Chapter 9
lovelillibet How do you keep things fresh in a long-term relationship? Mr. L and I have a grab bag of tricks, from travel to role-play. The real secret? Stop making assumptions. Instead of crushing your partner under the weight of expectation, allow them the freedom to surprise you. Spontaneity is a great way to manifest more fully in the moment.
Love, Lillibet
Image: A page torn from a calendar, folded into a paper airplane.
#freeyourself #beherenow #thepresentisapresent
This is it, thought Libby, as Mr. L led her down the hall. The big reveal. Whatever ulterior motive he’d been hiding was about to be unveiled.
Instead of mentally preparing herself for this critical development, her thoughts veered back to Jefferson pressing her against the shower wall, sacrificing himself to protect her. Did he have bruises? Would she get to see them?
Focus.
She should be worrying about Hildy. Thank goodness her future boss hadn’t walked in on them a few minutes sooner, while Jefferson was so close Libby could have drowned in his eyes. They were almost the color of a swimming pool, aqua shading into green— She pinched the skin between her thumb and index finger.
That was a thought for later, when Libby was alone. Assuming she survived what Mr. L had in store for her. After experiencing that shower, she was rethinking her first impression of their host. Maybe he was more of a mad genius than a single-minded corporate bigwig.
Hopefully not the kind with a freezer full of corpses.
They turned a corner and continued to the end of the hall before Mr. L opened another door, gesturing for Libby to precede him.
“My office. One of them,” he corrected himself, laughing as he indicated the seating area opposite the desk. “Please.”
The decorating theme seemed to be Antique Navigation. There were globes and brass instruments she assumed related to sailing (in days of yore), and sprawling maps with fancy calligraphy mounted on the wall. They looked authentically old but could have been reproductions. Or a record of his global plumbing empire.
Mr. L watched Libby approach a leather armchair. Her supposedly sprained hindquarters were inches from the seat when he threw up his hands like a traffic cop. “Stop!”
She froze, bent in half. It brought her almost to his eye level.
“You’re dripping,” he chided, pointing at her dress.
Oh, that. “Sorry. I—can go change?” In fact, that sounded like a brilliant idea. Straightening, she took a sideways step toward the door.
“No need. I have a prototype of the Sirocco Flow right here.” He opened one of the cabinets lining the wall behind his desk, pulling out a sleek rod with a rounded end.
“You make blow dryers?”
The answer was apparently yes, as he proceeded to blast Libby from hem to collar, finishing with a few touch-ups to her hair and face.
“The travel-size is small enough to fit in a pocket,” he announced, switching it off. “I call it my magic wand.”
Libby sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Jean wasn’t there to hear that part.
“Please, sit.” Mr. L gestured at the chair behind Libby as if the ambush drying had never happened. He waited until she was perched on the edge of the butter-soft armchair before settling onto the matching love seat. “This is pleasant. Just the two of us.”
After a brief delay, during which she could almost hear him think, A smile would be a nice touch, he smiled at her.
Libby felt her mouth jerk in response, like they were androids teaching each other to mimic human expressions.
“We should get to know each other better, don’t you think? Naturally, I’ve heard a great deal about you from our mutual friend Keoki. I refer of course to your troubled early years. No father, distracted mother, economic insecurity, lackluster academic performance.” His hand flapped a careless et cetera. Like it was the same old story, not worth going into the details.
Technically she had a father. Libby hadn’t spontaneously generated herself. He just wasn’t around. The rest was true, in a brutally factual way. Although Libby didn’t think of herself as a charity case, the way he seemed to. She’d never considered herself poor until college, because everyone she knew lived the same way she and Keoki did.
“Is it any wonder you’ve had so few opportunities to better yourself, with such inauspicious beginnings?” Apparently it was not a rhetorical question, because he looked expectantly at Libby until she responded.
“I don’t know. I’m not a sociologist.”
“Certainly not!” He laughed as if she’d made a joke. “You need a college degree for that.”
Libby was still reeling from the casual insult when he leaned forward, uncorking a carafe of what appeared to be water and filling one of the empty glasses beside it. “Drink this.”
“I’m fine,” she said, despite being parched from the drying incident. Even poor girls with no education had street smarts.
“Straight to business. I like that.” He took a sip of water, set down the glass, then leaned back, carefully smoothing his trousers before crossing his legs at the knee. It was like watching an uptight person act out the clue “relaxed” in a game of charades. The effect was further undercut by the intensity of his gaze as he asked, “Do you enjoy helping people?”
Warning, said Libby’s brain. Potential trap ahead. “I—guess?”
“Hmm.” His mouth curved downward. “I believe in helping yourself. It builds character. However, there are exceptions to every rule.”
She gave a cautious nod, more to the latter part of the statement than the pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps bit. Classic rich-man thinking.
“I’m prepared to help you.” He smiled at his own generosity.
“You already are,” Libby reminded him. “Helping us, I mean. A lot. The house, the clothes, the cover story.” She could have gone on, but Mr. L beat her to it.
“Don’t forget the car.”
“Right.” He’d been significantly more chill handing over the keys to a shiny black SUV than he was about people touching his faucets.
“But now I’m talking about a far more significant commitment.”
“Like for Keoki’s restaurant?”
“This would be a venture of a personal nature.”
“I’m not sure I follow.” Translation: I’m not sure I want to follow.
“Imagine what you could do with, say, twenty thousand dollars?”
Shit. It is the kidney. Libby kicked herself for not googling the risks of being a living organ donor.
“College tuition,” he continued, oblivious to her growing panic, “rent, dental insurance. A fresh start.”
Libby lowered the hand she’d unconsciously raised to hide her less-than-perfect teeth. “You want to give me money?”
He nodded eagerly, pleased with her quickness on the uptake.
“Why?” Somehow she doubted he was running a secret scholarship fund for underachieving twentysomethings.
“In exchange for one small favor.” The pinching motion that accompanied these words did nothing to dispel Libby’s fears.
“Which is what, exactly?”
He held up his left hand, fingers waggling as if they were in a martial arts movie and he’d paused for some mid-fight taunting. Libby doubted Mr. L was saying, Come at me, bro. She shook her head, giving up.
“Marrying me.” He whipped out a silk hankie, offering it to Libby for her inevitable tears of joy.