Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (31 page)

“That’s
private
,” I say, as politely as my clenched teeth allow.

She doesn’t apologize. “It was in the knife drawer.”

Hmm. Must’ve left it there by mistake. Sometimes I journal right there in the kitchen while I cook. “That doesn’t make it any less private.”

A nod. But still no apology. “I made breakfast. Help yourself.”

My appetite is nonexistent now, wondering how much she’s read, how much she now knows. Nonetheless, I help myself with breakfast, just to occupy my mouth and hands so I don’t rail at her or bitch slap her. 

I sit two stools away from her at the island and force myself to chew and swallow and sip.

Gloriel is watching me straight, not even being surreptitious about it. Much like her son.

I know what she wants to ask, but my chest constricts just thinking about it. I’ve mentally sealed off that part of my life with impregnable unemotional blocks, so high and impenetrable that if I ever attempt to scale or break through it, I’ll fail.

I’ve never talked about it. I’ve never cried about it. I’ve never
felt
about it. I’d treated it like just another inconvenience in my messed-up life that I had to deal with.

Gloriel’s stare is without pity but unwavering and unnerving and loud, as though her eyes can speak.

With a clanking of silverware to porcelain, I throw my fork down, shove my dish aside, and snap out, “Okay. Go ahead. Ask me.”

Gloriel blinks momentarily to the side, setting her coffee cup down. “You’ve been writing her every day since she died?”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a moment. My journal isn’t exactly a “Dear Journal” journal. All my entries begin with, “
Dear Mom.
” All letters to my mom.

“No,’ I finally get out, opening my eyes, swallowing past the golf-ball in my throat. “I’ve been writing her since before she died.”

Confusion hangs like a sheer curtain over Gloriel’s face, so I expound, “When Dad died, she gave up all hope. She stopped trying, she stopped caring, she stopped living. Then once she found out about the cancer, she stopped talking. I had no one but her. I was being abused by my boyfriend. I was struggling to take care of the both of us, and I was just a teenager who was yanked from a life of wealth and privilege and thrown into a low, dark and ugly kind of life I never knew existed. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was just
doing
. I had anxiety attacks, nervous meltdowns, I cried
all the time
, and sometimes I just needed my mother. I just needed her. She was right there with me, but she wasn’t. She never asked questions when I came home battered, she never spoke, she never cared.”

Picking up my journal, I clasp it tightly in my hands. “So, I bought a journal and pretended it was her. Wrote down all I was feeling, all I was going through. Pretended she was listening, that she cared. It helped me through some of my meltdowns. Whenever I had an anxiety attack I’d just write a ‘Dear Mom’ entry, and pretend she was right next to me assuring me it was all going to be all alright. This would help me calm down.

“When Mom died, I didn’t cry. I just did what needed to be done and buried her. Not as if it made a difference. The way I see it, Mom died when Dad died, and I was only living with her corpse.”

Gloriel shows no expression, but I know it’s for my sake. She doesn’t want me to feel pitied. I appreciate her so much more for that. “You say that. But I bet if I burn that journal you’re clutching so tightly, you would crumble to ashes right along with it.”

I don’t acknowledge this, but I don’t attempt to refute it either.

“You’re still holding on to your mother, through that substitute of her. You think she’s in there, but she’s not, Charlotte. The day you lose that journal, is the day you’ll mourn her.”

Opening the journal, I idly, mindlessly, unseeingly flip through it. “Do you want to know the ugly truth?”

Gloriel takes a sip of her coffee, waiting it out, before giving me a nod.

“It wasn’t the cancer that killed Mom,” I confess, my saliva turning as bitter as raw aloe vera in my mouth. And before she can inquire, I supply, “It was Mom who killed Mom. Overdosed on her meds.”

Quietude falls for too long, and when I glance over at Gloriel, her cheeks are flushed with anger. “That’s it; we’re done talking about her.” She stands and looks from side to side, as if trying to keep her fury in check. She bites her lip. She’s bothered. Really bothered. Fighting something back.

“Is there something you want to say to me, Gloriel?” I ask. “It’s okay. You can say it.”

“I’ve always been right about her,” Gloriel blurts on the heel of my very last word, as if it had been taking every will in her to bite her tongue and avoid offending me. “She was nothing but a selfish, inconsiderate, manipulative, and embarrassing excuse for a woman.” With wild hand gestures, stomping around the island to the kitchen sink, I’m momentarily stunned by the vehemence in her tone. “This is why I worried about you all those years. I knew once she no longer had your father’s money—or your father, for that matter, she would no longer have use for you.”

With this, she picks up the dishes and tosses them into the sink with such force I’m surprised they don’t shatter.

Her back to me, she fixes her hands on her hips, and I see her upper half swell and release as she takes deep breaths in and out. Then, slowly, she turns and face me, much calmer now. “I know your mother must’ve told you some fairytale about how she and your dad came to be, but that’s all it was: A fairytale. Untruths.

“I know you believe she wasn’t accepted because she broke up a family, but that’s not the case. Of course, not. Things like that happen every day in these circles, Charlotte; the rich stay with the rich, so they all marry and remarry each other. Therefore, Angie, your mother, was not ostracized for that.

“Angie was hated because she wanted to be hated. She was a manipulator and an opportunist who took advantage of Sarah’s humble kindheartedness and did everything she could to drive them apart. Then she bragged about it.

“It was not your father who divorced Sarah, Charlotte. It was Sarah who divorced him. You can’t imagine how much your father loved that woman. He would have never, in a million years, left Sarah no matter what Angie did. But your mother was a fighter and Sarah was a lover. So she gave him up. Haven’t you ever wondered why your father never married your mother?”

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I answer, “Every day.”

“That’s because he was always in love with Sarah, not Angie. He settled with Angie because of
you
.”

A mock laugh responds. “Well, I guess he didn’t love me either. Seeing as I was left to suffer along with her.”

She sighs and looks to the floor, pensive, quiet. Her eyes, when they come back to me, try to convey something, but I’m too emotional to decipher whatever it is. “I told you before that if you hadn’t run, you would’ve been taken care of. There are things you don’t know, things you can’t know…yet. Just, don’t run again, Charlotte. We’re here for you.”

“Gloriel, with all due respect, I’m not your family, so stop acting like I am. I also don’t need you, or anyone, to take care of me. If I could survive the last three years of hell in itself, then I can survive anything.” I shove up from the stool, keeping my journal close to my bosom. “And regardless of how you or anyone else feels about Mom, it doesn’t change the fact the she was
my mother
.
She
was
my family. And I have none left here. So I’m going to Brazil, where I have
real
relatives. Not some rich judgy-pants who constantly tries to treat me like a charity case or a project. Once upon a time I was rich, and now I’m a housemaid. That’s where it’s at. That’s what it is. Your money is not my money, your family is not my family. I, Charlotte Cooley, am on my ow—”

“Lotty,” a stern voice comes at me, breaking through my rant.

I jerk around and raise my head.

Noah is standing at the top of the stairs in just sports tights.

On Sundays, he does bikram yoga out on his bedroom balcony. Sometimes I spy on him.

My rant must’ve pulled him out of his focus, and now he’s here to what, lash at me?

“What?” I bite out.

“Come up here. I need a word.”

“Well, too bad,
Mr. Van Der Wells
. I’m out of words to give.” Journal hugged to me, I spin, marching off toward my room.

“Lotty,” his don’t-mess-with-me tone chased after me.

Again, I whirl around. “
What
?”

He moves closer to the banister. One firm hand grips the stainless steel. “I said,
come.up.here
. I need a word.” The look in his eyes is terror-inducing.

Taking two steps back, I inch closer to my room.

He moves one step down, eyes even more threatening.

‘
Uh-oh
,’ Rational Lotty whispers.

‘
Uh-oh is right
,’ Reckless Lotty concurs. ‘
But hot damn, our billionaire is hella sexy when he’s mad and wearing tights
.’

My head swivels to Gloriel, eyes pleading for help.

Despite my blow-up on her just now, she doesn’t hesitate to help. “Nate, sweetie—”

“Stay out of this, Mom. I’m her employer, she’s my employee. Whenever I summon her, if she wants to keep her job, she
comes
. Not give me lip. End of story.”

My core tightens at the way he says
‘comes.
’ Savior, why did he have to say it like that? Is he talking about something else? Is he pissed off about last night? Is he mad because Gloriel caught us in bed this morning and scolded him about it? What? What’s his deal?

Shooting Gloriel a piteous glance, I give off a theatrically defeated sigh and plod toward the stairs.

Noah keeps his glare on me all the way there.

I’m halfway up the stairs when, as if I’m taking too long, he meets me, circles his long fingers around my wrist, and tugs me behind him as he takes the stairs two at a time.

I shoot a quick glance to the side and down, searching for Gloriel. Same spot in the kitchen, a purse to her lips, and a squint to her eyes. Not at me, though. At her son.

Noah doesn’t seem to care, as he hauls me off to his room and slams the door.

I’m face to face with his chest. In his room. With the door closed.

While I salivate, unable to take my greedy eyes off his chest, he slides one long, demanding finger under my chin and slowly tips it up until our eyes kiss.

With a single shake of his head, he asks, “What the hell was that?”

“What the hell was what?” I don’t like how timid and raspy my voice sounds. I don’t like feeling weak. Worse, it’s not even because I’m scared. It’s because we’re like a breadth apart, and there’s something about being in his bedroom with him that makes me feel all kinds of weird and tingly and hot. Really hot. The sliding glass doors that leads out to the balcony, where I espy his yoga mat and battery radio, are open, but I feel no air.
No air
. Noah and his fury and his intensity and his hotness have sucked it all up. 

It’s not as if I haven’t been in his room before. I have. I’m the maid, after all. But I haven’t been in here
with him
. With the door closed. With the bed behind him—big, inviting, and tempting.

Magic happens in here. Screams are torn from parched throats. Passion swirls with moans and grunts and growls. Orgasms made. Feelings develop. Hearts broken…

This is the place I both want and don’t want to be. 

“With Mom,” he says. “You were yelling at her. We agreed on making Sundays
for her
, and this is how you start the day?”

“I won’t have to if she doesn’t insist on treating me like some lost puppy who needs saving. I don’t need saving, alright? I’m fine! I’ve been fine and I will be fine!” I blaze at him. “I caught her reading my journal. Who does that? It’s an unspoken rule:
You don’t read someone’s journal
! It’s an invasion of privacy.”

“If you don’t want people to read your diary, then don’t store it in someone else’s knife-drawer.”

“It was an accident, I didn’t—wait, how do you know where it was?” My mouth falls open. “Wha—
You’ve been reading my journal
?!” I throw my hands out in rage, letting the journal fly across the room. “And still you forced me to relive all that last night? Un-freaking-believable!”

I spin and reach out for the door handle to get the hell out of there, but he grabs my upper arm and spins me back around. “
Stay here
. I’m not done with you.”

“Don’t tell me to—”

“Have I ever treated you with pity? Have I ever done anything to make you feel like you aren’t in control of your own life? Have I ever made you feel bad about your situation, Lotty?”

Although I take time to think about it, I don’t
really
have to think about it, because the truth is, he never has. Not since day one, even knowing who I was. He’d made me
beg
him for the job. He made me do everything all on my own without letting on he knew me and was offering to save me. Albeit greatly overpaid, he’s making me earn my keep. Even during our talk last night he was specific about what he wanted to know: About my ex. He never asked what it was like losing everything. Ever.

“No,” I whisper, contrite.

“No,” he affirms. “You want to know why? Because I know what it’s like. I’ve been there, all throughout my divorce with Sienna, and
I know what it’s like
. When people keep forcing you to talk about the things you want to forget. You don’t want the pity and the apologies and the offers of help. Yet they come anyway. And it drives you insane. It drives you
away
. No way in hell would I have inflicted that on you. I want you here with me, so I let you be.”

My gaze falls to the ground. I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Well…thanks for that.”

“I’ll talk to Mom,” he says. “But try to go easy on her, alright. She doesn’t mean to make you feel this way. I’m not sure why she cares so much about you, but she genuinely does.”