Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (57 page)

T
HIRTY

Sixteen Months Later
…

T
HE DOORBELL RINGS.

“I’ll get it,” I yell, abandoning my assigned task of setting the table. Not as if Gloriel would’ve left the kitchen to go answer it anyway.

It’s Sunday. Gloriel’s day. Kitchen throw-down day. A drizzling, humid, August day.

My stiletto heels echo off the marble tiles as I make it to the front door. On the other side stands Qwesie and Cassy—a pretty brunette he’s been spending a lot of time with of late—a bottle of champagne in one hand, his other thrown around her shoulder.

“Howdie do, my wifey boo?” he greets, and Cassy rolls her eyes, quite used to his antics.

Completely ignoring him, I greet his date. “Hey, Cassy. You look stunning. But you know you can do better than this idiot, right?”

Making a mock pitiful face, she shrugs. “Don’t I know it? But dammit, those dimples get me every time.”  

Waggling his eyebrows, Qwesie grins, and out pops the dimples.

I sigh because Cassy’s excuse is legit. Those dimples are lethal.

Waving them in, I hug them both, and then they beeline for the kitchen. As frequent invitees of Gloriel’s kitchen throw-down at my apartment, they know the drill. Find Gloriel in the kitchen and pitch in with setting up.

Yes, you read right:
my
apartment.

Upon receiving my fund, the first thing I did was go house-shopping. As you can imagine, this didn’t go over well with Noah.

He wanted me to continue living with him, and I wanted my own place. We argued for
weeks
about it, and he remained unsupportive and spitefully unhelpful during the house-shopping process. Until I had to drop him and his negative attitude and take Qwesie on the ride instead.

It wasn’t until I found an apartment I loved and placed an offer on it that he finally got it through his thick skull that this was happening whether or not he wanted it to.

In reluctance, he accepted this fact and started showing support of my decision, using his influence to get me the apartment unbelievably lower than the asking price, and then offered to furnish it as an apology gift.

My first inclination, naturally, was to decline. But after being on the outs with each other for almost two months, I let him have that much.

For the sake of us.

Hiring an interior designer, he had the entire apartment furnished. All three bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms of it. High-end everything—come on, I should’ve expected
that
.

Those almost two months of fighting over my moving out later proved to be pointless and waste of our time together because it was as if nothing had changed. Noah’s
always
at my place. He never goes home after work. Nope, he comes
here
, eats
here
, sleeps
here
. And when he does leave in the mornings to his own apartment to dress for work, he leaves his stuff behind.

As are result, his things kept piling up, and before I knew it, half my closet’s dedicated to him, my guest bedroom taken over with his work files and devices, thus transformed, unofficially, into his office.

If you ever find him voluntarily at his apartment, it’s because we’ve had a crazy fight or something and swear we’re through with each other. However, these never last more than three days. A week
tops
. So, basically, we still live together. Just in a different apartment in a different location.

The doorbell goes off again, five minutes later.

This time it’s Muscles standing on the other side, with a Latino woman on his arm who’s the definition of curvy. Thick and juicy and gorgeous.

Suffice it to say, things didn’t turn out as he had hoped with Kiera. He wanted exclusivity, and Kiera doesn’t do exclusivity. She does wild, fun, and brief. Muscles, uncompromisingly serious about what he wanted from her, had given her an ultimatum: exclusivity or nothing at all. Kiera, as I would’ve expected, chose nothing at all.

The weird thing is, after their split,
Muscles
is the one who’s been serial dating, while Kiera, shockingly, hasn’t been with a soul since him. Like she’s going through a dry spell or something. And she’s nothing if not evasive whenever I prod about her sexually inactive state.

This Latino on Muscles’ arm has been around the longest so far, almost two months. But for the life of me, I can never remember her name. I know it’s something weird and unusual though.

“Hey, Lots,” Muscles greets as he moves in to hug me. Then gestures to the Latino. “By the way you’re squinting at her, I can tell you’ve forgotten her name again.”

Busted, and slightly ashamed of myself, I shrug.

Thankfully, the Latino doesn’t take umbrage and reminds me, “It’s Decoda.”

“Yes!” I half-shout, snapping my fingers. “Decoda. Decoda Muunda!”

I wave them in, and we exchange small talk before they’re off to the kitchen to assist. 

A quick three minutes after that, the doorbell sounds once more. Kiera this time. Our greeting is different; squeal and hugs and what’s crackalacking. Considering she’s been traveling with her mother for the past three weeks.

Uh-huh, that’s what she’s been focusing on of late. Fashion. Mrs. Noel, her Mom, had tried for so long to get her to show an interest in the legacy she’s an heir to. But out of resentment for her parents, out of rebellion for their neglect, she refused to partake in it and chose to live wild and carefree.

Now, she’s showing more interest and involvement in the company than I’ve ever seen her show in anything. Now, she’s the acting overseer. The future of Red Pearls Fashion Designs.  

“Milan was awesome,” she bubbles on, “I bought
so
much stuff for you. Can’t wait for them to be deliv—”

Her eyes catch something over my shoulder and she stops talking at once. Curious to see what’s stolen her attention, I glance over my shoulder and immediately understand.

Muscles and his Latino—whose name I’ve already forgotten.

Seems her earring was entangled in her mass of curly, jet-black hair, and they’re both laughing as he tries to de-tangle the earring.

“He’s
still
with her?”

At the sharp bite of her tone, my head swivels back to her. “Evidently.”

“But it’s been like, what, two months?” she seethes. “He never keeps them this long.”

“Well,” I say with a sigh and a shrug, “I guess this one’s a keeper.”

I suspected, ever since their split, that Kiera harbors strong feelings for Muscles; her bitter sarcasm whenever he’s around with one of his women, her annoyance whenever he’s around at all, her “subtle” inquiries about him whenever she’s away… That said, she’s never, before now, made an outright display of jealousy.

Not a chance in hell she’ll admit it if I ask, but I think she regrets letting him go. I think her dry spell, and her new found interest in her future company, has everything to do with him. I think…she wants him back.

Again, the doorbell rings, and I give her a consoling arm-squeeze before answering the door.

Sarah—who’s now sporting a six-month baby bump—and my brother, Graham. All the way from San Francisco. I let out a squeal.

My brother wraps me up in one of his off-the-ground, spin-me-around bear hugs, expressing how much he misses me. Because of the distance, they obviously can’t make it to every Sunday dinner, but sometimes, like now, they just surprise me. And, boy, am I happy to see them this month.

Our relationship has strengthened ever since they found out the truth about my time with Andrew—Drew James. I spent nearly three months in and out of court with the guy, so, of course, they found out. No judgment, they supported me every step of the way and helped me through it all.

As for Drew James, much as he hated his riches, apparently he wasn’t above using it to his advantage because all he got, after “surreptitiously” paying off the right people, was seven months of jail time and two years’ probation. Unfair, I know. But that’s life for you. Money talks.

Don’t ask me how he found out where I’m living, but while he was doing time, I received a letter from him every month. Most of them repetitions of how sorry he is for treating me the way he did, and how much of a fool he’d been, blah blah blah. Some of them telling me what inside was like, how much the food sucked, and how he hoped I was happy.

The letters stopped after her he got out. For a few weeks. Before they were replaced with voicemails. Every month.

Because he knows I never answer unknown numbers, he would block his number and ring me, and then leave messages on my voicemail. Giving me unwanted updates on himself. How he’s getting help, seeing a therapist, and learning to accept the things he can’t change, and the things that weren’t his fault to begin with. June’s voicemail told me that he went to visit his mother, something he hadn’t done since he was eighteen, told her he forgave her, and that they’re currently trying to rebuild a relationship. While last month’s voicemail said he met someone, that she reminds him a lot of me, that he promises not to make the same mistakes he made with me, and that he hopes I get a chance to meet her one day.

Not likely. 

Highly unlikely.

Highly.

Yes, Noah knows about the letters because he was always present, in my place and in my business, whenever I received them, and his reaction to each one was…well…
not
understanding. Therefore, I haven’t told him about the voicemails yet. Probably never will. Good thing is, Drew James is keeping his distance.

All the dinner guests have arrived, and the apartment is buzzing with movement, laughter, and chatter.

Gloriel Sundays began taking place at my apartment about a month after I moved in. Noah and Gloriel’s homes might be fancier with heftier price tags, but mine had more space. “Tons of space” was number one the list when I was house shopping. While Noah and Gloriel had bigger bedrooms and smaller everything else, I chose to have smaller bedrooms and bigger everything else. Thus, my dining room, living room, and gourmet kitchen are the size of both of theirs combined. Consequentially, every sort of get-together happens at my place. Even Noah’s boring business dinners.

Before long, the table is laden with food and everyone has claimed a seat. Everyone, except Noah. 

As I’m about to take a seat beside Kiera, Gloriel shoots me a narrowed look that says, “
Go get him. Now.”

I might be understanding and totally fine with Noah wanting to skip dinner this particular Sunday, but she isn’t. Her look at the moment is castigating me, warning me to go for him, otherwise no one will be eating a morsel of this food. 

Heaving out a reluctant breath, I change course of action, leaving the dining room and heading upstairs to our—
my
bedroom.

Noah’s been avoiding us all day. I glimpsed him only once, and that’s when he was doing his ritual Sunday yoga out on the balcony.

What’s the story behind his sulking? Well…Gloriel sat us down a few nights ago and told us she was seeing someone. A someone twelve years her junior. Made the argument that just as she came around to accepting our relationship, she hopes we can accept hers, too. Remember the grocery delivery guy? Yep, that’s her lover.

Let’s just say Noah isn’t taking it well. He’s shut her out ever since, and I’ve been subjected to him going on morning and night about how heartless Gloriel is to do this to his father, etcetera. When she came over this morning to start prepping dinner, he was adamant on avoiding her and her “black heart” at all costs.

Gloriel, on the other hand, is completely unfazed by his attitude, hence the glare she just shot me.

I pause outside the door and knock. Yes, I’m knocking on my own bedroom door.

No answer.

I knock again.

No answer.

Getting my phone out from my white denim skirt pocket, I fire off a text:

Me:
Hey, it’s me. Can I come in?

Noah:
Why?

Me:
I’m wearing a short skirt?

Noah:
Panties?

Me:
Yes.

Noah:
Then what’s the point?

Me:
Dude. Would u want me sitting at the table between Muscles & Q with no panties on?

I wait a full minute and get no reply, so I text again:

Me:
Can I come in?

Noah:
Just you. No one else.

Turning the door handle, I push inside. .

Barefoot, bare chest, in just his pajama bottoms, he’s stretched out on the love seat by the floor-to-ceiling windows that display a stunning backdrop of the city, his laptop balanced precariously on one knee.

He doesn’t look up when I enter, closing the door behind me. Doesn’t give me his attention as I slowly approach him.

I stop about two feet from the love seat and stuff my hands in the back pockets of my skirt.

“Not going down there,” he grumbles before I can get a word out. “I don’t want to see her.”

Teeth sinking into my bottom lip, I wrestle back a laugh. “You know what you sound like? A sulking twelve-year-old who’s mad at the world because he asked the head cheerleader to prom and she laughed in his face.”

“Don’t start, babe,” he grunts to his laptop. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, you better
get
in the mood,” I snap at him. “Because I’ve listened to you bitch all week, when frankly, Noah, I don’t see what’s so unforgivable about your mother wanting to move on with her life.”