Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Heather
Living with Jerry Vane was like living in an Apple Store, if the Apple Store was run by a moody, terrifyingly attractive Greek statue who hated crumbs.
It had been four days. Four days of walking on eggshells—or rather, walking on imported Italian marble that cost more than my entire genetic lineage.
Four days of sleeping in a bed that felt like a cloud, eating food that didn't come from a vending machine, and trying desperately not to look at my new "boyfriend" when he walked around shirtless.
Which, unfortunately for my blood pressure, was often.
I was currently standing in the kitchen of The Penthouse—The Hive, as the hockey team apparently called it—trying to operate a blender that looked like it could launch a satellite into orbit.
"Come on, you overpriced piece of metal," I muttered, jabbing at the touch screen. "Blend. Spin. Do the thing."
I was trying to make a green smoothie. It was part of the "Jerry Vane Nutrition Protocol," a laminated list of dietary requirements he had taped to the fridge. No processed sugar. High protein. leafy greens. It was joyless, just like him.
I hit a button that looked like a tornado.
The blender roared to life with the sound of a jet engine taking off.
I jumped back, yelping as green sludge exploded upward, coating the lid—thank God I put the lid on—and vibrating the entire granite island.
"Heather."
The voice cut through the mechanical shrieking like a knife.
I scrambled to hit the 'Off' button, my fingers slipping on the sleek glass console. The machine wound down with a dying whine. Silence slammed back into the room, heavy and absolute.
I turned around slowly.
Jerry was leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen.
And oh, sweet baby Jesus.
He had just come back from "afternoon conditioning," which apparently involved sweating profusely and looking like sin incarnate.
He was wearing gray sweatpants—those gray sweatpants, the kind that hung low on his hips and left absolutely nothing to the imagination—and a black compression shirt that clung to every ridge of muscle on his chest. His hair was damp, falling into his eyes, and he had a towel draped around his neck.
He looked huge. He looked dangerous. He looked annoyed.
"Hi," I squeaked. I cleared my throat, trying to summon the "Professional Assistant" persona I was being paid for. "Hello. Good workout?"
"You're trying to destroy the appliances," he observed, walking into the room.
He didn't walk; he prowled. Every movement was efficient, conserving energy for the moment he decided to strike. The scent of him hit me a second later—rain, expensive cedar, and the sharp, salty tang of male sweat. It was a biological weapon. My mouth went dry.
"I am making you a smoothie," I defended, gesturing to the green containment unit. "Kale. Spinach. Whey protein. The sadness of a thousand dieters. It's all in there."
Jerry stopped on the other side of the island. He rested his hands on the counter, his biceps flexing as he leaned forward. His eyes, the color of a winter storm, tracked a drop of condensation sliding down the side of the blender pitcher.
"You're wearing my shirt," he said.
I looked down. I was indeed wearing a black Vane Industries t-shirt that reached my mid-thighs. I had paired it with thick wool socks because the air conditioning in this glass castle was set to "Morgue."
"I did laundry," I said. "My clothes are drying. And your dryer has more buttons than a spaceship, so I'm scared to open it."
"It's a vintage limited run," he said, eyeing the fabric stretching over my chest. "You're stretching the collar."
"I am not!" I pulled the fabric away from my neck. "I'm small. I'm literally swimming in it. If anything, I'm letting it relax."
"You," Jerry said, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that made my toes curl inside my wool socks, "are a hazard to my environment."
"I'm a delight," I countered, crossing my arms. "I organized your calendar today. You have a meeting with the PR team tomorrow at ten, a lunch with the Alumni Board at noon, and... oh, right. We have to go to 'The trough' tonight."
Jerry winced. "The Trough?"
"The dining hall," I clarified. "According to the contract, we need 'public visibility.' Tank texted me and said everyone eats at the main dining hall on Taco Tuesday. So, we are going. We are going to eat tacos. And we are going to look in love."
Jerry stared at me. He looked like I had just suggested we go play hopscotch in a minefield.
"I don't eat at the dining hall," he said. "The macros are unreliable."
"You're eating a taco, Jerry," I said firmly. "A soft shell if you're worried about carbs. But we need to be seen. Bianca has been posting cryptic Instagram stories about 'lost love' and it's making you look available. We need to shut it down."
He went still. The mention of Bianca always made his jaw tick.
"Fine," he grunted. He reached across the counter, his hand brushing mine as he grabbed the pitcher of green sludge. The contact lasted a millisecond, but a spark of static electricity snapped between us.
I snatched my hand back. He didn't flinch. He just poured the smoothie into a glass and drank it in three long swallows. It was mesmerizing. The way his throat worked, the strong column of his neck...
Stop it, Hattie. He is the boss. He is the landlord. He is a robot.
He set the glass down with a thud.
"If we're going," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "you need to change. You can't wear that."
"Why?" I teased, striking a pose. "Don't like the 'just rolled out of bed' look? I thought guys were into that."
Jerry’s eyes darkened. He walked around the island.
My breath hitched. He was coming into my personal space. The kitchen was massive, but suddenly it felt like a closet.
He stopped inches from me. He was so tall I had to crane my neck back to look him in the eye. The heat radiating off his body was intoxicating.
"I like it," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my bare legs, then traveling up slowly, lingering on the hem of the shirt where it hit my thighs. "That's the problem. You look like you belong in my bed. And we're going out in public."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Did he just say...
"Go put on jeans," he ordered, his voice rough. "And a sweater. Something... shapeless."
"Jealous, Vane?" I whispered, the Brat in me poking the bear before my brain could stop it.
"Possessive," he corrected, turning away and heading for the shower. "There's a difference. Be ready in twenty."
The dining hall was a sensory nightmare.
It was loud, smelling of grease and teenage hormones. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, illuminating hundreds of students crammed into plastic booths.
When we walked in, the noise level dropped by half.
It was like walking in with a celebrity. Or a serial killer. People stared. Forks paused mid-air. Whispers broke out like a wave rippling across the room.
Jerry’s hand was on the small of my back. It was a heavy, warm weight that branded me. He wasn't gripping me, but the message was clear to everyone in the room: Mine.
"Relax," I whispered out of the side of my mouth, plastering a bright smile on my face. "You feel like a brick wall. Slouch a little. Look happy."
"I am happy," Jerry grumbled, scanning the room for threats. "I'm thrilled to be eating mystery meat in a room full of germs."
"You're a charmer," I said. "Come on. Table by the window. Maximum visibility."
We got our food—I got tacos, Jerry got a salad that looked like it wanted to be put out of its misery—and sat down.
The performance began.
I laughed at things he didn't say. I touched his arm. I leaned in close.
Jerry, to his credit, was trying. He unbuttoned his peacoat. He leaned back in the plastic chair, spreading his legs in that arrogant manspread that took up half the space under the table. His knee pressed against mine. He didn't move it.
"So," I said, picking up a taco. "Tell me something real. If we're going to sell this, I need ammo. What's your favorite movie? And don't say 'The Wolf of Wall Street'."
Jerry stabbed a cherry tomato. "I don't watch movies. I watch game tape."
"Boring," I sang. "Try again. Music?"
"Classical. Or heavy metal. Depending on the workout."
"You are a paradox wrapped in a riddle wrapped in expensive cologne," I noted. "Okay, childhood pet?"
Jerry froze. His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "A dog. A Golden Retriever. named Buster."
"Buster?" I grinned. "That is aggressively normal. I love it. What happened to him?"
"My father gave him away when I went to boarding school," Jerry said flatly. "Said he was a distraction."
My smile vanished. My heart gave a painful lurch.
I looked at him—really looked at him. Beneath the stony expression, beneath the arrogance, I saw the lonely boy who had lost his dog because his father viewed love as an inefficiency.
"That sucks," I said softy. "I'm sorry, Jerry."
He looked up, surprised by the genuine tone. For a second, the mask slipped. His eyes softened, losing that icy edge.
"It was a long time ago," he muttered.
"Doesn't make it suck less," I said. Under the table, I moved my foot until it hooked around his ankle. A silent comfort.
He stiffened, then relaxed into the touch.
"Well, well, well."
The voice dripped with venom.
We both looked up. Bianca St. James was standing at the end of our table, flanked by two of her sorority clones. She looked perfect, as always, but her eyes were narrowed into slits.
"I heard the rumors," she said, her gaze flicking between me and Jerry. "But I didn't think you'd actually downgrade this far, Jerry. The cleaning girl? Really?"
The cafeteria went silent. Everyone was listening.
My stomach dropped. The "Armor" I wore—the smile, the deflection—felt thin suddenly. I opened my mouth to make a joke, to de-escalate, but Jerry moved first.
He didn't stand up. He didn't shout. He just... shifted. The air around him seemed to darken. He dropped his fork onto the plastic tray with a clatter.