5. Caleb
Chapter 5
Caleb
I pace the pavement in front of a rundown building, pissed. At myself. But mostly at Saar. I had to cut my second meeting with Xander short.
After I dropped the bomb that I left Quaintique-Linden, he told me more about his company, Merged, and fuck if I wasn’t ready to invest on the spot. We agreed to meet today and discuss the topic more.
However, before we could get into it, I discovered seven missed calls from Saar and cut the meeting short.
And it’s not even Saar who needs help. Seven fucking phone calls to help her goddamn friend.
Celeste Delacroix—even her fucking name is sexy—got under my skin. With her sass, her curves, her impossibly lithe dancer’s body, those kissable lips.
Our encounters—and thank God there have been only a few—never go well. The one a year ago ended with a cocktail in my face. The woman is certifiable.
Which begs the question, why the fuck am I here, pacing in front of the shabby brownstone in the East Village?
The fire escapes cluttered with potted plants present a stark departure from the neighborhoods I’m accustomed to.
The street is vibrant and loud, and probably safe. But I still feel like I might get robbed in my three-thousand-dollar suit. Why I fucking bothered to dress for the occasion is beyond me.
A lot about this is beyond me. Only my little sister could talk me into this level of madness. She had a hard time in high school and, topped off with our parents’ recent estrangement, I can’t help but try to make everything better for her.
I should just turn and leave.
Before I can execute the exit strategy, my phone buzzes. I check the display and groan. Fucking Saar.
“Are you there yet?” Saar practically screams into my ear.
“Remind me why it’s a good idea?”
I turn my back to the building. A juice carton rolls alongside the curb. Faded graffiti adorns the facades of the businesses on the other side of the street—a small convenience store, a pizza place, and a nail salon .
I don’t belong, but strangely, I have an urge to explore a bit.
“Cal, Celeste is my best friend. Her life is here. She has no other options.”
“She also seems like someone who would rather fuck a cactus than spend time with me, so I fail to recognize why I am the one saving her.”
“There will be no fucking, Cal.” She sounds horrified. “Look, you’re available—”
“How do you know? I could be in a relationship.”
Saar snorts. Rightfully. I’d rather fuck a cactus myself than get tied up in a committed relationship—a choice I made a long time ago.
“Cal, you can divorce her as soon as she gets her visa. She can’t lose this gig. She was spectacular in it. You won’t just be helping my friend, you’ll be enriching the cultural life of the city.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re shit at negotiating.”
She sighs. “Please.”
She might be a poor negotiator, but she is a master at blackmail. An easy deed, since I have never said no to her.
My sister went through a dark period when she was a teenager because of a man. Cormac Quinn became my enemy, even though to this day neither my brother nor I know what exactly went down. But we saw our sister hurt and losing her spark .
Enough to go above and beyond to make her life better. Her mental health improved, but the sentiment remained.
And as her plea echoes through the phone, I know I’m trapped.
“Look, I’m in front of her house. She better act amicably.”
Because, let’s face it, the first time I met Celeste fucking Delacroix, I learned women can’t be trusted.
The irony of coming here to help her out is not lost on me. Neither is the nagging feeling that I’ll regret this.
“She will. I promise, she will. I owe you, Cal.”
“Yeah, I’ll file it with all the other favors you owe me.” I turn back to the building and take the few steps to the front entrance. “When are you back in the city, anyway?”
“I don’t know, in a few weeks. Thank you, Cal.”
I hang up, and before I can question my sanity, easily push the door open. What the fuck? Why does she live in such an insecure building?
The tiny foyer welcomes me with an odor of mildew and an obnoxious vanilla scent. The hallway is dark, with a narrow staircase leading up on my right hand side, and an equally narrow corridor along its side.
Half of the mailboxes are broken, barely hanging on the wall with chipped paint. No woman—no human—should live in these conditions.
And where do I go now? I pull out my phone, hoping the address Saar texted me shows the unit number. Why isn’t there a reception or a concierge here?
I find the unit on the ground floor. Thank God I don’t have to walk upstairs. Not only because my quads still scream from my unofficial match with Xander, but because those stairs for sure fail all the codes.
Celeste’s apartment is at the end of the gloomy corridor of carpeted floors and generic gray doors.
I knock with more enthusiasm than I feel. Probably best to just get this over with.
The door creaks open, and Celeste sticks her head out, hiding behind the door.
“What are you doing here?” she accuses.
Is she for real? I should turn around and go about my life. I don’t have to save every victim of my father’s lack of morals. Though based on this building, this candidate might need it.
I squint at the light seeping from behind her through the opening. “Are you kidding me?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Again, what are you doing here?” She doesn’t fully open the door, eying me with suspicion .
“Again , are you kidding me?”
She widens her eyes and gapes with disbelief. And, perhaps, a dash of disdain.
“Look, Celeste, you need my help, not the other way around.” I rub my forehead. This hasn’t even started, and I already have a headache.
I briefly mourn the moments before lunch yesterday when I thought I had nothing to do and nowhere to be.
She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Saar sent you.”
It’s not a question, it’s a realization. Fucking Saar. It’s a good thing she would be on her way to the airport before I could get to her. Better for her general well-being. Because even my love for my sister has its limits.
A war wages behind Celeste’s eyes, and then she steps back and widens the door’s opening.
The long silky green robe she’s wearing is tied fast with a sash, but the two sides still fall apart, giving me a better look at her cleavage than I want.
Or rather than I should have if I’m to leave this place with my balls still attached.
The emerald-green fabric matches her eyes. How can a woman dressed in a skimpy robe look so elegant? And why the fuck am I noticing?
I step inside and stop. For two reasons. There is nowhere to go, but I’m also shocked by the place.
It’s smaller than my closet. She has a bed, a rack on wheels with her clothes, and a sorry excuse for a kitchen.
That’s all. It’s clean and nicely decorated—if that can be claimed of a bed-only room—but it’s minuscule.
“Is this your place?”
Instead of answering, she raises her eyebrows.
“You renting it?”
There’s a decent person somewhere inside me—less snobby and more compassionate—but for some reason, it plays hooky today. Or anytime I’m around this woman.
“I own it.”
She steps back and almost falls into her bed. And that gives me ideas and images I definitely don’t need right now. All of them include that flimsy robe opening wide.
I force myself to focus on the task at hand. “Give me your passport.”
“Excuse me?” She shoves the two sides of her robe together, fisting them. This is the first time I’ve seen her not flaunting her beauty around.
I clear my throat. “Do you want me to wait outside while you get dressed?”
She lifts her chin but ignores my question. “Why do you want my passport?”
“To send a picture of it to my lawyer.”
“Why? ”
“To see if we can fix your visa situation without tying myself to you for the foreseeable future. And in case of a negative answer, to prepare a prenup.”
She snorts. “I don’t want your money.”
I chuckle. “Haven’t heard that one before.”
She jerks her head back. “Idiot.”
She softens the d and accents the second syllable, and the melody of it stirs my cock. I’m like fucking Gomez Adams, aroused by a foreign accent. Fuck. My. Life.
“Okay, Celeste, do you want to stay in New York?”
“Not if the price is too high.”
I laugh. “Most women would be delighted to marry me.”
“I’m not most women.”
“Clearly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”