Chapter Fifteen
Josh
Klein finally stops talking and becomes quiet.
Telling her I’d violate another guy’s rectum with his legs and fuck her probably wasn’t the best way to encourage conversation.
Normally I would have just laughed it off, but imagining her with another guy made my blood boil until I wanted to strangle the imaginary man, and I couldn’t stop myself from saying it.
Something about declaring her as my fiancée seems to have destroyed all my filters.
There’s a searing feeling of awareness in my gut that has to be an unholy mix of jealousy and possessiveness.
We arrive. I hit a few buttons on my phone screen, and the main gates open. They’re solid wood laid over heavy metal frames. It would take a tank to break through.
Discreet cameras are everywhere, recording and backing up to the cloud.
This ensures no one from the Dunkels will be able to get inside unobserved.
They can claim to be civilized and honorable all they want, but the fact that Mom broke the spirit of the agreement and messed with my girlfriend way back when speaks volumes about that side of the family.
There’s no lawn, since grass is so demanding of water, but there are various rocks to create a landscape, a larger, rambling version of the famous rock gardens in Japan. To add interest and color, common jasmine plants grow in abundance, emitting a sweet, soothing fragrance.
“Very interesting,” Klein murmurs as she takes in the landscaping. “You’d think gravel would be boring.”
“Not just gravel. A rock garden,” I correct her with a laugh, then point out some long, wavy lines raked into the tiny stones. “See those? They represent a river.”
“Oh…” Her eyes grow wide. “How do you get the rocks to stay put in the wind and so on?” She frowns as a few birds hop around on the “river” and one of them makes a small mess. “Or birds.” She squints. “Are those sparrows?”
“Yes. As for keeping the lines intact, you really can’t.
You have to re-rake every so often. I have my gardener do most of it, but I take care of that section over there.
” I gesture to our right, at a sizable patch.
“He isn’t very creative, so he sticks to the original design, but I change things up, depending on my mood. ”
“When do you find the time? You’re always working unless you have a poker night with your brothers or a dinner date.”
I frown a little. My life isn’t as dull and rigid as she makes it sound, and the fact that she thinks so is vaguely annoying.
“On weekends. It doesn’t take that long.
And it’s very soothing. If you want, I can show you.
” The offer slips out before I can stop myself.
I’m protective of my time in the rock garden.
It calms the restlessness inside me, helps orient myself.
But unlike the meditation I do in the tea room, which clears my head, it provides a sense of control as I create a vista with my own hands.
But I don’t rescind the offer. Something tells me I might enjoy having her with me—that the time might even be extra soothing because of her presence.
“Sure. I’d love that as long as I won’t be in the way.”
“You won’t. You might even inspire me to try something different.”
“Cool. In that case…” She smiles, then gets distracted. “And those are…? The leaves are too big to be ivy, and there’s fruit hanging, too.” Klein points at the dark green vines covering the massive archway that leads to the stone pagoda in the back.
“Passion fruit. I planted them three or four years ago, and they took over. My gardener prunes them aggressively, but the more he prunes them, the faster they seem to grow back.”
“Resilient. You can cut me down”—she makes a small fist—“but you can’t make me cower!”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “Exactly. And the fruits are delicious once they ripen. I had them on a vacation in Thailand when my brothers and I went. Couldn’t find them around here, so I decided to plant the exact same species. I’ll let you try some when they’re ready next month.”
She smiles, her eyes sparkling like they always do when she’s about to experience something new. Her excitement is cute and contagious. “I’ll look forward to that. Don’t think I’ve ever had them before.”
We drive by the pool, which is half indoor and half outdoor. “Feel free to use that whenever you want.”
“Thanks. You swim a lot?”
“When I get a chance, or when I’m getting too pasty. It’s one thing to work indoors, another to look like a marshmallow.”
“I don’t think anybody would mistake you for a marshmallow just because you turned pale. More like a great white shark with extra-big teeth of doom.”
I laugh, glad she isn’t allowing the horrible start of her day to bring her down. Apparently, underneath that sweet and sunny exterior lies an admirable inner fortitude. But it makes sense. If she weren’t so strong, she probably would’ve let her shitty family bring her down a long time ago.
I pull into the garage, which can be converted into a ballroom if I ever lose my sanity and decide to hold a party with hundreds of guests.
The space is mostly filled with sparkling cars, all chosen for beauty, power and performance.
I don’t collect cars like some of my clients, but when something catches my eye, I buy it.
We get out. “Wow,” Klein says softly, her cheeks pink. She’s so pretty as she takes in my fleet.
“See anything you like?”
“That one’s gorgeous.” She gestures at a silver Aston Martin convertible as sleek and beautiful as herself.
“Smart choice. You can take it.”
“What?” She pulls back like I just tossed her a snake. “No! I have my own car.”
“But no fob,” I remind her, unsure what her objections are after calling it gorgeous.
“Which the dealer can replace.”
“I think you’re wounding the pride of British engineering.”
She shakes her head with a laugh. “No need for British engineering’s pride to be hurt. It’s just that my car is very dependable. And, uh, cheaper.”
“Sounds about as exciting as property,” I mutter, thinking back to a class at Harvard Law that never failed to put me to sleep.
“Look, just enjoy the ride until you get a new fob. You’ll look totally cool driving around with the top down.
The weather’s great.” And her curls will blow gloriously in the air.
Her eyes dart everywhere as she searches for something to say. “But what if something happens to it?”
“Do you drive recklessly?” I already know the answer. But I want to remind her she’s a safe driver, somebody I can trust with one of my prized cars.
“No, but other people do. And my luck hasn’t been the greatest in the last twenty-four hours.”
Guess finding out all the crap about Chad was shocking.
Although it’s better that she found out now, before she wasted more time on that unworthy piece of shit.
It probably doesn’t help her optimism that her apartment burned down, but it’s likely somebody else’s bad luck rubbing off on her.
“Then we’ll call the insurance company and have them take care of it. It’s no big deal.”
Her eyes widen. “But it’s an Aston Martin!”
“It could be God’s personal chariot, and I’d say the same. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want you to drive it, I’d say so.”
“But—”
I place my index finger over her mouth. Her breath, hot and slightly moist, fans the skin.
A prickling sensation spreads all over me, and suddenly my pants are too tight again.
Her lips are soft and malleable under my finger.
It’s all I can do to not push it into her mouth, feel the wet heat of her tongue gliding over…
“Just say thank you,” I order her, my voice a tad rough and low.
Her lashes flutter as she looks at my finger, then my face. Her cheeks flush, and she swallows. “Thank you.”
She murmurs the words against my finger. Excitement sparks along my spine, but I rein myself in. I know better than to pounce on her in the garage. It’s a luxury garage, but for a first time with Klein? Not worthy.
It feels a bit oddly vulnerable to invite Klein into my home. I don’t bring women over. Normally we either go to their place if they insist—or ideally, we hit the hotel because that’s convenient and impersonal. Homes are too intimate and prone to unrealistic expectations.
I show Klein my place—from the foyer to the vast living room where my brothers and I hang out, smoking cigars, drinking good Japanese whiskey and playing poker.
It’s furnished for comfort and lingering conversations, with plush leather couches and armchairs.
Contemporary crystal chandeliers from Sweden—a gift from my Japanese uncle—are suspended from the high ceiling.
A few postmodern art pieces hang on the walls.
I don’t know much about them, but they add interest to the space and they’ve appreciated significantly over the years.
Klein trots over and stares up at them, her eyes bright.
“Enjoy art?” I ask.
“Uh-huh. But I’ve never seen any originals outside of museums.” Her entire being seems focused on the paintings. “These are original, right?”
“Yeah. I got them at auctions in Japan. If you want, we could hit a local one or two.”
She pivots fast, her attention really on me now. “Seriously?”
“Of course.”
“Oh my God. I’d love to go, just so I can see what it’s like. I’ve only seen them in movies.” She beams. “Your home is beautiful.”
She runs a hand over the comfy furniture, cherry tables, bookshelves heavy with leather-bound classics. “Have you read them all?” she asks.
I snort. “One day. The only reading I have time for now is work stuff.”
She nods. “Makes sense, given how many hours you bill.” Her eyes twinkle as she turns around and explores the kitchen. Fancy copper and five-ply stainless-steel pots and pans hand-crafted in France hang from the hooks. “Mauviel?” Klein squints at the label, her voice vibrating with excitement.
“Yes.”