5. Lena
Five
Lena
I stumble through the next day like a tired, stiff-shouldered zombie. Every movement makes my bones creak and my head throb.
Of course, Weston James can’t take all the credit for my bleary eyes and hunched back. It’s not all from my shoe polish adventure. There’s also the jet lag after flying here from Switzerland and barely sleeping since, along with the stress that kept me tossing and turning even after I finally crashed into bed around dawn.
I’m done. I’m toast. So tired that when the realtor I invited comes to tour the townhouse after lunch, I keep yawning every few seconds, clapping a hand over my mouth each time.
“Don’t mind Lena,” my father says cheerfully after the eighth yawn. “She’s jet lagged, poor girl.”
The realtor, a woman in her forties with a sharp suit and sharper eyes, glances at me. “Would you like to go lie down? I’m sure your parents can take it from here.”
Can they? I’m way less certain.
But as we all gather in the foyer, I’m swaying on my feet, and there are little spots of light floating in my vision. The realtor keeps looking at my hand whenever I cover a yawn—at the shoe polish stains that I couldn’t scrub out of my skin. It’s not the image that we want to project right now, that’s for sure.
Another yawn climbs up my throat. I clap a hand over my mouth.
The realtor squints at my ruined nails.
Shit.
“Okay.” My vision wobbles as I back up, hoping and praying with all my might that my parents really can handle this. That I can trust them to do the right thing even when I’m not hovering nearby. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll go… I’ll go take a nap.”
The realtor nods briskly, already turning away. She’s probably wondering why she needs to deal with me at all when my parents are right here—but she has no freaking idea. Those two couldn’t even drum up the initiative to call her office this morning. “Good idea.”
Back in my bedroom, I close and lock the door, then rest my head briefly against the painted wood. It’s blessedly silent in here—cool and clean and quiet.
As I stumble to the bed and face-plant on the mattress, my last waking thought isn’t of the realtor or the house tour or even my parents’ financial situation.
It’s a memory from last night, pin-sharp and vivid: Weston crouching by my side amid the sea of shoes, the heat from his body tickling my bare shoulder and thigh. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to make the little hairs on my arms stand on end.
The handsome bulk of him. The way he loomed over me. The deep rumble of his voice, and his fresh, cedar scent, nearly muffled by the stink of shoe polish.
My pillow hides my smile.
See, Weston James may want to punish me with his presence, but the joke’s on him.
I’m counting down the hours until I see that jerk again.
* * *
One comatose nap, a scalding hot shower, and a hasty dinner later, I’m back on the sidewalk outside the Merritt casino. I peer up at the building that dominated so much of my life. It stands nine stories high, with pale stone columns on either side of the front entrance. Huge spotlights light the building from below.
Before my great-grandfather got hold of it, this building used to be a grand old bank, complete with gold bars and priceless gems held in its vaults. Kinda ironic what it became under my family’s ownership.
Since Weston took over, the Merritt has had another makeover, though it’s only noticeable once you step inside. I hurry through the doors, eager to reach my father’s ex-protege on time.
See, once you get past the lobby and coatroom, the first floor of the casino used to be packed with rows and rows of slot machines. With my father in charge, this was always the busiest floor, crammed with everyday people who’d wandered in off the street, ready to pull levers and blow their whole paycheck in one sitting.
Under Weston’s rule, those slot machines are all gone. The first floor now has a mix of roulette, craps, and blackjack, and the clientele is visibly wealthier. Everyone is dressed to the nines in evening gowns and tuxedos, and even the staff uniforms look fancier too.
No one’s flushing away their social security check in Weston James’s casino. No, sir. He’s shaking down the rich and famous instead, letting them blow their trust funds and blockbuster movie payouts.
It’s so much better. My shoulders relax an inch as I weave my way through the tables, heading for the door at the side of the room.
Weston works on the eighth floor, the one below the penthouse. What’s on the top floor now? Is it still a private apartment? Does he live up there full time, or does he just use it to crash when he can’t get away from work?
My father never worked long enough hours to bother using that apartment at all, and it spent his whole tenure gathering dust. I remember sneaking up there once as a kid, lifting all the white sheets to peer at the abandoned furniture beneath.
“Lena Merritt,” a blackjack croupier says out of the corner of his mouth as I pass his table. He’s an older gentleman, maybe in his late fifties, and dapper in a burgundy tuxedo.
I pause, smiling but confused. The man winks and clicks his heels together, showing off freshly polished shoes. A laugh bursts out of me, and the croupier smiles wider.
“Have a good night, young lady.”
I waggle my polish-stained fingers in a wave. “Oh, I will.”
Up, up, up I go, winding my way through the back corridors of the building. Three separate elevators give me partial rides, and the rest of the way, I stomp up deserted stairwells, my thighs screaming.
I guess I could take a more direct route to Weston’s office, but old habits die hard. This was the roundabout way I used to visit my father as a kid, and retracing those old steps feels good for some reason. Comfortable.
At eight o’clock precisely, I rap on Weston’s door then hold my breath. Every inch of my body flushes hot as I wait for his response.
It’s the stairs, I tell myself. You’re hot from the stairs.
But when Weston calls out in that deep, rumbly voice, my legs turn to jelly. I can barely make my hand work to grip the door handle and turn it.
The man who has haunted my every waking moment is behind his desk when I step inside, his shirt collar unbuttoned and his dark hair tousled. Like he’s been tugging on it, maybe frustrated over some fancy business contract or spreadsheet. Weston eyes me as I shut the door and walk further into his office, coming to stand right in front of his desk.
“You’re back,” Weston says, and he sounds almost disappointed. Like he hoped one night of menial labor would be enough to send me away screaming.
Listen: this man doesn’t know me at all. Even if my parents’ welfare weren’t on the line, my pride would never allow me to be beaten so easily.
“Yep. I’m back and reporting for duty.” My jokey salute is met with a frown, and Weston settles deeper into his chair. I’m a bug under his microscope again, his dark gaze scanning every inch of me. Searching for signs of weakness. Sadly, there are many.
“You’re tired, princess.”
I force a bland smile, even though that nickname makes my stomach twist. “Guilty as charged.”
“And your hands are stained.”
My fingers knit together to keep from fidgeting. “So they are.”
“And yet you came back.”
“So I did.” Is it really so shocking? This was our agreement, after all. “If you want to scare me away, you’ll need to try much harder.”
Weston’s frown deepens. He drums on his desk, the silence stretching between us.
There are no sounds from the casino seeping up through the floor; no car horns or other traffic noise from outside. This place was well built and right now, it’s like Weston and I are the only two people in the world.
I wish.
Maybe he’d hate me less in that scenario. Maybe he’d even come to like me, to crave my company the way I already crave his.
Does he ever think about me at all? Could he ever let go of this grudge?
“Fine,” Weston clips out at last, snatching up his phone and tapping out a message. “Maybe this will wipe that smile off your face.” His chair rattles back over the floorboards as he stands and nods at the door. “Come on. We’re going to the penthouse.”
* * *
Weston’s assistant meets us at a private elevator, a bucket of cleaning supplies and a vacuum by his feet. He looks younger than I expected considering he has such a prestigious role in the casino—early twenties, like me—but he nods at Weston with brisk efficiency as we arrive.
“I got what you asked for. Should I go up there too and keep an eye on her?”
For a moment, the assistant’s gaze slides to me, a hint of apology in his expression. As if he feels bad for talking about me like I’m not here. But when Weston speaks, the assistant turns away again, and hey—I may as well be a speck of lint on the floor.
“No,” Weston says. “I’ll go up with her. You watch over the floors. Any major issues, you know where I am. And… Ariq?”
The assistant pauses, staring expectantly at his boss. Even when my father ran this place, even when he commanded a staff of hundreds, no one ever looked at him like that. Like he was the captain of their ship, and they’d follow him down to the seabed if necessary.
It’s kinda funny seeing someone else go all moon-eyed over Weston James. Even if this Ariq guy’s hero worship is more of a professional flavor while mine is x-rated, it’s nice to see I’m not the only one.
“Don’t tell anyone she’s up here,” Weston says, eyeing me with clear distaste. “I don’t want the staff to get the wrong idea.”
Yes, god forbid that anyone think we’re hooking up in the penthouse. I poke my tongue out at Weston, and Ariq turns his laugh into a cough.
“Yes, sir.”
Does it hurt that Weston is so repulsed by the idea of us having a tryst? Yes, yes it does. Am I gonna let him see how small and bruised it makes me feel? No, I am not.
The cleaning bucket clatters loudly as I heave it up into my arms. “Alright. Let’s get this show on the road.”