Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Parker
I couldn’t deny myself my cow pajamas, but I was drawing a line at putting on another face mask. I wasn’t expecting company, but then again, I’d not been expecting company when Tristan had dropped around the other day. I’d been caught off-guard. Once bitten . . .
I poured some chocolate-covered raisins into a bowl, scooped up my tea, and padded into the living room.
I hadn’t even had time for a single sip of my drink before someone knocked on my door.
Even though some part of me had been anticipating the interruption, I still shot up ten feet in the air.
Why would he be here again? I glanced down at my attire.
Did I have time to change? Fuck it. He’d seen them before.
And it probably wasn’t him, anyway, right?
I swung the door open to find a towering Tristan Dubrow standing over me.
Even with his head bowed, scrolling through his phone, he still looked gorgeous.
Why couldn’t I get a guy like that to marry me?
Sutton was right, I needed my trust fund money.
If getting it required some subterfuge, so be it.
I was going to marry someone this year if it was the last thing I did.
“Someone’s taking your money again.” He looked up from his phone and right at me. It was as if I’d been shoved, his stare was so intense. I took an involuntary step back.
“Come in,” I said to cover the visceral reaction my body had had to a simple look from him.
Again, he slipped inside and stayed in the hallway.
“How do you know?” I asked. “Did you break into my bank account?”
He pulled his eyebrows together. “Yes. How do you think I blocked the first company creaming off payments?”
I shouldn’t have asked. “I like the way you’re perfectly comfortable hacking into my bank account but God forbid you marry me so a charity can be up twenty-five million.
” I sounded pissed off and I had no right to.
He didn’t have any obligation to me. We’d spent a sum total of three hours together.
Why would he agree to marry me? We needed to start again. “You want some ginger tea?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I hadn’t expected him to say yes. I headed into the kitchen and set about making him a drink. “How much have they taken?” I asked.
“Seems to be following the same pattern as last time—just small amounts each day. It was three seventy-five today.” He pursed his lips together like he was in the middle of today’s Wordle.
“Three hundred and seventy-five?”
He shook his head. “Three pounds seventy-five.”
“Can you block them?”
“Done.” He slid his phone into his back pocket and took the mug I offered.
“This place is small,” he said, glancing around my apartment.
“Thanks.” I headed back out into the hallway and slid onto the sofa, next to my bowl of raisins.
Tristan followed me. “I’m not saying it’s bad. I just expected you to . . .”
“Be more flash?” I finished his sentence for him. “I run a charity. There’s not much room in my salary for flash.”
“I guess I thought Arthur would—”
“I stand on my own two feet.” I took a raisin and popped it into my mouth. “I’ve always worked. I’ve always supported myself. Arthur is Arthur. I’m me.”
He held my gaze two seconds too long. “You’re trying to prove something.” It wasn’t a question but almost like he was thinking aloud.
“I’m trying to eat my raisins and drink my tea in peace. But a certain someone keeps interrupting my ‘me’ time.”
The corners of his lips curled up. “Who would want to skim money off a charity?”
“Thieves?”
He raised his eyebrows at me. “But why are they targeting Sunrise? They know they’ve been caught, yet they’ve come back for more.”
“Isn’t it just like . . . some bot that does it?”
“Exactly my point. It usually is. And if the bot gets blocked, they don’t try that account again. Not for a while at least. It gets put to the bottom of the list.”
“Maybe they know we know that, so they’re banking on us assuming the account is off their radar. You said yourself that they seemed sophisticated.”
“My gut tells me it’s personal. It’s Sunrise they’re interested in. Have you made any enemies?”
Enemies? Me? “We’re not a front for the CIA. We’re a charity for sick children.”
“It’s just weird. Have a think about it. And make sure you’re keeping your doors locked.”
My stomach somersaulted. “What makes you say that?”
“Just a precaution until I figure out what’s going on.” He squinted at me. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look like I just told you you can’t ever eat chocolate-covered raisins again.”
I played over me coming back to my flat this evening.
“It’s just that when I came home from work today, the second lock on the door wasn’t on.
And I’m pretty fastidious about making sure my flat is locked up when I leave.
I was a little weirded out by it, but then I came inside, everything was fine, and I forgot about it.
Maybe I missed it but . . . You think I’m being paranoid? ”
Tristan’s eyes went dark and he stood. “Let’s go. Pack up some things and let’s leave. I don’t believe in being paranoid.”
“What? I’m in my pajamas. I’m not going anywhere.”
He tucked his hand under my elbow and pulled me up and off the sofa. “Come and pack a bag or I’ll do it for you.”
I shrugged him off me. “You’re being paranoid. I probably just forgot to lock it.”
“If you believed that, you wouldn’t have mentioned it to me. You wouldn’t have even thought twice about it.”
He sounded like my father. He was always trying to convince me to take more security precautions. More than once, he’d encouraged me to use a chauffeur to get around town, or employ a bodyguard whenever I left the apartment. It was nonsensical, and I’d never agreed to any of it.
“You’re not in charge of me,” I said. “You can’t make me pack a suitcase.”
“No,” he said, “I can’t. But if you don’t, I will. And if I do that, I’ll probably put the wrong day-of-the-week underwear in or forget your . . . sheep pajamas. Pack a case and we can discuss it on the way.”
Day-of-the-week underwear? Did I really look like a woman who wore day-of-the-week underwear? I glanced down to see the faces of a dozen happy cows looking up at me. “On the way where?”
Before I knew it, we were in my bedroom. Without asking, he’d pulled my suitcase from the top of my wardrobe and was buried deep in his phone while I filled it. I needed to change. I grabbed some jeans and my favorite Snoopy sweatshirt and slipped into the bathroom.
Tristan looked at me and chuckled. “Love is a warm puppy? Really? You asked a complete stranger to marry you on Saturday night so you could get your hands on money. You can’t tell me you’re all warm puppies and chocolate-covered raisins inside.”
“I love Snoopy. He’s all I need.”
“Wrong. You also need a wedding band on your finger so you can get your hands on your trust fund.” Without waiting for a reply, he flipped over my suitcase, zipped it shut, and lifted it from the bed like it didn’t have half my possessions in it. He strode to the door and I scampered after him.
“I’m not ready. I have to turn the TV off, and make sure the oven’s off. I have to water my plants and—”
“You don’t have plants.”
“I’m being metaphorical. You can’t just bundle me out of the door. It feels like a kidnapping.”
“Well, go water your metaphorical plants and let’s get out of here.”
I quickly switched the TV off, picked up my phone, tablet, and bag and scanned my flat. I’d be back tomorrow. Wouldn’t I?
We rode the lift down to the lobby side by side in silence. I wanted to question him. If someone wanted to take something from my flat, they had the opportunity while I was out all day. If they wanted me, they would have waited until I was home. Why was he so sure I was in danger?
“Just trust me,” Tristan said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
He looked down at me and smirked. “You don’t have to.
The way you pull your hair behind your left ear tells me you have things on your mind.
” My hand dropped to my side. “If I’m being paranoid, great.
You get a sleepover at mine and you go home when I’ve figured out what’s going on.
If I’m not being paranoid. Well, great—you were safe at mine. ”
“A sleepover? At your place? I’ll just go to a hotel.”
We stepped out of the lifts and headed outside.
“Nope. I want you where I can see you.”
This guy was exasperating. At the same time, there was something comforting about the feeling of having someone care. If his intentions were genuine. “I hope you have chocolate-covered raisins at your place.”
Tristan had parked outside. He opened the car door for me. “It can be arranged.”
I slid into the passenger seat and waited while Tristan put my case in the boot and got into the drivers’ seat, ready to take me to a deliciously hot, almost-perfect-stranger’s house to stay the night.
Being in Tristan’s house made me feel like a teenager who didn’t have her shit together.
Whereas my flat was a hodgepodge of knickknacks, Christmas presents, and holiday souvenirs, Tristan’s place looked like it belonged to a grown-up.
It was all dark grey, petrol blue, and forest green paints; wood-paneled rooms; carefully curated mid-century modern furniture; and art that looked particularly chosen for the space.
“Nice place.” I pulled open a kitchen drawer and peered inside. His cutlery was all beautifully arranged in an oak tray. I pulled open another one to find carefully pressed tea towels.
Everything was just perfect.
I looked up to find him watching me. “Like what you see?” he asked.
Heat flushed up my body because looking at him—yes.
Yes, I did like what I saw. So much it was a little embarrassing.
The dirty blond hair that looked perfectly disheveled.
The shoulders that were nearly as broad as I was tall.
Even the crinkles by his eyes were sexy somehow.
Men shouldn’t be as attractive as Tristan. It wasn’t fair.