Chapter 14
Holland
The only smoking hot part of my wedding night is Phoenix’s microwave, when I’m so distracted that I put a metal cup in and start a veritable firework display in there.
I swear loudly and open the door, fanning the inside with my hand and then hunting for an oven mitt to pull the cup out, moving as quietly as I can so that Phoenix won’t hear. He’s been in his study for hours, and that’s where I’d like him to stay.
Because it’s weird, looking at him and knowing that this is our first night as a married couple. It doesn’t matter that we’ve known each other for years or that we don’t get along; it’s still weird, and awkward, and uncomfortable. Phoenix Park and I are legally husband and wife.
Even though I was there when it happened, I still can’t quite believe it. He told me to make myself comfortable when I moved in earlier—a transfer that consisted of me, half my closet, my shoes, and my toiletries—but how am I supposed to make myself at home when he’s here?
He seems just as unsettled as I do. I’ve mainly been hiding in my room since I got here earlier, but the two times we have crossed paths, we just stared at each other for a few seconds, our eyes wide, like we’d briefly forgotten that we live together.
Flying under the radar seems most appealing right now. So I carry the cup to the kitchen sink, rinse it with a low stream of water, and then load it into the dishwasher with gentle, quiet hands.
We’re going to skip the hot chocolate for the night and move on to the heat pack, which I know won’t make the microwave angry. I stick the heavy rice pack in and turn it on for two minutes and thirty seconds, the tension easing out of my body at the low whirring sound.
I don’t think I broke anything.
“Fourth of July isn’t until next week, Amsterdam,” a voice says from behind me, and I jump, whirling around. “So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t burn my house down.”
It’s him, of course. How did he know? Was my electrical storm really that loud?
“Sorry,” I say, because the sparking microwave is 100 percent my fault. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“What’s this, then?” he says, jerking his chin at where the heat pack spins round and round on the microwave’s rotating plate.
“A rice heat pack,” I tell him.
“It’s summer,” he says, stepping further into the kitchen. He’s still dressed in black slacks and the black, button-down shirt he wore earlier— to our wedding , my brain pipes up. “Not the dead of winter.”
Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “I like being warm at night,” I say, sounding more defensive than I need to.
“Could have fooled me.” His dark gaze roams over my pajamas, pink silk shorts and top. Then he meets my gaze again. “Just don’t set any fires, please.”
I nod and look firmly back at the microwave.
The one at Nana Lu’s lets out three shrill, agonized beeps when it’s done cooking, similar to the sound a smoke detector makes when its batteries are running low, but the only thing I hear from Phoenix’s microwave when my heat pack is done is a pleasant chiming sound; a pleasure doing business with you instead of help me I’m dying.
I hate leaving Nana Lu’s, but when I move back there after Phoenix inherits, I might invest in a new microwave.
I pull my heat pack out and drape it around my shoulders, shoving aside my embarrassment. I keep my chin up, ignore the feeling of my messy bun on top of my head, and pass by him without a word.
I’ve only made it a few steps out of the kitchen and into the hallway when he speaks.
“Get some good sleep tonight,” he says, sounding tired now. “I’m taking you to meet my grandmother at the hospital tomorrow. Some of the rest of the family will probably be there too. We’ll leave at nine-thirty.”
I turn to face him. “I’m going to bed anyway.” Then, casting my gaze over his clothes, I say, “Do you always wear that? I figured you were probably more casual at home, or at least in the evenings. Do you sleep in a suit? Shower in a tux?”
His eyes glint in the dimly lit hallway as he steps closer to me. “Imagining me in the shower, Amsterdam?” he says, raising one eyebrow.
The nerve.
“Only when I feel like vomiting,” I say sweetly. Then I turn around and continue on to the room I’m staying in, closing the door behind me.
It’s a nice room, with plush carpet and a king-sized bed whose plain white comforter is poofy enough to swallow me whole. There’s no bathroom attached, but there’s one right across the hall, so that’s fine. I flip the lights off and crawl into bed with the heat pack still around my neck, curling up on my side.
I’m asleep in minutes.
When I drag my still-half-asleep self into the kitchen the next morning at eight o’clock, Phoenix is already there. He’s leaning against the marble countertop, dressed in a suit, sipping from a cup of something steaming—probably peppermint tea—and scrolling on his phone.
I’m still wearing my pink silk pajamas, and there’s still sleep gunk in my eyes.
“When you’ve cleaned yourself up,” he says without looking at me, “I’d like to see the clothing I had Wyatt send to you. Have you tried any of it on?”
“What, all the tweed and Ann Taylor?” I say blankly.
The corners of his lips twitch. “Yes.” He sets his drink down on the counter and turns his gaze on me, tucking his phone into one of those secret suit coat pockets only businessmen know about. “My family will judge every book by its cover, and they won’t change their minds after their first impressions are formed. So go shower, please, and then I’ll need to see those clothes before you choose something to wear.”
“I’m not a doll you can dress up however you want,” I say, rubbing my eyes to try to dispel the early morning crusties.
“I’m aware of that,” he says. “But I didn’t check what Wyatt sent. So while it will likely all be appropriate, I need to make certain. As long as the options are acceptable, I won’t interfere in your choices.” He pauses. “This was part of the contract you signed, so get moving.”
I don’t budge. “I’m hungry,” I say.
He glares at me. “I’ll make you some toast, all right? Just go. Good grief.”
“I don’t like grape?— ”
“I know ,” he says, exasperated. “I have raspberry.”
“But I don’t?—”
“Want anything with seeds that will get stuck in your teeth. I know. Go. ”
“If you insist… ” I say, and his grumpy eyes turn even grumpier.
“Go!” he says, pointing out of the kitchen.
I grin. It’s only eight in the morning, and I’ve already gotten to put that look on his face. What more could a girl ask for?
I take my time in the shower, because it’s way nicer than the one at Nana Lu’s. Nana’s shower head shoots abusive bullets of water that could probably take an eye out. Phoenix’s water pressure is perfect, though, and there are two shower heads, and not once does the temperature cool down even though I’m in there for probably twenty minutes. When I step out, I slip into my fluffy white robe and then begin toweling my hair dry.
I emerge into the living room a few minutes later, both hands full of hangers. “This was too much,” I say to Phoenix, who’s sitting in a straight-backed chair, one ankle propped on the opposite knee, his phone in his hand again. “I’m never going to wear all these.”
He buttons his phone off and exhales tiredly. “Yes, you will. You—” But he breaks off when he looks up at me, his dark brows rising. “What is that? ”
“It’s a robe,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “I know,” he says. “I meant why are you wearing it?” His throat bobs as he swallows, his gaze darting away from me. “I would prefer if everyone stayed fully dressed in communal areas of the house.”
“As would I,” I say, “but you insisted upon seeing what Wyatt sent before I change. So I’m not sure what you want me to do.”
“I—fine.” He looks back at me, and a muscle jumps in his jaw as he grits out the rest of his words. “Fine.” He stands up and crosses the room in three long strides, his eyes on everything dangling from my hands. I hold out the clothes as he approaches, and he flips through them quickly like a shopper at a thrift store, the metal hangers digging into my skin as he moves. Then he backs away. “Any of that will do,” he says, already turning to his chair again. “And I believe Wyatt also included jewelry. Wear pearl earrings if you have any; Mavis wears pearls only and always.”
None of these things are really my style, but I did sign the contract, and I’m getting paid—the second installment appeared in my account last night—so I just nod in assent.
“I assume your grandmother knows we’re coming?” I say as I try to picture what kind of woman she might be.
“Oh, yes,” Phoenix says, his voice dry now. He sits back down. “She’s aware. She sent me this text this morning.” He holds his phone up, and I scoot forward, leaning down to get a closer look.
I almost choke when I see it. It’s a photo of Phoenix—a business portrait, maybe, in which his appearance is not worth mentioning because it’s too early for such things—and photoshopped next to him is a faceless bride.
The picture is as bizarre as it sounds. Just professional Phoenix and then a bride from a magazine, maybe, only there’s no face on her; just a hairstyle around a blank space.
“This borders on disturbing,” I say as my nerves jump. “Did she just send the image?”
“No,” he says, tucking his phone away. “She also expressed how excited she was to meet the woman who would fill in this photo. ”
“That’s weird,” I say, swallowing. “She’s weird.”
“I did tell you,” he says mildly. “Go get ready, please.”
I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then I return to my bedroom and blow dry my hair until it’s soft, sleek, and shiny. Then I get dressed in a pink tweed skirt and a cream blouse—pantyhose are included in this outfit, and I hate every second—and return to the kitchen.
As it turns out, my new husband did make me toast, just like he said he would. He made me toast with grape preserves —seeds and mushy lumps included.
“We have just enough time for you to eat before we have to leave,” he says, sliding the plate toward me with a smirk. “I know you’re hungry.” His message is loud and clear: Make your own breakfast from now on, Amsterdam, or you’ll keep getting food you hate.
My stomach growls as I stare at the two pieces of toast, and for a second I contemplate picking both of them up and plastering them to the front of his suit coat. I resist the urge, glaring at him instead before wolfing down both pieces.
His smirk just widens before he drifts back into the living room, pulling his phone out of his suit coat. It’s buzzing, I realize; he looks at the name on the screen and then answers.
“We’re ready,” he says without greeting or preamble. “We’ll head out there now.” Then he hangs up.
Wyatt, I assume.
“Wait a second,” I say. It’s just occurred to me that I have no idea where Phoenix’s assistant actually lives. “Where’s Wyatt’s house?”
“Behind this one,” he says wryly, straightening his suit coat. “He lives in the mother-in-law building out back. He wouldn’t let me buy him his own place.”
“I hope you pay him a million dollars a year,” I say.
Phoenix just smiles, a genuine, warm smile that I’m not at all prepared for. Then he jerks his chin in the direction of the front door. “Let’s go,” he says. “Mavis will be waiting.”
I’ve never been to a VIP ward of a hospital before; I didn’t even realize they were a thing, mostly because I’d never really thought about it. But the wing of the mainland hospital where Mavis is apparently being treated looks more like a hotel than a hospital.
“All right,” Phoenix says in a low voice as we stand next to each other outside a set of double doors. “Listen carefully.” His posture is almost too rigid, and there’s something cold and blank shifting in his expression, like I’m watching him in the process of putting on a mask. Even the poor hospital lighting doesn’t stop his bone structure from casting impeccable shadows, or his hair from gleaming darkly.
When he turns to face me, his eyes fix immediately on mine. “Don’t speak to or answer questions from anyone other than me or my grandmother,” he says. “Don’t try to be friendly. Stand up straight, don’t fidget.” He pauses. “I know this seems dramatic, or like an exaggeration. But my family are wolves, Holland. They will smell fear and use it against you.”
Something deep in my stomach flips, and I can’t tell if it’s concern over his words or surprise at hearing my name come from his lips.
And it’s that, more than anything else—my name, just my name—that compels me to listen to him. I don’t appreciate being told how to act, and I don’t appreciate being told to hold my tongue. But the man standing in front of me is the devil I know. He’s the devil I can’t stand, the devil that makes me want to scream, the devil whose mere presence sometimes feels like a knife in my gut because of the memories we share.
And yet…I know him. I even trust him, in a way I can’t explain to myself or anyone else.
Which must be why I take a deep breath, nod, and then—before I can stop myself—I step closer, reaching out and touching the knot of his tie, straightening it.
His body stills.
He doesn’t even breathe; I’m close enough that I can tell, and I understand. It’s a bizarre moment, intimate and domestic in a way we never are; I tug on the knot just slightly before smoothing the tail.
“There,” I say softly as my heart pounds in my chest.
I didn’t think I was actually afraid to meet his family, but my galloping pulse and adrenaline rush say differently.
Yes. Fear, I tell myself as I take a deep breath. That’s what I’m feeling.
His dark gaze flits over my face as he looks down at me, his expression still blank except for the muscle jumping in his jaw. Then, finally, he says, “You look—nice. Mavis should approve.”
And without waiting for a response, he turns back to the double doors and pushes them open, stepping inside.