All the Feels, page 6
The right thing. She needed to do the right thing, but the right thing was so hard to determine when she was so tired.
“Okay.” She tapped her fork against her plate. “In that case, I’ll still clean up after myself, but she can tell the production she’s doing the extra work and get the money.”
He frowned, looking . . . upset. At her. But why?
“If you said that to Dina, she’d be offended, and I wouldn’t blame her. Why are you assuming she’d lie about her work for more money?” Exhaling through his nose, he sat back. “Do you think I’m browbeating her into this? Or that I don’t pay her sufficiently for her time and labor? Because I can assure you, Lauren, I’m not, and I do. My mom cleaned hotel rooms for a few years, and I know how hard the work is.”
Hey, Lauren, if you ever need a loan or something, let me know. Those generous tips at the hotel restaurant. The wad of bills he’d pressed into their driver’s hand.
No, he wasn’t miserly with his money.
“You can talk to her yourself tomorrow. Make sure she’s not overworked and underpaid. She likes what she does, and she’s well compensated for it. She had a real choice in the matter, and she wanted to take care of the guesthouse and cook for you.” Beneath that beard, his jaw was jutting forward. “Maybe you’ll believe her, even if you don’t believe me.”
“It’s not—” How the hell had she messed this up so badly? “Alex, wait.”
With a loud scrape of his chair against the gleaming hardwood floor, Alex had hurdled to his feet and was stomping into the kitchen, his plate in his fist.
She jumped to her feet too, sick to her stomach. “Alex. Alex. Listen to me. That’s not it.”
Even when she followed him into the kitchen, he ignored her and continued scraping his half-eaten enchilada down the garbage disposal. His shoulders had become hard bunches of affronted muscle under the thin cotton of his tee, and that only made her stomach churn harder.
Tentatively, she laid her hand on that rock-solid shoulder, desperate to get his attention.
He was warm under her fingertips. He didn’t shrug her away, but he didn’t turn around either.
“Alex, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult either you or her. I just . . .” Crap on a cracker, this day needed to end soon. She was so tired, her eyes were prickling and watery. “I hate cleaning and cooking. It’s hard for me to imagine anyone doing it voluntarily if they had another choice.”
At that, he swiveled to face her, and her hand dropped to her side.
“But you do have another choice,” he said. “Are you not anyone?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then shut it again.
“I don’t know” was all she could say in response.
“I see.” The angry flush on his cheekbones faded as he looked down at her. “What would the Harpy Institute for Crone Sciences say about that?”
She closed her eyes in relief. That sly sarcasm meant he’d understood. Understood and forgiven her for the inadvertent slight.
Her lips quirked. “That I possess insufficient harpy energy and should retake Harpies 101: An Introduction to the Virago Arts?”
“Ahhhhh.” There it was. His purr, its low breathiness a slow trickle down her spine. “Was that your feeble attempt at a joke, Nanny Clegg?”
“Maybe.” When she opened her eyes, he was only inches away, head ducked low, eyes alive with alert intelligence despite his fatigue. “I suppose you’ll never know.”
The air between them abruptly went hypoxic, and his stare mired her in place.
“I’m sorry too.” The words were abrupt, his mouth tight. “I can be a bit oversensitive. Maybe I would have been that way no matter what, but it’s . . . uh, pretty common with ADHD. I get more upset than I should whenever I think someone is criticizing me.” Her mouth opened, and he held up a hand. “Even when that’s not actually what they’re doing. I’ve worked on getting thicker skin, but . . .”
He lifted a shoulder, but the gesture didn’t seem casual. Not at all.
In fact, none of this seemed casual, and she didn’t understand what was happening.
Clearing his throat, he turned back to the sink. The bubble popped, and she could breathe again. Hear something over her own heartbeat again. See something other than his face again.
“Tomorrow morning, you can either bring food back to the stables or eat here with me. Same for all the other meals.” He turned on the faucet, then the garbage disposal, and waited to speak again until he flipped the switch and the buzzing went silent once more. “Unless I go out to a restaurant, of course, because then you won’t have a choice. You’ll need to be my ball and chain, as per Ron’s instructions.”
The sudden shift in their situation’s dynamics belatedly struck her.
Alex was done filming in an isolated section of Spanish shoreline. He was home, and as far as she knew, he didn’t have to report to another job right away. He could go anywhere at any time with anyone, and she’d have to go with him.
Shit.
“Correct. Any time you leave your property, I’ll accompany you.” Given what a restless person he was, that would probably mean constant activity on her part. A groan rose from deep in her beleaguered soul, but she didn’t let it loose. “Do you have plans for tomorrow?”
“Nope.” He snorted. “I’m fucking exhausted. I intend to sleep and eat Dina’s cooking and talk to Marcus, and that’s about it.”
“You can’t leave without me.” It was an order, but also a plea. “Not even once.”
He eyed her balefully. “You said that already, Nanny Clegg.”
Propping her fists on her hips, she stared up at him. “Promise me you won’t.”
“Would you believe me?”
He’d tilted his head, watchful. Wary.
She thought for a moment, just to be sure.
Then she told him the truth. “Yes.”
With his long exhalation, he bowed his head. And when he lifted his face to hers again, there was no hint of levity in his features.
“I promise,” he said.
Time had slowed to syrup once more. Her legs were quivering with tension, her parched lips begging for her to lick them.
He gave his head a little shake. “You’re tired. Let me get your keys, teach you how to deal with the alarm system, and show you the guesthouse.”
A quick tutorial on his alarm panel later, they were out his door. He didn’t let her near her own luggage, instead hauling the bags to the faux stables himself.
At the guesthouse entrance, he passed her a key chain with two keys and another little remote. “These are yours. One key and alarm remote for the stables, one key for the main house.”
She studied the remote, whose buttons seemed relatively self-explanatory.
“My first public event is Tuesday night. A charity auction. I’m hosting.” His smile turned a tiny bit evil. “There will be a red carpet. Which means you’ll have to walk it with me, Nanny Clegg. Cocktail attire required.”
She rubbed her temples again. “I’ll need clothing. You’ll have to accompany me when I get it.”
“We’ll deal with all that tomorrow. Come on. Let me show you around and tell you how everything works so you can go to bed.” With a feather-light touch to the small of her back, he nudged her toward the door. “Even harpies and harridans need to rest sometimes. Otherwise, they’re too sleepy for optimal shrewage.”
“Shrewage isn’t a word.”
“It is now.”
After disarming the alarm and unlocking the door, she stepped inside the stables and found . . . what might possibly be the perfect apartment for her.
The downstairs was one large open area, with comfortable-looking seating, a widescreen television, a small kitchen and dining area, and a bathroom tucked to one side. Not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere, no doubt because of Dina’s hard work.
More white marble countertops. Stainless appliances. Shining wooden floors. Even another small fireplace bursting with waxy-leaved plants.
The narrow set of stairs at the other end of the room must lead to—
“The bedroom is upstairs. There’s a private balcony, one that overlooks the Hills. If you keep that door cracked, you’ll get a nice breeze at night. There’s a way to work it out with the alarm. I’ll show you.” He stood inside the entryway with his arms akimbo. “I think everything is pretty easy to figure out, but why don’t you take a look around before I leave?”
She kicked off her shoes and went exploring. All the appliances seemed both expensive and easy to use, and so did the television.
The bathroom . . .
Well, she might never leave the bathroom. It was a much larger version of the powder room in the main house, all marble and gold fixtures, complete with the most glorious hand towels in existence, not to mention entire bath towels made from the material. On the back of the door, there was even a robe in that same fabric hanging from an elegant hook. It wouldn’t fit her, of course, but she appreciated the gesture.
There was a walk-in shower and a large soaking tub and a generous sink and vanity, and she wanted inside that shower right this second. Instead, she reluctantly left the bathroom and climbed the near-spiral stairs to a high-ceilinged bedroom, dominated by a king bed with a fluffy aqua duvet and gracefully curving headboard. The rug under her feet was turquoise and white and pale yellow, and from all signs, the product of sheep who spent their lives deep-conditioning their wool for optimal softness.
When she came back downstairs, she didn’t know whether to kiss him or cry at the prospect of someday leaving the Stable of Dreams.
He was sagging against the door, but straightened when she appeared. “Everything look okay?”
She merely nodded, overcome by the very-much-more-than-okayness of it all.
“The entire property might have basic security features, but make sure to flip the deadbolt when I leave and keep it locked whenever you’re in here. Activate the alarm system too. Understood?” There was no trace of amusement anywhere in his features or voice. “I’ve been lucky to this point, but people know my name, and they can figure out where I live. Be smart, and keep yourself safe.”
He headed for the door. “You have my number. Call me if you need me, and I’ll be here in less than a minute. See you tomorrow.”
She blinked at his back, startled by the sincerity and simplicity of his parting words.
No sarcasm? No parting shots about—
“As always, watch for signs of frivolity and eliminate them with extreme prejudice.” He spoke over his shoulder. “Joy and pleasure could be lurking anywhere, at any time. Stay vigilant, Nanny Clegg.”
Then the door was closing behind him, and he was gone, leaving her somehow both aggrieved and relieved. But he didn’t move far, as she soon discovered.
“I’m waiting!” he shouted from the other side of the door a moment later, his voice muffled. “Can’t you follow simple instructions, you dolt of a woman?”
Once she’d clicked the deadbolt into place, he strode toward the main house. One after another, lights illuminated above him, as if spotlighting his progress on a stage, and she watched that progress from the window nearest the door.
His pace rapid, he moved along the wide stone path bordered by pebbles and various drought-resistant plants. Once he disappeared through the front door to the castle, she set the alarm, stepped back from the window, and pulled the curtains shut against the darkness outside.
She should take a shower, unpack, and get to bed, but instead she wandered the house again, uncharacteristically restless. Even rubbing her cheek against the best toweling in the universe couldn’t ease that weird, empty pit in her stomach.
It was an odd feeling, to have Alex so far away at night.
A relief, obviously. Dealing with him took a lot of energy.
But the little guesthouse was very, very quiet without his oversized presence, or even his half-shouted, half-laughing conversations with Marcus on the other side of a thin wall.
She must simply be lonely for human contact, however aggravating. After her shower, she’d call Sionna.
Then this niggling feeling—like she’d forgotten something important, or left it somewhere it didn’t belong—would disappear. For good, she hoped.
MIMES AND MOONLIGHT
INT. ELEGANT PARISIAN RESTAURANT – EVENING
JOHNNY and ESMÉE are sitting across an intimate, candlelit table from one another, virtually alone in the restaurant. She looks distraught. Concerned, Johnny reaches for her hand.
JOHNNY
What’s wrong, Esmée?
Esmée pulls free from his grip and walks an imaginary dog. She points to the dog, then herself.
JOHNNY
I make you feel leashed? Like some kind of pet? But my darling, if you’d ever told me—
She shakes her head sadly and pulls an imaginary rope, hand over hand, then cups her belly.
JOHNNY
No! Not our instructor from that ropes course! You can’t be having his baby!
She stands and bends backward, arms flailing, as if beset by a strong wind.
JOHNNY
Of course you’re off-balance right now! Let me help you, Esmée!
Esmée makes several indistinct movements. Johnny shakes his head in bewilderment. She becomes frustrated by her inability to find gestures to communicate what she wants to say. After a few more waves of her arms, she gives up with a shrug and speaks.
ESMÉE
With you, I’m trapped, Johnny. Like I’m in a box. And I could never find a way to tell you.
6
“THE GROUNDS ARE ALL YOURS, AND YOU CAN EXPLORE AT will.” Squinting against the bright morning light, Alex donned his sunglasses and continued speaking, despite Lauren’s complete lack of response. “Other seating areas have spectacular views of downtown L.A., the Hills, and the Reservoir. On a really clear day, you can even see the Pacific.”
After downing his ADHD medication with a gulp of coffee, he set his mug on the teakwood table, poked a finger at his remaining cherry-cheese Danish, and grimaced.
Why did he sound like a real estate agent trying to unload a property on an unwilling buyer? This was way too undignified, dammit, even for a man who’d never considered dignity a particularly valuable commodity.
But he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
He pointed to a tree-studded area of his grounds. “You can pick your own oranges, Meyer lemons, and grapefruits. Avocados too.”
When he glanced at Lauren, her face was pointed in the direction he’d indicated, but her expression was as difficult to read as ever. More so, even, since she wore her own oversized sunglasses.
Before answering, she finished chewing a bite of her apple Danish, because of course she’d chosen the most boring breakfast option Dina had supplied.
“Convenient,” she said in her imperturbable, irritating-as-hell way.
She probably didn’t even like oranges or avocados, because she was the worst.
“After you finish eating your apple-filled disappointment of a pastry, why don’t you say hello to Dina and work out a good schedule with her? Then we’ll head out.”
“First of all . . .” She shoved the last bite of her Danish in her mouth, chewing thoroughly and swallowing before speaking again, because she was Nanny Clegg, the world’s most rule-bound human. “My pastry was exceptional. Flaky and buttery, and the apples still had a bit of texture. Second of all, where are we going?”
He looked at her with pity. “It didn’t even have icing on it. You’re a barbarian.”
“I repeat.” She finished her fresh-squeezed orange juice and put down her glass. “Where are we going?”
“We’re getting you a dress. Time to Pretty Woman this shit.” He cracked his knuckles with relish. “I can’t wait until someone refuses to wait on you because you’re so obviously an unsophisticated oaf from Kansas or wherever—”
“North Hollywood. Basically just down this hill and over the next one.”
“—and then you can leave, brokenhearted and ashamed, only to return hours later, carrying thousands of dollars of haute couture to rub in how much commission money they lost.”
She was massaging her temples again.
“Petty revenge is the most satisfying, always.” With his forefinger, he pushed her phone closer to her on the table. “You should write that down somewhere. Consider it a free preview of my TED Talk.”
For a long, satisfying moment, she appeared entirely speechless. Then she spoke, each word slow and precise.
“Okay, first thing.” She paused again, and yet more temple-rubbing occurred. “Why do I need to keep making lists with you?”
“That’s your first thing?” He furrowed his brow at her. “It’s a weird first thing.”
“It’s not my first thing. It’s an addendum, jackass.”
He gasped, loudly enough that a nearby bird flapped away in alarm. “Such language! Why, my delicate ears!”
Her breaths seemed to dramatically lengthen at that point, and he figured she was counting to herself.
After several vastly entertaining and very deep inhalations, she got a hold of her temper. “First thing: I am not a sex worker, and you are not my client. Thus, we cannot, as you so eloquently put it, ‘Pretty Woman this shit.’ Second: As you are neither my john nor my sugar daddy of any sort, you will not be paying for these garments, and I can’t afford thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing I’ll never wear again. Third—”
“The production would pay for a red-carpet-appropriate dress,” he interrupted.
“Third,” she repeated with steely determination, “cocktail dresses don’t come in my size, at least not ones you’d find in standard L.A. stores. For something beautiful that truly fit me, you’d need to employ Christian Siriano—”
“I knew you liked reality television! Ha!”
