Chapter 13
13
ROWENA
Eight weeks pregnant
After I say yes to Adrian, things move at light speed. And just the next day, I’m standing in the middle of his sprawling penthouse, my new home, feeling completely out of place. He’s out on a business lunch that apparently is lasting well into the afternoon even if it’s Sunday—he wasn’t kidding when he said he is a workaholic. The doorman let me and the movers in.
I study the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek modern furniture, an intimidatingly vast kitchen. Adrian’s apartment is like a spread right off of Luxury Home Magazine .
“So, this is home now,” I mutter under my breath, getting out of the way of one of the movers.
I glance at the tower of moving boxes stacked in the entrance hall, feeling almost dizzy with how fast everything is happening. After I accepted his proposal, Adrian asked how soon I could move in and I blurted out, “Right away.” My next rent payment was looming and well, better to rip off the Band-Aid .
The rest of the weekend has been a whirlwind of frantic packing. I started boxing up my stuff with the help of Nina and Hunter, but then Adrian’s people showed up and like little Tasmanian devils, they packed up my entire world in a blink—did most of Nina’s things, too, for her move to Tristan’s place. And now they’re here, reversing the process, unpacking everything for me.
Once the movers are finished, I poke around, exploring my room. The walk-in closet is bigger than my entire bedroom at my old place. In the en suite, the shower has more nozzles and knobs than a spaceship. I bet even the toilet is top of the line.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly homesick for my tiny apartment with its leaky faucets and squeaky floorboards. Even if I was renting, it felt like mine. And I shared it with people who loved me.
Still, I wouldn’t want to be there either. My besties kept shooting me dubious looks as they helped me box up all my worldly possessions. Nina and Hunter are being as supportive as they can—more understanding than I probably would’ve been if the roles had been reversed—but I’m almost relieved to get some space from them. Their constant worried side stares and raised brows were making me rethink my life choices every five seconds. Not that I can backtrack now. Dylan has officially taken over my and Nina’s leases, and I’m here.
But as I sit alone in this ridiculously luxe apartment, doubts creep in again. What have I gotten myself into? Playing house with a man who makes my palms sweat and my brain short-circuit with a single glance, but who clearly stated he isn’t interested in anything romantic.
But I’ve made my fancy bed—actually one of Adrian’s cleaning ladies (he has several, apparently) did as she helped me unpack—now I have to lie in it .
I go back into the bedroom and search the million drawers for a pair of leggings and an oversized T-shirt. It takes four tries, and another one to find a hoodie. I still shiver after pulling it on. Outside it’s easily eighty degrees, but the air conditioning inside is polar-bear friendly. Does Adrian run hot? Is that why he keeps it at subzero temperatures in here? My teeth clatter as I hunt for the thermostat.
After fiddling with the buttons for a while, I set the temperature to a more humane habitat. I don’t hear or notice any changes, the air conditioning is so quiet, but after a few minutes, I stop shivering.
Since the movers already unpacked everything and I’ve got nothing to do, I settle on the creamy suede couch, feeling small and almost like an intruder amidst the sleek, modern décor. This house feels more like a showroom than a home—all steel and sharp angles, too tidy, and not loved enough. Grabbing a throw pillow, I tuck it behind my back, trying to get comfortable.
Three remotes sit on the glass coffee table. I stare at them blankly. “You’d think a gazillionaire could spring for a universal remote,” I mutter. But no, that would be too easy.
I pick one up and aim it at the massive flatscreen mounted on the wall. Click. Nothing happens. I try another. The stereo system comes alive with a blast of music, techno beats pulsing through the surround-sound speakers and making me jump. I push buttons madly until the music stops, and, finally, the third remote brings the TV screen to life. I cycle through the channels mindlessly, too drained to focus. Instead of watching TV, I should prepare for the future, make a plan on how to turn my career around and become self-sufficient as a single mother. But I’ve barely eaten anything today, kept down even less and, frankly, I’m exhausted .
I watch a romantic movie, crying more than I should for a comedy and get hungry by the end. The nausea seems to have let up for the day, and since my light lunch ended up down the toilet, I could use a snack.
Pushing up from the couch, I pad to the kitchen. I yank open the double-door fridge, not sure what I’m expecting to find. Bottles of champagne? Caviar? The tears of Adrian’s enemies?
Instead, the shelves are lined with stacks of pre-made meals in microwave friendly glass containers. They look like something out of a cooking show, with pretty garnishes and perfect grill marks. Definitely not frozen dinners.
I pull out a few, reading the labels. “Broccoli chicken.” My stomach turns at the thought. Meat of any kind is my enemy lately. “Veggie lasagna. Slightly more promising. Lentil soup…” I wrinkle my nose. “Hard pass.”
I settle on one container labeled pesto pasta and stick it in the microwave, punching the buttons and praying Adrian won’t mind me raiding his fridge.
As the microwave hums, I lean against the marble countertop and rub my temples, still wondering how I ended up pilfering pasta in some millionaire’s McMansion kitchen.
The microwave dings, and the scent of basil and garlic fills the air. My mouth doesn’t exactly water, but at least my stomach isn’t roiling in protest. Baby steps.
I go back to the couch, picking at the healthy dinner I re-heated. The TV drones on but I’m only half paying attention, senses alert as I wait for my new “roommate” to arrive. It’ll have to be soon. How long can a lunch last?
I finish my pasta and drop the empty bowl on the coffee table. Just as the clock ticks to 7p.m., I hear the jingle of keys and the lock clicking open. I fumble for the remote to mute the TV.
Adrian strides through the door looking like he stepped out of the pages of GQ in another expensive tailored suit. He tosses his keys on the entryway table and reaches up to loosen his tie with a sigh. That simple, unconscious gesture oozes masculine sex appeal and makes me feel as if gravity has suddenly doubled.
“Hi,” I squeak.
“Oh, hi, Rowena.” He glances my way with a flicker of surprise, as if he forgot I’d be here. “Did the move go alright?”
I hop up from the couch, smoothing my T-shirt self-consciously—with a mild climate reinstated, I was able to remove the hoodie about an hour ago. “Yeah, great, thanks.” As I walk toward him, I still feel like the G-force is working extra hard to make my knees buckle. “Your people took care of everything, I barely had to lift a finger.”
He kicks off his shoes and leaves them scattered on the floor, reassuring me I haven’t moved in with a total neat freak. “Glad to hear.”
I gesture lamely to the kitchen. “I hope it’s okay that I ate one of the pre-made meals…”
His face softens into a smile, making him look less intimidating. “Of course, that’s what they’re there for. Mrs. Doherty—Rosa—is an excellent cook. Let her know if you have any favorite dishes you’d like her to make.”
We have a chef! I’d figured seeing all the gourmet meals in the fridge, but hearing it is still so out there.
“Err, thanks.” I hover awkwardly, unsure what else to say.
Adrian studies me, his dark eyes unreadable. Silence blankets us, fraught with uncertainty.
I’m suddenly very aware that we’re alone in a house with no less than five beds. Not that we will use them, I remind myself. At least not together. I’ll sleep in my room, he’ll sleep in his. And we’ll live platonically ever after.
Oblivious to my inner meltdown, Adrian shrugs out of his suit jacket, revealing a crisp white shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. He drapes the jacket over a chair and moves toward the couch, loosening his tie further until it hangs slack around his neck.
I try not to stare at the triangle of tanned skin exposed by his open collar as he settles on the opposite end of the sofa from where I was sitting. Even slouched against the cushions, his tall frame is commanding. He rakes a hand through his dark hair and rolls his neck from side to side, clearly trying to unwind from a long day.
I perch back down, unsure whether I should stay and attempt to chat or give him space.
I clear my throat softly, hoping to break the silence without startling him. “Did your meeting go well?” I venture, keeping my tone light and conversational.
Adrian’s eyes flutter open, and he turns his head to look at me, a wry smile unzipping lazily from the corner of his mouth. “Yeah.”
Concise, to the point, he probably doesn’t want to make conversation with me—another piece of business he’s been forced to bring home.
I’m about to excuse myself to my room when he stretches his long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. “Is it okay if we discuss a few things now or are you tired?”
Nope. Apparently, Adrian West never rests. He is business, business, business. I mentally snap my finger three times.
I settle down on the cushions. “Sure. ”
“This week we need to go shop for a ring.” He whips out his phone from his pocket. “I can make time Tuesday afternoon.”
Oh, so we’re scheduling life-changing decisions like they’re dentist appointments?
I duck my head to hide my disappointment. “My calendar is wide open, so Tuesday works for me.”
Adrian seems to sense my discomfort and speaks more carefully as he says, “Sam will pick you up and bring you to me.”
Despite his softer tone, I feel like one of those virgins in auction romances being brought to their captor for deflowering. Except, I’m no virgin—as the baby in my uterus testifies—and I’m here of my free will.
“Anything else?” I ask, trying to keep it together.
“Yes.”
Of course there’s more.
“Friday we leave for the Hamptons to spend the weekend at my boss’s house,” Adrian continues. “We should talk before that and define a few details. Like how we met, how I proposed, and so on.” I nod. A bathroom meet-puke probably wouldn’t fly in his circles. “I can do dinner on…” He scrolls his calendar again. “Thursday night.”
“Sure.” I nod.
I discreetly spy his screen as he types “dinner with Rowena” into his phone and allots an hour for the event.
We’re mapping out our future in thirty-minute slots. I wonder what will happen if the conversation runs late; will he ask me to reschedule?
Adrian puts away his phone and looks up at me. And nothing in his gaze fixed over me feels businesslike. “Sam drives me to work and back every day, and if I have meetings in the city, but other than that, he’s at your disposal. If you need to go anywhere just buzz the doorman, and Sam will be waiting for you downstairs.”
I have a doorman, a personal driver, a chef, two cleaning ladies… what else?
“I’ve ordered a credit card for you; it should arrive tomorrow.”
Ah, money. Of course he’s also giving me an allowance.
I’m getting more uncomfortable with this conversation by the second. “A credit card?”
“Yeah, to buy clothes, groceries, stuff for the baby… whatever you need.”
I feel utterly shitty asking the next part, like I’m a mix between a kept woman and a teenager negotiating with her parents for pocket money. “Okay… err… how much can I spend?”
Adrian raises an eyebrow at that. “The card limit is twenty K a month.”
“Twenty thousand dollars?” I gape. “Per month?”
He smirks now. “You didn’t take me for a full, stingy Scrooge McDuck, did you?”
Oh, so he’s not a total cyborg. Good to know. I relax a bit and crack a smile at the joke. “I won’t be spending twenty grand a month.”
His expression is more open now. “Don’t worry. I said I’d be taking care of you and I will. To which effect.” He takes his wallet out of his pocket and fishes out a business card. “I’ve asked around, and this is the best neonatal doctor in town.”
He hands me the card, where over a polished logo that reads Clinlada, the name and qualifications of a specialist are printed out:
Dr. John Raike s
Double board-certified OB/GYN, sub-specializing in maternal-fetal medicine and fetal and neonatal surgery.
“I’ve added you to my insurance and asked my secretary to book you an appointment first thing tomorrow morning.”
I blink. When did he have the time to do all this? He truly is a machine. A Terminator. Pity, he’s not getting involved with the baby or I could’ve given him all the night feeds. I bet he doesn’t even need sleep.
“You should go see him about your morning sickness. I know it’s normal, but just to be sure.”
Despite his businesslike attitude, I’m moved by Adrian’s mindfulness, maybe too transported. In my previous relationship, I wasn’t used to my boyfriend being considerate about my personal struggles. My standards are low.
“Thank you.”
He shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
Adrian is looking at me with half a smile and those smoky brown eyes, and I can’t stand it. I bounce up. “I’m going to head to bed now.”
Before I go, I notice how Adrian’s gaze flicks to my empty bowl. Heat rushes to my cheeks. Way to be a slob, Rowena. I pick up the dirty dish from the coffee table and carry it to the kitchen, chastising myself for leaving a mess behind.
I’ve just dropped it in the dishwasher when a deep voice jolts through me. “Rowena.”
Spinning around, I find Adrian leaning against the threshold, looking unfairly sexy with his tousled dark hair and sleeves rolled up over toned forearms.
“This is your home, too, now.” His dark eyes glint with amusement. “You can leave stuff around. I’m not the nit-pick police. ”
A surprised laugh escapes me. He’s so different from Liam, who used to bite my head off over the smallest things; my ex would make a monumental case of even minor accidents—like if I dropped something or booked the “wrong” restaurant.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply. “Though this place seems way too pristine for not being policed.”
Adrian grins, and the effect is devastating. “It’s all Mrs. Doherty, not me.”
“Oh, okay.” I roll my eyes, hoping his housekeeper is not a Mrs. Rottenmeier. “Good to know I can clutter.”
His lips twitch. “Night, Rowena.” He touches two fingers to his forehead and then flicks them away with a swift, carefree motion. “Sleep well.”
“Yeah, you, too,” I say, slightly breathless.
I wait for him to clear the door before I move out of the kitchen. With the way his deep voice sunk straight into my core, I don’t need to accidentally brush against his chest. It’s great he’ll be out of the house most of the time, otherwise I’d be in danger of forgetting all the reasons it’s a good idea to keep my distance.