Chapter 8 – Wick
Chapter Eight
WICK
“Where’s your book?” she asks, changing the topic. She doesn’t want me to ask her questions about her lonely life with her husband.
“My phone,” I improvise. I don’t have a book. My mind was full of competing thoughts as I watched my wife get ready for a date with another man on the security cameras.
Now I’m sitting across from her with a container of baked goods she prepared while she talks about her shitty marriage. I can’t even be mad because I put her in this situation, in that big apartment with the only contact being my assistant.
“Should we read, then?” she suggests.
“Do we have to?” I just want to hear her talk.
“It is supposed to be a reading date.” She stops herself.
“I mean outing. Not a date. Since I’m married.
” Her explanations spill forth, but the slip happened.
She doesn’t consider herself taken. “I guess I never asked you, but no girlfriend? No significant other that might be bothered with you sitting here?”
“None. I’ve never been into dating.” I wouldn’t know the first thing about it. “I didn’t go to college and was too poor in high school. Too poor most of my life for women.”
Her eyebrows shoot upward. “You don’t look poor. All your clothes are expensive.”
“I was poor; I’m not now.” And now that I have money, there are women who want the lifestyle I can buy them, but I’m not interested.
Chasing deals and closing them was more exciting for me than any woman.
Until I saw Annabelle. Now the paperwork piles up while I watch the security cams and meet her for coffee.
I should tell her I’m her husband and we can drop this whole act. We can go home together where I will watch her in person instead of through the security cams. “Anna—”
“I know—” She cuts herself off. “You first.”
“No. What were you going to say?”
“I know that I said I was lonely before, but it’s because it’s a new situation for me. Being married, I mean. It’s going to take time to get used to, but I’m glad to be married.”
Glad but not happy. We’ll do these reading dates until she finds me indispensable. Then I’ll tell her that we’re already married, and we’ll live happily ever after.
“What do you enjoy doing besides reading and baking?”
“Isn’t that enough? These”—she taps the container—”took me all morning.”
“They’re perfect.”
“You haven’t even had one.”
“Half of eating is with your eyes. Or that’s what I learned watching Chef’s Table on Netflix.”
Her eyes light up. “I love that show. Did you see the one with the Buddhist—”
“Monk?” I insert. “One of my favorites. I want to go to the temple and try the food because how can it be that tasty but they don’t use any garlic or onions?”
“I know, right? But everyone says it’s amazing. Did you see he’s going to be on the Black and White Chef competition show?”
“No. We should watch it together.”
“I’d love that!” She claps her hands. The movement causes sunlight to catch her big diamond and cast rainbows on the table. Belle sees them and sits back in her chair, suddenly realizing what she agreed to.
“Your husband wouldn’t like it?” I guess.
“I—” She bites the corner of her lip, trying to figure out what an actual married woman would do.
I throw her a lifeline. “It’s probably best if we watch it separately and then we can meet the next day and discuss the episode.”
She nods. “That sounds good.”
But it doesn’t have the appeal that watching it together has.
“I should go.” She’s on her feet before I can say a word. “I’ve got things to do.”
I feel like that’s a lie, but I just nod and gather up my coat and the container of baked goods. On the sidewalk, I try to think of something to keep her with me longer. “I’ll walk you home. For safety. Your husband would appreciate it.”
“All right.” She doesn’t seem like she wants to get rid of me. That’s a positive sign.
“Will you bake more tonight?”
“No, I think I’ll take a bath and watch some television.”
No mention of her husband. I wonder if she realizes that.
We reach the entrance of The Residences.
The valet smiles at her as he pulls the heavy glass and iron door open.
I give him a narrow-eyed glare that silently conveys my desire to rip him apart if he looks at Annabelle wrong.
The smile slides off his face, and his eyes drop to his shiny shoes.
“This is it.” She wrinkles her nose. “Very fancy, isn’t it?”
The lobby is all white and gray marble with black carpeted runners on the floor that lead to the elevators and other communal spaces. A butler comes out from behind a large cherry wood reception counter to greet Annabelle and escort her to the elevators. “I’ll handle this,” I tell him.
The butler nods and backs off.
“You really don’t have to,” Annabelle says.
“I want to.” That’s the full truth. I need to see her again and soon.
There’s a charity event in three days. I’ll have someone there send her an invitation.
If I remember correctly, it’s a dinner with a silent auction, so we could be there for at least three or four hours.
Given the right donation, I’m sure arrangements can be made for us to sit together.
A perfect plan. I almost rub my palms together in glee but stick my hands in my pockets and try to look nonchalant.
As we approach the elevator bank, Annabelle stiffens. Ahead of us, a slim blond woman and a man with too much hair gel step off the elevators. The man scowls. “How many times do you help need to be told to use the service elevator?”
Annabelle’s cheeks redden.
“She lives here,” I tell them.
“And who are you?” The woman’s eyes rake over me.
“A friend of the family,” Annabelle says. “Come on, Charles. The service elevator is this way.” She tries to tug me away.
“Why would you use the service elevator when you live on the top floor?”
“God, is that what you told this man? How embarrassing for you.” The blonde rolls her eyes. “This girl does not own one of The Residences. I know because I sit on the co-op board. The person who bought the penthouse is a Mr. Wickham, and he’s single per the application.”
I draw myself up to my full height and am about to proclaim that I am Mr. Wickham and then remember my whole charade. Fuck me.
“I guess he got married,” I say.
“To this? I doubt it. Come on, Parker. We need to report that there’s a squatter in the building. You don’t belong here.” The blonde grabs her man’s arm and tugs him toward the butler.
Annabelle’s face is fully flushed from embarrassment. I’m going to have to ruin those two for making her feel small.
“Don’t mind them,” I tell her.
“She’s right. I don’t belong here.” Annabelle runs off toward the service elevator, leaving me in the hallway holding a Tupperware container and feeling like the biggest fool in the world.