23. Celeste
Chapter 23
Celeste
Saar
I got a job for Lily.
Cora
Does it include handling anything breakable?
Me
Or anything edible?
Saar
No, don’t worry. I think she can manage this one.
Cora
I really hope so, I like her.
Me
You shouldn’t get too attached to your employees.
Cora
She is really, really nice.
Me
You still have to let her go.
C aleb and I lie sprawled on the couch, neither of us in a hurry to move on with the day. It’s moments like these, or the seamless conversations we have been enjoying, that take root in my chest, spreading content, warm feelings I don’t want to dissect.
He pissed me off on Monday night, and I’m still not sure if I believe he had a meeting scheduled. It looked like a spur-of-the-moment decision.
All night, I wondered if he went to see another woman. Not that I had any right to wonder about that, but my mind took the idea for a spin like it was a shiny new car.
And one more thing, black swan, we are fucking exclusive. And that naive girl that still lives somewhere in me rejoiced.
The week after that carried in a fever of work and fucking on repeat. We’ve yet to make it upstairs, but I don’t mind the urgency with which he devours me. Every. Single. Time.
I believe him when he says we’re exclusive. I’m also quite aware of the expiration date on this. Our convenient arrangement morphed into an exclusive relationship, but Caleb has made it clear several times he would rather spend Christmas with his father than commit .
His infatuation will run its course eventually. So as his hands run mindlessly through my hair and down my back, stroking lazily, I let myself enjoy the languid quiet of my post-climatic daze, while I regroup to step out of the role and regain my independence.
Caleb’s phone buzzes, and he groans and pats the floor to find where it landed at some point.
“Yes.”
I hear a male voice, and then Caleb continues, “Send it up. Thank you.”
“Another delivery?” I ask as we both scramble to straighten our clothes.
I get a gift every day. I don’t need them, but they work their magic like his praise does. They’ve been thoughtful, like he got a manual to everything Celeste. I got a massage. A box of croissants. A small but valuable painting. A beautiful vintage watch. I’ll never wear it, but it’s the thought that counts. The fact that he noticed the state of the one I wear.
“Cookies.”
That’s all he says, and I swear his cheeks color pink a bit. There’s always a jar of homemade cookies in his kitchen, but I assumed the housekeeper stocked them.
I tried one before, and quickly stashed the jar into a closed cabinet because those things are addictive, and I couldn’t have them on display at the breakfast bar.
Caleb tips the concierge and carries the jar to the kitchen. This is so bizarre. “I didn’t know you had such a sweet tooth.”
“They’re just a gift.” He drops the jar on the counter and busies himself with the espresso machine. “Do you want coffee?”
“No, but I would like to know who sends you cookies. Regularly.” I open the cabinet and point to the other glass jar with identical goods.
The grinder’s rumbles fill the room while Caleb casually walks to the box with my new underwear.
It’s quite ridiculous it still lies in the kitchen, but Caleb insisted he needs access to it. And we usually get too busy to tidy anything up.
He inspects the contents and pulls a pair out. “Wear these today.”
“Stop deflecting. Who bakes for you?”
Leaning down, he shoves the panties into my cleavage and breathes—just fucking breathes—at the sensitive spot on the side of my neck. “Are you jealous, black swan?”
His warm breath sprouts goosebumps all over my skin, and I shudder. This man can direct my body like an award-winning conductor.
“Well, since baking isn’t something I can compete with…” I tease.
Stepping back, he feigns shock and puts his hand where his heart is. “You didn’t disclose your lack of domestic skills before I wed you.”
I laugh. “It’s a good thing you can hire a chef, but don’t try to distract me from this. What’s the cookies’ story?”
He groans. “They’re from my former nanny.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. “Your former nanny still bakes cookies for you?”
“It’s not what you think.” He shakes his head, picks up his coffee, and takes a cookie from the jar. After taking a bite and downing it with his shot of java, he sighs. “I found out recently that my father fired her when she didn’t reciprocate his advances. He refused to give her a reference and got her blacklisted from working as a nanny for pretty much anyone in New York.
“She ended up on welfare. She’s been struggling for years. I got her a job, and I bought her a small apartment last year. She insisted on at least baking for me.”
He tells the story devoid of emotion, like the whole thing is an embarrassing nuisance.
On instinct, I reach to take a cookie and step closer to him where he’s leaning against the counter. I bite into the scrumptious disk. “You’re a good man, Caleb.”
“Not really. My father is a terrible man, so I trade fairer.” He snakes his arm around me and cups my nape before he claims my lips .
It’s a lingering kiss, no urgency or raw desperation. Just two people sharing a moment in the kitchen. The languid spell of it stretches, along with my heart.
This man surprises me daily, and I don’t quite know how to reconcile that with the image I’ve always had of him.
His phone shrills to life again, and he groans.
“God, I hope it’s not another delivery.” I laugh, but tense when Caleb shows me the display before answering. Dominic Cressard.
“Be fast. I’m in the middle of something.” Caleb doesn’t bother with a greeting.
I swat at his chest, rolling my eyes while he taps the speaker icon and drops the phone on the counter.
“I can call later,” Dominic says, unimpressed.
“Or you can get it over with now.” God, how is this the same man who turned his former nanny’s life around?
He fists my hair and guides me to him for another kiss. He eats my protest with his greedy mouth, running his hands up my ribcage.
“I tried to reach your wife ,” Dominic laces the word with sarcasm, and it’s a good thing my mouth is otherwise occupied because I would tell him what I think about his attitude. I might not be able to claim a loving relationship, but on paper, I’m. The. Wife. No sarcasm warranted .
But I forget my indignation when he continues, “Her work permit came through.”
We pull away, and I can’t help it. I bounce on the balls of my feet, shaking my hips in a celebratory dance.
“Thank you, Dom. That’s good news,” Caleb says before he kisses me again.
“My bill is in your inbox.” Dominic hangs up. No one ever praised lawyers for their bedside manner.
“Congratulations, you can dance for the audience again.”
“Finally. I’m sure Reinhard will not be happy.”
“What do you mean? You’re the star of the show.”
“First, you haven’t seen the show. But despite its success, the theater director has been treating me like I’m the bane of his existence pretty much since I started.”
A frown passes over his face, but it’s gone before I’m even sure it was there, and his signature sexy smirk settles over his handsome features. “I went to your premiere. That asshole should be happy he got you to dance there.”
“You were at opening night?”
“Sure.” He shrugs and takes another cookie. “I have something to show you.” He grabs my hand, but his phone pings loudly again.
He came to the opening night? The night after we spat words at each other during dinner with Saar? Before I needed his help with the visa? Sure . Sure ?
“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs and swipes at his screen, pulling me closer.
Xander
Sorry, man, I fought him on this.
I’m still stunned by his casual revelation, and perhaps I shouldn’t see the message, but he holds me close and doesn’t hide it. “What does he mean?”
“I have no idea. I’ll call him later.” Pocketing the phone, he drags me from the kitchen.
“Are you sure? It must be about the deal.” We cross the living room, and my mind is misfiring in so many directions.
I have no time to digest any of it—the week of a very real-feeling relationship, him buying apartments for struggling former employees, attending my premiere, all his gifts, my work permit. And now he just casually, but with determination, wants to show me something, ignoring his potential business partner.
Give a girl a whiplash, anyone?
“They have been jerking me around long enough. I’m sure a few more minutes won’t change much.”
“Caleb, this is your future career,” I protest as he pulls me up the stairs.
“And this will take only a moment. ”
At the top, the hall splits to the right where our bedrooms are, and to the left where Mia’s room is across from a guest bedroom.
Caleb leads me away from our rooms, his hand warm around mine. He stops in front of the spare bedroom. “Have a look.”
I frown. “Are you moving me to a separate wing ? You’ll still run into me, you know that, right? This place is enormous, but it’s not that huge.”
He scoffs, “Stop talking and open the door.”
What is so interesting in a spare bed—?
I gasp.
Mirrors cover one entire wall, reflecting the soft glow of the natural light streaming in from the large windows. A pristine wooden floor stretches out, inviting, begging for the touch of dancing feet.
The sound system tucked neatly into the corner completes the simplicity of the room. It’s all perfect, every detail thoughtfully arranged.
What was once a luxurious guest room has been transformed into a dancer’s haven.
My heart pounds against my ribcage while my eyes well up. “How? When? Why?” I can’t seem to form a coherent sentence.
“How? I hired people who came when you were at rehearsals.”
“How do you even coordinate a construction crew with my schedule?” How does he even know my schedule?
He shrugs, leaning against the door frame. “Do you like it?”
I twirl around, the wooden panes smooth under my feet. “But why?”
“You mentioned the carpet in your room was a problem.”
“I could have practiced downstairs. You practically have a ballroom stretching in front of the elevator.”
“Sure. I love coming home to an eyeful of your ass, but I’m not bleaching the eyes of the concierge and delivery boys. Especially with all the deliveries we get.” He smirks.
His phone steals our attention.
“Fuck. I better take care of this.”
My fake husband walks away, leaving me in my new personal dance studio. The potent cocktail of emotions shuddering through me almost brings me to my knees.
Elation. Joy. Appreciation.
Shock. Confusion. Fear.
We’re just having fun. My mantra is becoming harder and harder to believe.
I’m drunk with all my conflicting feelings. Because I’m a performer, I can try to slip in and out of my fake wife's role. But that role feels less and less fictional.
I glance around the room once more, unsure how to shake the foreboding feeling. Because my husband can disperse gestures of kindness like candy, but where does that leave me?
Am I a convenient lay?
Am I more?
Or am I another charity case for him? Caleb to the rescue, solving everyone's problems.
But the biggest problem is that at the end of the day, I know that I’m irrevocably destined to have my heart broken.