Love, Chloe
Page 12

I blinked, pulling my hand back. “Yes.” My eyes drifted over him, this look so different from his tux, hotter in a completely different way. “You work here too?”
“Yep.” He dipped to pick up a toolbox and I remembered the reason he was there.
I stepped back and held the door open. “The bathroom’s the second door—”
“I know where it is.”
Of course he did. He walked through the door, his broad shoulders barely fitting, and I watched him pass by the kitchen, toward the bathroom. “Do you need me to wait?” I called out, glancing at my watch.
“Not unless you want to,” he called back. “I got a key, so I can lock up when I’m done.”
Not unless you want to. Oh, I wanted to. I wanted to do a hundred different things with that man, the least of which was watch him use his hands on my showerhead. But work beckoned.
“I’m gonna head out then,” I called out. “Nice to see you again.” The understatement of the month.
“You too.”
I hesitated another moment, then I pulled the door shut behind me.
And I’d thought this apartment was perfect before. I stepped on the elevator and pressed the button, leaning back against the wall and picturing his face. Blue-collar had never been my thing, too many millionaires in this city to bother with anything else. Then again, my tastes seemed to be changing. I might have to dip my toe into that pool once or twice. Just to taste that poison. Just to have it on my skin.
18. Hunger Fried My Brain
I could feel him in the house. When Clarke moved from his study to the living room, a phone to his ear, his laptop settling on the coffee table, his build hunched forward, I watched. When he stepped out on the balcony, his hand running through his hair, the door left open, the breeze brought in his scent.
My new favorite distraction: trying to understand the man. Three months of working for Nicole had proved that she was cray cray and not in a good way. She must be amazing in bed. Or he needed her condom money. Or maybe Raging Bitch was his flavor of aphrodisiac.
I sat at the dining room table and stared at Nicole’s list, one she had emailed that morning, including things like schedule wax and find replacement knob for our dresser in bedroom. I was so glad I gave the extra effort and made NYU’s dean’s list. So glad I learned Mandarin. When it came time to screw in that replacement knob I’d be sure to curse my situation using it.
“You busy?” Clarke’s question startled me, my jump causing my pen to fly across the table, a long ink mark left on one of Nicole’s linen napkins. I grimaced.
“Sorry.” He wiped his hands on a paper towel, balling it in his fist.
“It’s fine. I’m sorry.” I reached out, across the table, half up in my seat, and grabbed the pen. I felt air on my back, my sweater rising too high and I flushed, sitting back in my seat. “No. I’m not busy.” Or should I be busy? My mind warred over the correct answer, seeing as I was on the clock.
“I’m getting hungry. There’s a Cuban place down a few blocks…”
I nodded. “La Nina’s. I know it.” Vic and I had eaten there, the restaurant small, lighting low, atmosphere romantic. My cheeks flushed at the invitation, then my brain kicked into overdrive. Dinner with Nicole’s husband? Probably a bad idea.
“Great. Got something to write with? I’ll tell you what I want.” He eyed the pen in my hand and seemed to be waiting for something.
Oh. He wanted me to pick him up food. Duh. Of course he did. I was suddenly mortified, hoping that my idiotic thought process hadn’t shown, my hands fumbling at my notepad, pulling out a fresh page of paper, my mouth curving into a professional smile as I looked up at him. Thank God I hadn’t told him off, given him a lecture on boundaries.
He looked at me oddly. I swallowed hard and tried to speak casually, my voice coming out a little raspy. “What would you like?”
“Arroz con pollo. Extra plantains. And some pineapple soda.” He reached in his pocket and brought out a wad of cash, pulling some twenties and holding them out. “And whatever you’d like.”
“Oh, I have a date,” I babbled. “We’re going to eat. Dinner, I mean. We have reservations.” My mouth wouldn’t stop moving, my brain feeding it information too slowly, my panicked attempt to shut up only causing more words. “We’re very happy.”
Yes. Me and my imaginary boyfriend are positively ecstatic.
His eyebrows half-hitched, and his odd look deepened. “That’s great to hear, Chloe.” He said the words slowly, the way you might speak to a small child. I didn’t blame him. I sounded ridiculous. My attempt to cover up my confusion at his non-invitation had only pushed me further into the pathetic pool, my risk of drowning imminent. And turning down free food? I immediately regretted every part of the slip.
I took the cash and stood, my hand grabbing at his order, desperate to get away.
Funny that after four months of working, I still hadn’t processed my role as The Help. I still saw myself on some sort of equal platitude with Clarke, where my mind would jump to a dinner invite rather than an order of food. I was out the door and four blocks down the street, wheezing against a streetlamp, before I realized I should have had Dante drive me.
I was so focused on my own life, my own issues, that I forgot everything else. I wasn’t thinking that Nicole Brantley, with her gilded world of perfection, would have her own struggles and a pile of secrets. And I certainly wasn’t planning on those secrets changing everything for me.
The city was a seductress. It dragged you through slushy, freezing hell, and then gave you a brief window of sunshine and made you fall in love with it all over again. It was one of those days, rays of sun warming the huge windows of the Brantley home, my eyes continually pulled back, moment after moment, bits of the outside beckoning. Finally, after organizing Nicole’s scarf drawer and syncing her Spotify playlist with her iTunes account, I decided to take Chanel on a walk. We didn’t go on a lot of walks. She had a pee pad on an upstairs balcony and did her miniscule bathroom breaks out there. Her exercise was taken care of by running around five stories and six thousand square feet.
I dressed her in a leopard print jacket, one with a fur-lined hood and put her booties on. The booties she hated, but Nicole had a tantrum if she stepped on the “dirty street” without foot protection, so I made Chanel suffer the indignity, whispering apologies to her the entire time. Last week, I had wasted a good fifteen minutes counting her shoes. The dog has seventy-three pairs. Too bad I can’t wear her size.
Chanel didn’t really want to go out. She lay down when I put on her harness, the diamond-studded piece making her transition to hooker dog complete. I laughed and pulled on the leash, causing her bejeweled body to slide along the wood floor. She ignored my tough voice, only jumping to her feet when I reached for the treats.
I glanced at my watch as I stepped off the last step, the house behind me too quiet. When Nicole was home, you heard it. Her television, her phone, her music, her voice. She lived in a constant state of interaction, fed on it. I checked the time, wondering where she’d gone and, more importantly, when she’d be back. The prior week, I’d been out getting creamer for her coffee, and walked into a full-blown hissy fit, her fury at my absence way overdone. This stroll outside was the first time I’d left the house since, my fear of her too great to risk. But on a rare sunny day in winter, I felt bold, certain that she’d want Chanel taken out.