10. Corm
Chapter 10
Corm
“ W e’re trending well thus far. Saar is good for your image. The events I scheduled over the next two months will improve your reputation. And with her by your side, people might buy it.” Betsy’s voice drills into my brain. Fuck, I hate this spiel.
“Anything else?” I growl.
“As pleasant as ever. I spoke with Xander, and so far Atlas and AetherTech are reserving their judgment—”
“Betsy, mind your own business. I’m paying you to fix my image, not to plot with my partners or check on my deals.”
“Oh, grow up. Your image is worth shit for you if those two don’t buy it. Or rather sell it to their boards. I investigated both men, and I think the activities I planned might be right up their alley. You’re now a huge supporter of an animal shelter, a cause close to Mrs. Hale. You’re also attending several charity galas that Cherynovski supports.”
Okay, maybe she knows what she’s doing. I look out of my car’s window. “Good job. I’m almost home, so if there isn’t—”
“When are you introducing Saar to your mother? We should make that a public appearance.”
Shit. My brother knows about the charade, and so does Saar’s family, but the idea of telling my mom the truth doesn’t sit well with me. Nor does the idea of lying to her.
Our relationship has been in limbo since the funeral, and I don’t want to face her until I sort out my feelings.
I’ve been so angry, channeling my feelings into a party bender, and now replacing it with the borderline bullying of my colleagues and Saar. Fuck, I need to get my shit together. If only I could confront Dad.
But lying to my mom’s face is not a bridge I’m ready to cross. “She hasn’t been feeling well, but I’ll schedule something.”
“She must be better, because she was at a luncheon about renewable energy today.”
I crack my neck. Fucking Betsy. Nothing happens in this town without her knowing. And since when is Mom interested in renewable energy?
“I got to go.” I hang up, done with the conversation. Before I introduce her to my mom, I need to make sure that Saar… What?
This shit is more complicated than I anticipated. On the one hand, she draws me with some invisible thread that attracts me to her. Makes her intriguing. Makes me want to peel off all her layers.
On the other hand, my future bride spits venom whenever in my vicinity. And I give her enough reasons; I’m not even sure why.
I thought playing with Saar van den Linden would be a great distraction from my recent problems. And there is the irrational but ever-so-present need to make her mine.
The challenge might not be worth it. The woman is attracted to me, and she hates me for it.
What was I thinking agreeing to this scheme? It’s more a headache than a solution. Cal is right: I literally could have found a bride in no time. And yet I jumped at this opportunity.
Because she beguiled me two years ago, and when she finally fell into my lap, so to speak, I couldn’t resist. And now, I don’t know what I want anymore, and that’s the feeling I hate the most. It’s all her fault.
The car pulls through my gate and stops in front of my house. My phone rings.
Art Mathison?
That’s fast. I briefed him only two days ago. The former hacker specializes in cybersecurity and surveillance.
“What did you find?” I don’t bother with greetings. The man hates socializing. I admire him for that.
“I sent you an encrypted file.”
“What’s on it?”
He groans. “If you don’t know how to read, use text-to-speech.” He hangs up.
I push the front door open, and the smell of fresh paint assaults me immediately. I walk around my entry table, following the smell, but I stop.
A large flower arrangement reigns on the table instead of my hundred-thousand-dollar statue. I guess my blushing bride made herself at home. I can’t say I mind this little touch. It’s warmed up the large, cold foyer.
Let’s hope the painting job—because the smell suggests she didn’t stop with the flowers—is equally pleasant.
That hope dies a quick death when I step into the living room. Or at least what used to be my living room.
This room doesn’t look like it. Unless someone ate several kilos of Smarties and then vomited all over my walls.
And where the hell is my furniture? Is that a sex chair by the window? And a real-size stuffed giraffe? Right next to an antique-looking statue?
And what’s with the fucking antlers on the wall? This is not a hunting cottage. Or a safari. Or a museum of design mistakes.
I cross the hallway to the dining room. Kill. Me. Now.
My solid-wood dining set, hand-fucking-made in Italy, is gone. Instead, there is a red faux-leather booth like this was some fucking diner. There is even a jukebox in the corner.
The Morrigan. I’m going to kill her.
I rush to the kitchen. Thank God it’s unchanged. Livia steps from the pantry and smiles.
“Mr. Quinn, you’re back. Should I warm up something for you to eat?” She puts down a basket with vegetables.
“I’m not hungry. Where is Saar?” I tap my fingers on the marble counter.
“I think she went upstairs. She must be tired, bossing around those poor workers for two days.”
I bet she is tired. She will also be sorry. “Thank you, Livia.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to eat? Ms. Saar has barely eaten, and there are so many meals in the fridge.”
“Take them home, Livia. Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?” That way I can kill my fiancée without witnesses.
“Thank you, Mr. Quinn. I’ll be back in the morning then. Could you ask Ms. Saar to let me know if there are workers coming tomorrow?”
“No,” I bark, startling her. “The redecoration project is over.” I tame my voice. This is not Livia’s fault.
“Thank God,” she mutters, and starts gathering her things.
I pour myself a glass of whiskey, hoping to find composure. Damn woman. She oozes style even when she wears a simple pair of jeans, so this is clearly an attempt to piss me off.
I down the whiskey and take a few breaths. No. Nothing. I need one more. I down two more glasses before I rush upstairs.
Soft music floats through the corridor as I approach Saar’s room.
I knock. I may be on a mission to strangle her, but I’m not a savage.
No answer. She’s in there, listening to some esoteric music. Is she ignoring me deliberately?
I knock again, this time with more urgency.
Nothing.
“Saar,” I billow.
Silence. Bar the music.
“I’m coming in.” I push the door open. “Saar.” I blink a few times, adjusting to the darkness.
The blinds are drawn, the only light coming from a few flickering candles. The air is infused with vomit-inducing incense.
“What?” Saar pulls up her eye mask. “I was trying to sleep.”
“At three in the afternoon?” I turn the switch on, and the light floods the room.
Saar groans and swings her legs to sit at the edge of her bed, rubbing her eyes. “I’m still adjusting.”
“You can’t have jetlag anymore.”
And why am I even arguing this point? She can do whatever she wants. Aside from making my house look like a junkyard.
“What do you want?” She sighs.
She looks exhausted. Shadows of fatigue frame her eyes. She is pale, and is she thinner than she was?
My cock immediately remembers the feel of her against me when I crowded her in my office. I made that move out of exasperation. She really seems to push all my buttons. Regardless of my original—not very smart—intention, the power move ended up in an internal war between want and reason.
Thank God for Larissa’s interruption, and for my business trip. Putting the distance between us was essential.
“Livia tells me you didn’t eat much.” That’s none of your business, asshole. That’s not why you came here. Fuck, she doesn’t look good though.
“And you care why?” She throws the eye mask on the nightstand.
“You’re right, I don’t. What the fuck have you done downstairs?”
She gives me a feigned smile. “I thought you wouldn’t mind if I made the place a little bit mine.”
I open my mouth, wanting to bark something, but that’s what she wants, isn’t it? To rile me up so she has a false sense of control over the situation. “I have nothing against redesigning. But it looks like a yard sale downstairs.”
Her eyes bulge out. “That was the look I went for. I’m glad you approve. Can I go back to trying to sleep now?”
“The magazine is coming in an hour.”
“What magazine?”
“I don’t remember every detail. They are coming to take engagement pictures.”
“That’s tomorrow.” She reaches for her phone and finally stops the church music. “Shit.”
“Yes, it’s today. The only thing you have to do is keep on top of the schedule.”
She flinches. Fuck, I’m such an asshole to her. But fuck, it’s not like she’s an angel.
“Well then, get out of here so I can get ready.” She stands up and stumbles.
I rush to her side and snake my arm around her waist. Her body is so light, I almost lift her off the floor with that one move. The lavender attacks me through the thick air of incense.
It’s like we’re back in my office; the want surges through my veins right into my cock. Fuck.
She blinks a few times and turns her large eyes to me. Even exhausted, she is a vision. Truly beautiful. The shadow of vulnerability softens her edges.
“What’s going on?” This time, my tone resembles a normal person, not the raging asshole she usually turns me into.
“Nothing. I just stood up too fast.” She pushes away and bumps into the nightstand.
What am I doing worrying about her? She’s a grown woman. “Okay.” I step away, confused by my feelings.
It’s like she stumbled, and my hatred for her softened. What the fuck?
Conflicted.
That’s how I feel, and I hate the feeling. I march to the door. The sooner I get out of here, the sooner I can reestablish the boundaries. Strengthen them. It must be the fucking incense that confused me.
“I hope you know how to cook.” I turn before I leave.
She frowns. “You have a chef.”
I groan. “Did you even read Betsy’s brief?”
“Of course I did. But isn’t the cooking together just staged?”
“We’re trying to fucking sell a story. We’re not going to do that with a plastic cauliflower. I’ll cook. Make sure you look pretty. That’s something you’re good at.”