Chapter 9 Obnoxiously Rich
OBNOXIOUSLY RICH
ANASTASIA
“Treat him with care… I think he’s been through hell and back with someone long ago… You could be really good for him...”
My hand reaches up to my forehead and rubs away those words Jimmy had left me with last night at the bar.
When I raise my eyes, sunlight stabs me from the window.
I wince and wake up in a strange bed, almost panicking, then it all comes crashing back, every second of the endless night with Saint.
One with so many ups and downs, like a roller coaster ride, I’m dizzy from it all.
The way Saint appreciated my assets the first time he saw me in the Angel costume—Definitely a high. A big win.
What about the family drama like a live soap opera between Saint and his mother and sister? I’d normally give Barbara’s acting the usual five stars, but the way it worried Saint’s handsome features, two stars at most.
My dad—not going there.
I swing my legs off the side of the bed, sitting upright too fast, my stomach roiling.
Next time, if I’m once again at Jimmy McCool’s, I’ll skip the three pints of Guinness and endless whiskey shots.
I don’t think I’ve had that much to drink ever in my life.
Or that much fun, thanks to Saint. He and Jimmy know how to make a woman feel special; they could give lessons to the rest of the male population in L.A.
I look down at my body, the white satin minidress and body shaper still intact, no seams ripped.
Disappointing, but probably for the best. Then I recall the moment outside my front door when I was all-too ready to jump in the sack with Saint and let him come inside of me.
Another missed opportunity to become intimate with him.
But where would it have led? Nowhere. Although, here I am in his guest bed where he tucked me in so sweetly last night with a box of tissues next to me in case I cried some more over my flood-ravaged apartment.
A week ago, this was somewhere I hadn’t thought I’d ever be.
It’s unnerving seeing this side of Saint. In all our previous encounters and friend group outings, he was the confident, debonair, quintessential playboy. The bad boy of my dreams.
Last night Saint proved he has a soft spot—for me.
Why? I haven’t the first clue. But his eyes never once roamed from me and my body all night, no matter how many other pretty women paraded by us in the bar.
And when he stepped in to help me at my place, taking the phone from my hands to deal with the association, letting me douse his shirt in tears and stay with him until it’s all fixed?
That’s true kindness and friendship and shows he has a heart.
Maybe not everything about him revolves around sex.
Well…unless he’s doing all this hoping for a huge payday, like me on my knees offering countless blow jobs.
I snicker at that, and find my way out into the hall and down to the bathroom to do my business. Going through the drawers of the vanity, it’s well-appointed with toiletries of all kinds, I find. Must be contingencies for any puck bunny sleepovers.
With a grimace, my faith in the sweet part of his heart reduces as I strut back into the bedroom. On the nearby bed stand, my phone pings. I look and it’s him.
Saint: Good afternoon, angel.
I panic at the time. Just past one? I never sleep that late, although I rarely drink a barrel of Irish beer.
Saint: Glad you’re awake now.
How did he know?
Anastasia: I just woke up. How did you know?
Saint: I have a pretty cool security system that tracks heat signatures in the house. I can tell when someone is inside when I’m not home.
Of course he does. He added the rooftop sanctuary, with enough money, why not any new toy or gadget in the house—wait.
Anastasia: Don’t tell me you have a secret room for sex and torture.
Saint: No. Unless you’re game for that sort of thing. ;)
Saint: Just kidding, angel. I left some fresh pastries and juice by the coffeepot in the kitchen.
The roiling turns into a growl, hungry as a beast, ready to feast.
Anastasia: Thanks.
Saint: I ordered you some clothes and things from a teammate’s girlfriend who owns a boutique on Melrose. The delivery should arrive at any minute. Listen for the door.
He what? Right on cue, a doorbell chimes out in the hall. I pad out of the room quickly; the chime coming again, acting like a beacon for me to follow to the door as I try to recall how to navigate his mansion.
I warily open the heavy wooden door, peeking out first. “Hello?”
“Ma’am? I have a delivery for you,” says a stout man in dark pants and a khaki shirt with the delivery company logo on it. He holds several white rectangle-shaped boxes, while a van runs in the driveway.
“Yes, um, can you put them over there?” I point to the table behind a large leather couch. The last time I was here, at the game after party, a man and woman were making out on it and people crowded in this room. The man stacks the boxes. I count five of them.
As he makes his way back to the door, I realize I don’t have my purse, and never carry cash with me, anyway. “I’m sorry. I-I don’t have a tip for you. I just woke up and—”
“No tip needed. Mr. St. James took care of it all. I’ll be back.”
“Back?” My jaw drops as I watch him load up a dolly and bring in two more loads of boxes. “What the freaking hell?”
Oh my God. Saint bought me an entire wardrobe.
But how did he know what to order? He probably thinks I’m a size eight when I’m a solid eighteen; men have no clue about these things.
I’m going to be so embarrassed if everything is the wrong size and I have to send it all back.
Which I should do anyway; he’s gone overboard.
The driver leaves and I brace myself, tackling the first box. Inside is an adorable pair of blue suede boots, knee high, wide calf, reminding me of the color of the Puckers’ uniforms. And my correct size. I’m impressed so far.
I open the next box and find a few pairs of jeans. My heart jumps for joy that they actually are my size and should fit. Another box has sweaters and tops, again, looking promising.
“How did he do all of this?” Mystified, I finish the rest, laying it all out on the couch, checking every size label and admiring his taste.
Most of it things I would have picked for myself, with the exception of a few daring, revealing, skintight, low-cut things he’s probably hoping I’ll wear for him so he can get an eyeful of me. I just might, at least to thank him.
I remove the lid on the last box and—holy crap—it contains an entire collection of matching panties and lacy bras, enough for everyday of the week. My cheeks flame as pink as could be. Who is this man?
I text him back.
Anastasia: It’s too much, Saint. You’ve sent me a month’s worth of clothes. A few things from a cheap department store would have been enough for me to get by until I’m back in my apartment. You should return most of this.
Saint: Do you like cheap department store clothes better than what I sent you?
I bite my lip, touring my eyes over the beautiful array of colors and fabrics against the backdrop of the black leather couch.
Saint: I didn’t think so. Keep it all. You don’t owe me a thing.
Anastasia: But you’re already having to support your mother. I can’t let you spend this kind of money on me.
Saint: I have millions, in case you didn’t know. This is nothing. Let me do this for you.
I knew he had to have been rich, being a man in possession of this house, but how rich? Plenty? Obnoxiously?
Saint: That wasn’t a question. You’re keeping it all. You know you want it all. End of discussion.
I have no words, torn between continuing to fight it, and tickled that he’s thought of everything.
What is my life right now? A week ago, Saint didn’t factor in, now I’m in his home, mine ruined, and he’s taking control like it’s the most natural thing.
Like I’m his—but I’m not, and we’re just roommates for the time being.
Saint: I picked up my car at Jimmy’s and I’m bringing home lunch. Be there soon. Why don’t you go take a nice a bath? The guest bath is okay, but I give you permission to use the nicer tub in my bathroom.
My throat works at the idea of luxuriating in the same bathtub he uses. But have many other women as well? I shake my head of that thought because of course they have. I’ll settle for a shower in the guest bathroom.
I pick something comfy to wear for the game tonight, leggings, the blue boots and a cowl neck sweater in a pretty shade of maroon. With scissors I find in the kitchen, I cut the tags off. The entire time, my brain is abuzz, trying to reconcile Saint’s actions while worrying about my condo.
When I start the water in the shower, I text him back while waiting for the water to warm.
Anastasia: Thank you. I’ll pay you back every cent.
He doesn’t reply. Infuriating.
Half of me loves this though. The screenwriter part of me.
His actions feed right into my Pretty Woman fantasy.
After all, the studio spent beaucoup bucks on a marketing survey of our demographic—women between the ages of thirty to sixty-five—to find out exactly what they want in their holiday romance movies.
Number one fantasy? A man who swoops in to save the day every time. Tied for number one fantasy? A man with money and means to take care of her every need.
I’ve always had a tiny struggle with this.
Most of the time, I’m one of those women, wishing for a tall, handsome guy to save me and spend his money on me, fixing all my problems. But a small percentage of me knows that’s a dream.
I write those dream worlds for women to escape into, and I do a damn good job of it.
After all, I grew up with a single mother who fervently wished for a knight in shining armor.
Reading me to sleep with princess books as our nightly ritual, and Cinderella as my invisible friend.
Although it took her years, Mom finally found her knight in Roberto Philini, a retired judge from Italy who occasionally consults on Hollywood movies about the law in his country.
They moved to his Italian villa last year.
We keep in touch often through email, where she mostly includes photos of her new charmed life in shot after shot of the Sicilian countryside.
She wants me to visit soon, but I’ve been busy at the studio and haven’t made solid plans.
I’m happy for her, of course. She deserves it.
On a long sigh, I peel the satin minidress off of me, and hold it up, only it’s not as snowy white as when it was new. I toss it and the rest of my garments to the floor and step under the water.
My writer life believes in the fantasy, only my reality is the opposite. The older I get, I realize there are very few Robertos to go around. That leaves me and most of today’s women to take care of ourselves, or at least prove they can.
Speaking of taking care, while the spray warms my skin everywhere it touches, my hands caress my curves with a silky, vanilla-scented body soap, something fancy Saint stocks in the shower. I fall instantly in love with it.
Cupping the swell of my breasts, I tug at my nipples and moan. If only Saint’s hands were doing this to me right now. “Saint…” Now there’s a man who plays both sides well, the rich rogue and the good guy.
My hand dips lower, seeking my pearl to play with, as my leg lifts onto the shower bench. I relax into every sensation I’m giving myself and moan louder. My head lolls back, my slick hair tickling my rump as water sluices down my body.
“Saint…” I cry out, strumming my clit the way I like it. For as much as I try to keep him in the friend column, the thought of him won’t leave me be.
If he were here, if all the stars aligned and I finally let him in, I’d bet he’d pierce me with his blue eyes deep into my soul while coming inside of me so good.
“Yes, Saint.”
He’d swoop in and take care of my every need in bed because he’s the playboy with so much more experience than I. For aftercare, he would clean me gently because he’s the considerate rich rogue with a heart of gold.
“Oh! Saint!” The sensations take me over fast, already on edge from spending the night at Jimmy McCool’s in Saint’s arms, and receiving all his kisses in the car and the elevator.
My legs shake, and breathing becomes labored and tormented.
Like I’m a star burning for ages, my insides erupt, shooting me across the universe, and I cry out once more, “Saint!” I’m glad to have the house to myself so he can’t hear me.
When I calm down and step out of the shower, I wrap myself in an extra large plush towel.
I find a smaller towel for my hair wrap.
The shower was exactly what I needed. As I reach for the dirty clothes on the floor, something like a shadow of feet moves along the gap at the bottom of the bathroom door, catching my eye, and I gasp.
Were the shadows my imagination? Was that Saint? Oh, God, did he hear me shouting his name in the shower? I text him to see if he’s home, and he confirms.
Saint: Yep. I have lunch for us.
Then I hear some noise coming from the kitchen, as if he’s banging pots and pans to demonstrate that he is indeed here. I lean my forehead against the door, half embarrassed.
When I enter the kitchen several minutes later, he has a hard time greeting me without a smile breaking across his face, and that’s how I know he knows.
“I’ll bet that shower felt good,” he comments, using his devilish tone as he slides a plate of caesar salad and half a ham sandwich my way at the breakfast counter.
There’s only one way to play this, no sense denying it. “It did. And if you enjoyed the show, consider it payback for the clothes.”
He laughs. “I told you no payback is necessary. But I’ll take whatever you give, no complaints.”
I try to make light of it and toss a crouton at his head. He manages to catch it in his mouth. He chortles out of the kitchen, but turns back at the doorway. “My turn for a shower. Want to listen or watch? Or maybe you’d like to join me?”
I bury my face in my hands. “If we’re going to be roommates temporarily, we definitely need rules.”
“Relax. Just kidding,” he says. “Sort of.”
I roll my eyes. “Go shower. I’m hungry. I need to call the housing association, my insurance agent, and oh yeah. Make every attempt to dry out my laptop and hope it isn’t fried since I have pages due to my boss in the morning.”
“Suit yourself, Angel. Oh, be sure to check what’s in the bag next to you.” He points and leaves me with a wink.
I glance at the bag I hadn’t noticed was there before, and I peek in. My eyes double in size. “Oh no, he didn’t.” I pull out a brand new laptop, a few years newer with more upgrades than mine.
I have no words. I’m either the luckiest woman alive, or Saint’s pet charity case du jour.