Chapter 13
RAINA
Iwake up wrapped in black silk sheets. My body is soft and spent from the most intense lovemaking session yet. We knew it was the end, and we surrendered ourselves wholly and completely. My mind switched off, and the flesh unraveled. Now I’m alone in the playroom, and I take a look around.
I’m not just alone, I’m lonely.
Blinking back tears, I gather my things—the handful of lingerie I came in wearing last night—then wrap myself in a plush robe and head to my room. I need to get ready for another day in the kitchen; the first day of the rest of my life.
“What the…” I pause in front of my bed. There’s a box on it and a note on top.
My heart quickens as I open the envelope first and find Alex’s words scrawled across the grainy white paper.
“Meet us at midnight tonight; wear this,” I read it aloud, then open the box to find the most adorable, fluffy set of jammies I’ve ever seen.
They’re oversized, powder pink, and soft to the touch, so soft I could put them on and spend the rest of my life literally caressing myself.
I can’t help but laugh and wonder what it means.
Matty is already in the kitchen when I walk in. He’s chopping chorizo and chives for the omelets, which we’ll roll out in about thirty minutes, according to the clock on the wall. His hands move fast, but he’s nervously biting his lower lip.
“You’re late,” he snaps.
“Five minutes,” I reply. “We’re fine. I’ll get the eggs and the cheese for the—”
“Already done,” Matty says and nods back at a large stainless-steel bowl and a plastic box filled with shredded red cheddar. The smoky fragrance of the maple-aged cheese reaches my nostrils and makes my mouth water a little.
“The fruits then. We agreed on the carpaccio, right?” I ask Matty.
“Yes, kiwi, watermelon, and dragon fruit, with the berry and lime reduction.”
“Excellent,” I say, then get cracking on the thin slices of fruits for this endeavor. It’s one of my favorite twists on the classical fruit salad for breakfast, and I’ve found that the kiwi and the watermelon, in particular, pair extraordinarily well with an egg breakfast. “And the bacon?”
Matty curses under his breath. “Crap—it’s still smoking.”
“Relax, we’re good. We’ll be on time.”
“It affects our performance!”
I take a deep breath and pause to look at Matty. “What is going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
Yet he’s chopping that sausage like he wants to kill it, to obliterate it and wipe it from existence. Finally, a few moments pass, and Matty realizes what he’s doing. “Double crap. I ruined it. It’s chopped all wrong.”
Without hesitation, I walk over to his side of the counter and gently pull him away from the worktop, placing my hands on his shoulders. He’s close to hyperventilating now, his chest rising and dropping too fast.
“Matty, look at me,” I tell him. “Deep breath, man. Come on.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You’re about to pass out,” I raise my voice, and he stills, his eyes wide as he looks at me. “Come on, breathe with me. Three seconds in, four seconds hold, five seconds out.”
I breathe with him in the same rhythm. Again, then again, until I feel him relaxing under my grip. “That’s right,” I say. “Much better, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Thanks. Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m sorry. I’ll toss the chopped chorizo—”
“Don’t worry about it; set it aside for our breakfast.”
Matty gives me a surprised look. “The catering company handles our meals. We already have breakfast waiting.”
“Screw that. We’re in our kitchen, Matty. I think we deserve the privilege of cooking our breakfast here for once,” I say, smiling broadly. “Besides, I’d kill for an omelet with Spanish sausage and Irish cheddar right about now, wouldn’t you?”
He chuckles and nods in agreement. “It does smell nice.”
“There you go. Set the massacred chorizo aside and start another round.”
Once we’re back at our respective work counters, I follow Matty’s movements. He’s smoother, calmer, but something must have happened to trigger his anxiety, because he’s usually calm and composed, though a bit lippy. However, I’ve learned to accept it as a part of his nature.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask at one point.
He’s got the pans on the stove now, the drizzle of oil heated, as he throws the chorizo in. He works two pans at once. Once those two are done and completely mounted on their plates, they’ll go under the lamps while we handle the other serving with the same care and attention to detail.
“About what?” Matty replies, gently tossing the omelets in both pans before he adds the cheese and keeps tossing until they take the shape of a Japanese-style omelet that is soft and runny on the inside.
“About what’s got you so wound up.”
“I’m okay, Raina.”
“You’re not. But if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. Just offering an ear if you need it.”
Matty gives me a long, wondering look.
By the second and third omelets, I’m by his side, manning two more in pans of my own. We move in almost perfect unison, tossing and stirring and turning until the elongated oval omelets roll out onto their respective plates.
“I’m having some issues with Dee,” Matty admits eventually.
Nausea tickles the back of my throat, but I need to retain my objectivity. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, well, I think I asked for it. I should’ve known better than to hook up with a hostess,” he scoffs and shakes his head in dismay. “I caught feelings, and I’m pretty sure that woman is not capable of feelings.”
I’m inclined to agree, but again, some objectivity is sorely needed. “Hostesses are still people, though. They’re women with thoughts and emotions. Some are just really good at burying them, masking them, going out of their way not to deal with them.”
“And here I am, moping like an idiot and getting anxious because she’s been avoiding me the past two days,” Matty says. “She’s even ducking my calls.”
“You live in the same house.”
“Right, but she’s got that Quincy guy keeping her busy during the work hours. And Deanna’s work hours are almost twenty-four. The little time she has to herself… I don’t know what to do.”
“Did you talk about it? About what the two of you are supposed to be?”
Matty lowers his gaze and gets started on the last two omelets. “No.”
“You should. It would clear the air between the two of you. The last thing you want to do is fall in love with someone who isn’t ready or willing to reciprocate.”
Listen to me, handing out love advice like a Pez dispenser when I’m practically doing the same thing. Catching feelings for my bosses, even though we agreed we only had the one week to work with.
At the end of my shift in the kitchen, I race back to my room. With one eye on the clock, I change into the pink jammies and check the note again. They mentioned the Paradise Room in their note. I’ve never been there, but I do know it’s on the top floor of the east wing.
It’s in their private quarters, I quickly realize as I walk past Alex, Max, and Vincent’s rooms. I haven’t seen them all day.
They didn’t join the guests for any of the meals, and we didn’t cross paths anywhere else on the estate.
It’s as if they vanished sometime last night while I was still asleep.
“Hello?” I knock on the Paradise Room door.
My heart skips a beat when Alex’s voice echoes from inside. “Come in, Raina.”
Paradise Room is a massive master suite decorated in a lavish Baroque style, with ornate and gilded crown molding, white walls, and angels painted on the ceiling.
White and gold drapes frame the floor-to-ceiling French windows, while a gorgeous carpet adorns the lacquered floor, its borders frilled and neatly trimmed to perfection.
The bedroom area sprawls with a giant canopy bed and sculptural nightstands.
A four-legged ottoman rests at the foot of the bed.
Alex sits there, quietly waiting, while Max and Vincent rest in the wingback chairs in the lounge area closer to the door.
It’s beautiful in here, brilliant and well-lit, breezy and ethereal.
The way in which the light filters through the drapes casts a soft glow over everything.
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
Max smiles and glances at a giant bouquet of red roses overflowing out of a porcelain vase on the coffee table next to him.
Only now do I notice it, along with the other red-themed additions—more roses on the side table; champagne and glasses on one of the nightstands; chocolates, strawberries, and a Murano glass of whipped cream resting on a silver tray on the other nightstand.
“We’re having our own Valentine’s Day celebration,” Max says.
“I thought we had that last night. You know, our last night,” I mumble, not wanting to get my hopes up, even as the sight before me gives me every reason to feel elated.
Vincent shakes his head. “No way. That was everybody else’s Valentine celebration, not ours.”
“We had nothing to celebrate, for that matter,” Alex adds as he gets up and walks towards me. He’s gone back to his casual look: tight-fitting jeans and a t-shirt. “Our contract ended last night.”
“That’s right. So again I ask, what am I doing here?”
“We decided we would like an extension,” he replies, and my heart starts racing like a runaway train.
Alex lifts his hand to touch my face, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from passing out right in front of him.
“If you want it, Raina, we can keep going. We can see where it leads and build on it.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I manage with a trembling voice while his fingers trace the contour of my jaw.
Max and Vincent join us, and I see the same look in their eyes: longing, desire, the kind that transcends the hungers of the flesh. Something more is happening between us, something profound and powerful and impossible to ignore—though we’ve all tried our best to ignore it.
“We make sense, don’t we?” Vincent asks. “The four of us together.”
“It’s the first time we’ve found ourselves wanting more with the same woman, to be perfectly candid,” Max adds with a wry smile.
“I’ve never done this before,” I say.
“You’ve been doing it for the past week and quite perfectly,” Alex replies and kisses me gently. “Maybe it doesn’t have to end.”
“Maybe it can go on for a little while longer,” I whisper against his lips.
Just a little while longer.