Chapter 51
fifty-one
I wince slightly as I shift in the chair at Christian’s bedside.
Lucid for the second day in a row, he actually notices. “Did you hurt your back or something?”
Or something .
The memory of Jules riding the hell out of me on the floor of my closet springs to mind. I take a bite of my sandwich and speak around it. “Rug burn.”
For the first time in ages, amusement seeps into my brother’s blue eyes. His lips twitch up. “No shit?”
The abrasions all over my ass delighted Jules to no end, too. When she stripped my clothes off after work last night, she laughed at the raw skin for two full minutes.
“Your place doesn’t even have a carpet,” Christian contends.
I shrug a shoulder. “Bedroom closet.”
He snorts. “You couldn’t have walked ten steps into your bedroom?”
I remember the fire crackling in Juliet’s eyes, the way she pulled my hair at the roots. “Not a chance.”
Instead of laughing, he scowls. My baby brother, always so serious. “What was a woman even doing in your closet? Isn’t that, like, your Fortress of Solitude? I thought you didn’t even let the maid in there.”
I cast him a glower. “Fuck you. The maid got Pinesol on my favorite suede loafers last year. I’m not risking another pair.”
We both eat in silence for a moment. Christian surprises me when he probes, “So who’s the girl?”
I’m not sure if rubbing my new relationship in his face is a good idea. We still haven’t discussed what happened Saturday night or that Juliet was there with me. He doesn’t remember any of it, and I worry he’ll be embarrassed if I tell him.
On the other hand, this is the first time he’s asked me a coherent personal question in months . And I better start getting used to telling people, since I have to face Grayson soon.
I answer reluctantly. “Well, she’s sort of… my girlfriend. Her name is Juliet.”
Christian stares at me. “Your girlfriend. Like, a woman you date exclusively ?”
I cast my eyes down at my lunch. A vision of the engagement ring flashes through my head. “Something like that, yeah.”
“And you aren’t fucking anyone else?” he asks, voice flat. “Not even one other person?”
The notion of being intimate with another woman sends a prickle over my scalp. I glare at him. “Jesus. Is that so hard to believe?”
His regard stays solemn. “You once told me that it didn’t count as cheating as long as the other woman lived in a different borough.”
Fuck me. I did say that. And now I’m in love with a woman from Queens.
“Let’s just say karma has firmly caught up to me,” I mutter. “And she gave me an ass full of rug burn.”
“Karma or Juliet?”
I smirk. “Both. She was mad at me, actually. I bought her a bunch of shit without her approval.”
“Hell of a way to express anger.” Christian chews thoughtfully for a moment. His earnest frown returns. “I thought you said women like presents.”
“They do.” In fact, Juliet wore one of my gifts to work this morning. And I got to make love to her in the shower beforehand. “She’s a proud woman, though. She doesn’t like the idea of anyone keeping her.”
Christian’s gaze flits over my face, searching for something. Insincerity, I’d guess. When he doesn’t find any, he finally says, “Huh. Can I meet her?” Some dark thought crosses his face. “I mean, does she know about me?”
He thinks I’m ashamed of him. I grip his forearm. “Yes. Of course she does. She—” I almost admit that she already met him in that godforsaken alleyway. “Juliet asked if she could come with me tomorrow, actually. We’ll bring breakfast.”
He agrees, and we say our goodbyes. On my way out, while thinking of Jules meeting my family, I have a flash of inspiration about Valentine’s Day. My watch informs me I only have thirty minutes to make it happen before I have to return to work.
Between that and everything else, my afternoon somehow winds up jammed. I take back-to-back calls from McAllister and another friend from prep school who wants to meet up and discuss their new IPO.
I make time to stop for more flowers. Pink, this time, like the blouse she wore out of my apartment this morning.
With barely any time to spare, I get home around six and arrange the bouquet on the island along with a bottle of wine. We can crack it open after dinner with my father. I have a feeling we’ll need it.
The concierge delivers my dry cleaning with an envelope pinned to the plastic bag. When I rip it open, I find a note from the cleaners, telling me they discovered some papers in one of my jackets.
Damn it. The shit from the safe .
I forgot all about it when Jules undressed me on Wednesday. Thankfully, everything is attached to the note, unscathed.
The envelopes on top look oddly familiar. I pluck one up on impulse and scan its contents.
It’s my broker licensing information, the certificate that arrived after I passed my exam. I go to open the second, identical envelope, thinking I’ll preserve Christian’s for him.
Maybe a reminder of his accomplishments will be good for him.
I slide my eyes over his credentials, considering. A familiar series of digits snags my gaze. My blood freezes into slush.
There, under his name, social security number, and passing grade, I see it.
His broker number.
The exact broker number listed on every fraudulent trade in my father’s files. It belongs to Christian.
Which means that our dad didn’t just steal millions of dollars.
He framed my brother for it.