounds as though the words weren’t meant to be said aloud.

“Huh?” I return, pretending to have missed his utterance.

This drags his eyes back to my face, and he straightens, shoulders squaring as he clears his throat. “Your mouth. It’s going to land you in serious trouble if you don’t learn to control it.”

“Lies never get you in trouble. Only the truth does,” I retort. “If my mouth lands me in trouble for spitting the truth, at least I’ll go down an honest woman.”

His middle finger is tapping on the counter, eyes on me, as if he’s contemplating whether or not it’s worth it to start a war of words with me. Or if he has the time for it.

I see the moment he decides it’s not and chooses to abort. He picks up another piece of fruit and shoves it in his mouth.

“To answer your question,” he starts once he’s done chewing, “I run for ninety minutes in the morning, and I work out in the gym at work for longer in the evenings. I don’t like working out. At all. In fact, I
loathe
it. I wish I didn’t have to. But, see, I
love
food. Unhealthy food. The ‘avoid’ foods. I love food so much that there was a time when I chose it over my health. I proclaimed I’d rather die than not be able to eat whatever the hell I wanted. Sadly, that almost happened. I decided I needed to find a way to both eat what I want and live a healthy life. There’s no fun in burning twice as much calories as I eat each day, but there’s a reward in eating a slice pizza or a burger if I want to without feeling guilty about it. These muscles,” he flexes his biceps like Popeye, “they’re my best friends. They’ve got my back. The more muscles I have, the higher my metabolism, and the more fat I burn, even while I sleep. As long as I’m lifting and building muscles and burning more calories than I eat, I’m good.” 

I nod, understanding his passion for food. That he would put in over three hours of exercise each day just so he can eat whatever he wants. “So, you’re saying you work out for the love of food.
Not
because you’re gunning to outdo Michelangelo’s David?”

“This body—which is a thousand times better than Michelangelo’s David, by the way—is just a bonus.” His eyes are laughing at me. “Anyway, no more of this death food unless Mom’s here, alright? I’ll grab something on the way to work. Will also let you know what I want for dinner by noon.”

“Cool.”

He’s halfway out when he suddenly turns and gives me a pointed stare. “And, Lotty, I expect you be courteous, polite, and respectful to everyone who passes through this apartment.”

I’m a little thrown at first, but then I remember Sienna. He’d been listening to us? When he was returning from his run, or after? Huh. Maybe both. Not cool. Either way, he heard me being a brat.

I make a face. “She’s a—”

“
Everyone
,” he reiterates, his tone brooks no argument, cutting me off.

Although I want to pout, I’m supposed to be more mature than that, so I fire back instead, “You lied to me.”

An eyebrow arches. “About?”

“You told me you didn’t encourage infidelity,” I remind him. “And that woman, Sienna, she’s
engaged.
”

And down comes that mask, his gaze cool, jaw tight. “That…with her…with her it’s different.”

“Different how? Cheating is cheat—”

“Charlotte Cooley, I’d like you to
shut up
and conduct yourself in the manner I’ve asked,” he grounds out, eyes ablaze.

No, I don’t feel like shutting up, because he’s a big fat liar. Which makes me wonder what else he’s lied about.

Nevertheless, his reaction hints that this is a sensitive subject for him, so I make a noncommittal noise in my throat and turn to the sink to resume washing the dishes, giving him my back.

I hear him hesitate behind me. Ignore it.

A moment later, his footfalls fade away, and then the ping of the elevator notifies me he’s gone.

Only then do I allow my scoff to manifest. I have absolutely no intention of ever being courteous, polite, or respectful to Sienna Slut-On-A-Stick Sullivan.

S
IX

T
URNS OUT CLEANING
a penthouse isn’t as menial a task as it seems. For one, the mess is superficial, and once I looked past the litter here and there, what’s left is sleek furniture and spotless walls and floors.

Noah’s problem, I realize as I work my way around the lower floor, is that he doesn’t make nice with his garbage bins, his laundry basket, nor his kitchen sink. It’s more amusing than annoying, to be honest.

To see these well-put-together businessmen, stopping hearts and crippling souls with their sharp suits, crisp smiles, and expensive essences. The ultimate picture of perfection….until we step inside their homes.

Shambolic little bastards.

Scooping up two armfuls of Noah’s garments that I’d been picking up piece by piece around the apartment, dumping them on the sofa, and watching them grow into a pile, I turn in a full circle, needing to locate his room in order to locate  his laundry basket.

Upstairs. Has to be up those stairs. There’s no master bedroom down here, that’s for sure. Main floor: guest bedroom, a second bedroom, help quarters, kitchen, living area, dining room, office, study/library, and an entertainment room.

At the foot of the stairs, I hesitate, unsure if upstairs is off-limits. But heck, I’m the housemaid. Nowhere should be off-limits. If I happen to stumble upon something I shouldn’t, well, too bad for him, and snoopy snoop for me.

Once up the stairs, I glance from left to right, then choose left, ambling along the corridor that overlooks the kitchen and living area. The corridor ends with a set of frosted sliding-glass-doors. Arms full, I awkwardly stick two fingers out to slide the door open.

First thing that hits me is the fragrance, cruising on cool air-conditioned air. Can’t quite describe the scent, but if forced to try, I’d say: Masculine. Rich. Seductive.

Behind the doors, a closet. A massive closet. No joke, it’s like a mini men’s store.

Mirrors cover the walls and ceiling. Half of one wall is lined with suit jackets, the other with crisp white shirts. My body conducts a full 360 degree turn. Ties of all styles, shoes of all styles, stacks of jeans and sweaters and dress shirts and hats.

Okay, I know I said I grew up wealthy, but I’ve never seen a man’s closet this grand. Dad’s closet sure as hell looked
nothing
even remotely close to this one.

In that moment, it strikes me that I’ve no idea what Noah does for a living. It’s obvious he’s well-off. But
how
well-off is he? A millionaire? Or does he simply have a decent paying job with crazy bonuses that allows him to keep a substantial New Yorker image?

He’s a Van Der Wells, and the Van Der Wells have been well-off for quite a few generations back. Nonetheless, it doesn’t seem as though he’s on the ins with the originals. While I don’t know everything about their family line, I can’t, no matter how hard I wrack my brain, remember them having any other family member still residing in New York, especially one this conspicuously handsome and accurately arrogant.

I jot down a mental note to pry when he gets home.

Backing out of the closet, locking in the ineffable fragrance that seems to be emanating from the walls or something, I trek back down the hall, to the right this time, which brings me to the master bedroom I’ve been searching for. And I mean
master
in every sense of the word.

Astronomical, yet in some inexplicable way, warm and homey. Carpeted floors of a gray and white design, six foot tall lamps, built-in set-the-mood ceiling lights, California King bed…but above all that luxury is a disaster. Pillows on the floors, duvet half-off the bed, corset and pantyhose—Sienna’s I’m guessing—empty wine bottles…Jeesh.

Still, I don’t grumble. Because it’s either cleaning up after a mega-hot, possibly millionaire, sloth and his cheating glamazon while having the added bonus of living in a penthouse with my own room and en-suite bathroom of magnificence, or go back to square one. No brainer there which option I’m going with.

What Sienna does with her infamous hoohah is none of my business. What Noah does with his body parts is also none of my business.

My business is keeping this penthouse spotless, collecting my pay, and saving toward my escape. Freedom. Law school. New life.

Outside this apartment, freedom is something I don’t have. Because I’d been stupid enough to fall for an irresistible face, ripped bod, and sweet words.

Disturbingly so, a part of me, a stupid, stupid part of me, from deep
, deep
inside me, is curious to know what it would be like having Noah be my business.

Around one in the afternoon, the concierge dings into the penthouse to relay that Noah wants beef stew for dinner. Wondering why
he’s
delivering Noah’s dinner choice, I blink at the bald-headed man.

Answering my unasked question, he explains that Noah no longer has a receiver. For some unknown reason, he had it disconnected last week. And I don’t have a phone. Hence the concierge’s delivery.

Two hours later, I start preparing dinner. Along with the beef stew and some baked sweet potatoes with grated cheese, I also bake a chocolaty chocolate cake—more for myself than for Noah.

The kitchen is my second favorite room in any house. Mom was a consummate cook. The clean-your-dish-and-lick-your-ten-fingers kind of cook. There’s nothing, domestically, that Mom couldn’t do. She was the perfect trophy wife.

In the good days, our best days, before she became the woe-is-me delinquent who forgot she had a daughter to care for, I
lived
for the moments when she allowed me to hang around her. The majority of those mother-daughter moments being spent in the kitchen. Suffice it to say, there’s nothing I
don’t
know how to cook. I’m much like Mom in the domestic department. How else would I suggest a complete stranger make me their live-in help?

So, yeah, I have a fantastic dinner prepared for Mr. Van Der Wells, and I don’t need a compliment from him to know it’s
de
lish.

After finishing up with my tasks sometime after six, I fetch my old TG-Averatech HS-100 mini laptop from my room. On account of first-day cleaning and cooking, I missed a class this morning. There’s still a half-hour window before Noah gets home, so I flop down on the sofa in the living room and log into my email account to ask my virtual classmate for notes. Chances are, he’s already sent them to me, as I tend to miss class often, and it’s become custom for him to fill me in on what I missed. No idea what he looks like, but it’s nice in how he looks out for a girl he’s never met before.

As I expected, there’s an email from Flynn Davenport titled “Today’s Notes,” along with an attached recording of the lecture.
I really hope to meet you someday, Flynn. You’re a Godsend.

Emails are also in from Kiera and Graham.

Kiera Noel is the last friend standing from my “mean girls” posse back when I had a name. Back when I was the shapely, super-hot half-Brazilian every guy in school wanted to date. Well, I’m still half-Brazilian, of course. No way to change that. But the shapely, super-hot part? Not so sure about that anymore. More like super-lame.

D-cups, wide hips, and a five-three height. Since moving across the bridge, though, I’ve lost a lot of weight.