Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (13 page)

Frankly, it doesn’t matter to me how I look now, as I no longer focus too much on physical appearance. Life’s hardships and intricacies, along with a swift kick to the ass from reality, have matured me in a sense, showing me what’s important and what’s not.

Back to Kiera. She’s the friend I least appreciated back in high school, yet the only one who stuck around when I hit rock bottom. Her support never wavered, her friendship proved genuine, and through it all, we eventually became best friends. Kiera’s the only Upper Easter Sider who always knew where the Cooleys were hiding out from shame, pointing fingers, and gossiping tongues, but she never told a soul.

She’s going to freak when she hears I’m back on the Upper East Side. It’s also time I tell her the truth about Andrew and stop lying to her.

Her emails are all updates during her spring break trip to Barbados, all the fun she had, and how much she wished I was there.

Yeah, I wish
.

Her last email came in this morning:

OK, Cooley, what the HELL is going on?! I just went to your apartment to check in on you because you haven’t been replying to my emails, and what did I find? Andrew, sitting on the floor outside your door, crying. CRYING, Cooley!

He told me you left his engagement ring and ran off. He looked like death. Sprawled on the floor and bawling like the world is coming to end. Why would you do that him?! He’s a nice guy! And he’s HOT! Who breaks up with a guy who looks like Andrew? Girl, you’ve got some serious explaining to do. And why aren’t you replying to my emails?

You CANNOT break up with me
,
too, Cooley. Or I swear to God I will hunt you down and Taser you! On your nipples.

Reply ASAP!

Blowing out a breath, I crack my knuckles. Of course, Andrew would play on Kiera’s emotions and convince her
I’m
the bad guy. Anything to find me. Pssh. Crying? Yeah, right.

Kiki,

Sorry I’ve been MIA of late. Had a lot on my mind. Also have a lot to tell you. First, you need to tell me if you’ve made any promises to Andrew to update him on my whereabouts. If you have, I cannot tell you where I am.

Sorry.

Hitting send, I move on to Graham’s emails. He wants to know how I’m doing and why I’m not responding to his emails, and, for the millionth time, voices his bitter displeasure of my being with Andrew. By the time I’m through replying to Graham, a response comes in from Kiera.

OMG, you’re alive! Thanxies to the Big Man. Yes, I did promise Andrew I’d update him once I heard from you, but I won’t if you don’t want me to. YOU are my best friend, Cooley. If Andrew did something to you, do really you think I would take his side? Tell me what’s going on. I need to see you. Where are you?

A sudden ping from the elevator slices through the silence of the apartment, and I jump out of my skin, my head snapping toward the pathway to the foyer, heart racing.

Dammit!
I berate myself. Just
talking
about Andrew is making me jumpy. There was a time when I was reckless and carefree, living without fear. Now I’m always wound tight, always waiting for the next attack.

As Noah appears around the corner from the foyer, I release a slow breath through my parted lips, calming my heart.

He’s just as crisp as he was when he left this morning, as though he’s done nothing but sit on a throne issuing decrees all day, without so much as a harsh breath to render a crease to his suit.

Noah’s gaze zones in on me as he saunters into the apartment. A frown wrinkling his forehead, he pauses. “Is something wrong?” His eyes sweep around the apartment, frown still in place, before returning to me. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.” But it’s so inaudible not even
I
hear my reply.  Clearing my throat, I try again, “I’m jazz.”

A brow arches in suspicion. “You look more spaz than jazz to me.”

Returning my attention to the laptop, I close out of my account, sign off, and snap it shut. When I next glance up, Noah is standing right in front of me. Burning eyes assessing. Obvious he’s still trying to figure out the reason behind my fright just now.

His gaze, and frown, shifts from my face to the laptop. “That’s what you take classes on?”

My eyes flick down to my battered mini laptop. I snatched it up from a garage sale for a dirt cheap price, seeing as my Macbook was one of the last things I’d had to sell for cash and I needed something for classes. It has yet to fail me. The 9 and M keys are missing from the keyboard, and there’s a permanent water-stain on the screen, but other than that, it serves its purpose.

“Yes?” I answer with an edge that dares him to criticize.

He doesn’t. Instead, he nods and asks, “You’ve already eaten?”

“Not yet. I’m—“

“Want to eat with me?” he suggests.

Setting my laptop aside, I smirk up at him. “Sharing meals with the help, Mr. Van Der Wells?”

Flattening his lips, he shakes his head. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

My eyebrows kiss. “What?”

“Your ability to give straight answers.” He turns and starts for the kitchen. “You did
so
well for the first two questions.”

Up on my feet, I follow him into the kitchen. “So, you got two straight answers and
still
you complain?” I emit a dramatic sigh. “Greed, that’s what I call it. You rich people are just so
greedy
.”

He chuckles, shrugs out of his jacket.

Moving past him, I round the island. The table’s already set and the food is still hot. By the time I’m done portioning out our shares, Noah is seated at the dinner table waiting, patiently. Hands steepled under his chin. Eyes fixed on me.

One corner of my lip lifts. “Famished, boss?”

He doesn’t respond.

Didn’t expect him to.

I ignore the warm tingling in my belly, an unbidden effect of his unwavering stare.

He likes to stare. I like to talk. I’m a natural pain in the ass, and he’s just mercurial.
Welp
. Dinner with Mr. Van Der Wells should be interesting.

Pulling my chair out—at the other end of the ten-seater dinner table—I sit. Noah had begun eating the second his plate was set down before him. “Eating” merely an operative word. He hasn’t raised his head since.

“Do you—” I’m cut off when one long finger strikes up, and he raises his eyes without raising his head. Slowly, he shakes his head from side to side, before returning his attention to his plate.

Got it. No talking while he eats. Here’s a man who’s seriously serious about his food. Restraining myself from cracking a smart-ass remark, I pluck up my fork and dig in, too.

Quarter way through my dinner, Noah’s dish is clean, including the saucer that’d held a huge chunk of chocolate cake. Damn, he’s good.
And
, he’s back to staring, sipping a glass of water.

Feeling full, and I haven’t even touched my cake yet, I sit back and sip my own water. “We’re not in a board room, you know. You can quit it with the intimidating stare down.”

His eyebrows stretch slightly upward, and then, those green weapons get all soft and warm and melty.
Oh dear
. A deep, sexy chuckle leaves his chest as he asks, “You think this is my
boardroom
stare?”

To protect myself, I force images of elephants vomiting while mating to the forefront of my mind, because despite the devil voice in my head urging me to inquire what kind of stare it is if not his boardroom stare, the angel voice in my head is reminding me that I’m still
on the run
from the last hot guy with a hot stare that I fell for, and I would be an idiot to do this all over again.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s rude to stare,
period
. Your Mom didn’t tell you that?” Yeah, I know, that’s a lame line; I can so do better than that. But under the circumstances—circumstances being the wetness between my thighs and the warm tingly feeling in my belly—that’s the most I can come up with.

“Does it make you nervous?”

‘Lotty
,’ Rational Lotty warns through gritted teeth.

‘
Hmmm, yummmm
,’ moans Reckless Lotty, rising from her year-long slumber.

‘Well, hello, nice to see you again, Reckless Lotty
!’ This hoe of a subconscious has abandoned me for nearly
a year
, and now that there’s a new hot bod with
money
in the picture, she comes moaning out of nowhere? See? Even your own subconscious can be an asshole.

“Do I look like the kind of girl who gets nervous from a guy’s stare?”

“But I’m not just
any
guy.” A half grin. “You want me to take my shirt off again? Remind you how much I’ve been kissed by the gods of obscene perfection?”

I pause, my glass half-way to my lips. “Did…Did you
really
just say that?”

A full mega-watt grin now. “Plus, I live in a penthouse.”

“Oh my God,” I mutter, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

“
And
I’m rich.”

“Okay,” I drag out, setting my glass down. “I’m officially repulsed. I’m so profoundly allergic to arrogant douchebags, I can’t even.”

Amusement coloring his voice, he keeps going. “What if I told you I own a helicopter?”

“That’s it.” Pushing my chair back, I stand to clear the table. “I’m out of can’ts to even.”

“Good,” he says, grin full-fledge, “because I don’t own a helicopter.”

His mood is clearly in the clouds today.

Shooting him an annoyed look, I round to him and clear his empty dishes. “It takes none of that and more than that to make me nervous,
Mr. Van Der Wells
.”

After clearing the table, I settle at the sink to do the dishes so I can sign off and be done.

“Your advance has been deposited in your account,” I hear from behind me.

He’s sitting at the island.

Got to admit, the news of dough in my bank account makes me want to do a back-flip and a fist pump. With that overly-generous advance, I could flee to Brazil tomorrow if I wanted. But it wouldn’t be enough to keep me afloat. Have to save up some more for school.

“Yeah?” I mutter. “Thanks.”

Silence for a bit, then, “Did you get a chance to read over the contract?”

Why’s he lingering? Doesn’t Mr-King-of-the-universe-kissed-by-the-gods-of-obscene-perfection have better things to do than stand here chit-chatting with his teenage housemaid?

“Yep,” I lie.

“Did you?” There’s a trace of distrust in his tone.

“Do I look like someone who lies for fun?” Of course, I do. I lie. I lie fast and easily. I lie like it’s the truth.

He doesn’t bother to respond, his footsteps echoing away.
Finally
.

I’m just not in mood to be tempted. Noah is all kinds of hot and sexy and intense and annoyingly tempting. And I’m just a defenseless red-blooded woman. He’s not even the type I usually go for—well, before Andrew, that is. And the one time I went for that type, well…you know the rest.

Never making that mistake again, I can tell you that much. The less time I spend in Noah’s presence, the better.

I’m also tired and desperately longing for a hot bath and that
bed
, that oh-so-comfy bed. The coming days won’t be as taxing as today, as I’ve done a massive full-house cleaning and will need only to maintain from now on. But today’s cleaning was exhausting.

Finishing up the dishes, I turn to leave the kitchen and am startled to see Noah leaning against the kitchen counter. Save for his suit pants, the rest of his attire seems to have magically melted off him. My eyes involuntarily drift to his bare chest. Smooth and taut and sun-kissed. I want to walk right up to him and press my lips between his pecs. Maybe trail the tip of my tongue from nipple to nipple.

That chest
.

His right hand movement, from my peripheral vision, snags my leering gaze from his chest. From the counter, he takes up a white box. A HTC phone box.

“Picked this up for you today.” He holds the box out to me.

At these words, I bring my eyes to his face. 

“You bought me a phone?” I look at the box again. “Why?”

“Because it’s the twenty-first century and you don’t have one?”

Eyes back to his. “You said my advance has been deposited, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then I’ll buy my own phone.”

He frowns at the box in his hand. “You don’t like Androids.”

“I don’t care if it’s Android or flamboid,” I answer, “I’m currently trying this new thing where I don’t take things from people,
men
in general, unless I’ve earned it. Last time I took gifts from someone, I got stuck.”

Noah folds his lips, contemplates this, one long finger tapping the side of the box.

“Alright,” he mumbles, pensive. “Well, seeing as I need to be able to get in contact with you without using the concierge as a message bird, and my landline is currently disconnected, consider this the
house phone
. As the
housemaid
, you are required to have this phone on you at
all
times.” He pauses, watches me, and waits for a dispute. I glare. He smiles. “This amendment will be made to the contract.”

I continue to glare, telling him in a deathly quiet voice, “There’s something on my tongue. Something bitter, nasty, bilious, that I want spit right at you.” I snatch the box from his hand. “But you see, because I
really
need this job, I’ll refrain.”

Delight dances in his green pools. “Wise of you.”

Moving past him, my shoulder brushing his arm, I ignore the searing heat there and start in the direction of my room, before stopping a few feet off and turning back around. Yep, he’s watching me leave with that non-boardroom stare of his. Ignoring that, too, I say, “Remember how you said you stopped hiring female housemaids because you always end up sleeping with them?”