2. Chapter 2
Henrik
“M r. Larsen—”
“I am done with this conversation, George. This is the second job these contractors have botched. You need to replace them.”
“It’s not as easy as that,” my head of property development whines over our phone call.
I heave a sigh—not bothering to hide my exasperation—and pinch the bridge of my nose, welcoming the blackness for once as my world goes utterly dark. “Make it that easy. We are not working with them again. Find someone else to finish this project.”
I hang up before George can attempt to make any more allowances for a company who clearly doesn’t have their shit together. I’m not about to accept shoddy construction work when we can afford better.
My blood pressure comes down as I end the call, but my mood, unfortunately, does not improve with the silence that greets my ears. Neither does my impending migraine.
“Gloria,” I call, ringing my administrative assistant. “Would you bring me a cup of tea, please?”
Her voice pipes through the intercom. “Of course, Mr. Larsen.”
“Thank you,” I reply before letting go of the button and sinking back in my chair, eyes shut tight, as if that would make a difference.
Gloria comes in a moment later, her heels clacking against the marble floor. She sets the cup of tea on my desk, the china rattling briefly, and then takes a step back.
“Anything else I can do for you?” she asks.
“No, thank you,” I answer, leaning forward and grabbing the cup.
I release a sigh, pure relief this time, as the first sip of Pickwick Earl Grey hits my tastebuds.
It’s almost too hot to drink, but I welcome the scald down the back of my tongue.
The bitter, bergamot flavor settles me like few other things have the ability to do.
Gloria’s steps fade with her departure, and a moment later, my office door closes with a soft thud. I’m getting ready to dive back into my never-ending workload when my sister’s ringtone pierces the air, disturbing my brief stint of silence.
I accept her call, as I always do. “Yes?”
“That’s no way to greet your favorite sister,” Alma says.
“My only sister,” I point out.
“Well yes, but still your favorite. Right?”
“Yes, dove,” I reply dutifully.
Alma hums, clearly pleased, and I roll my eyes, grateful she can’t see it.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your sparkling conversation?” I ask dryly.
“Our parents are worried.”
I sigh. “This again?”
“This always ,” she says. “You know they can’t help it.”
“I am not a teenager anymore, Alma.”
“No, I know—”
“I’m forty-two goddamn years old. Forty-two . They have no say over my life,” I grit out a little harsher than I intended. It’s not Alma’s fault our parents don’t know the meaning of the word independence .
“I know,” she says calmly. “They just love you.”
“And I’m fine.”
“Then maybe you should return their calls once in a while to let them know,” she presses. “Or, even better, come home with me next weekend and show them yourself.”
“I’m busy next weekend.” I’m pretty sure.
“Then another time,” Alma practically pleads.
“You don’t have to be our go-between, Alma.”
“You don’t leave me any other choice,” she says.
“When they can’t get through to you, they start blowing up my phone.
” She sounds more resigned than put out by that fact, and I hate that she’s caught in the middle, but it’s not my fault Diederik and Sigrid take the meaning of helicopter parenting to new heights.
“You could ignore them,” I point out.
She sighs. “You know it’s not easy for me to do.”
“Tender heart,” I say fondly.
“So are you,” she says. “Even though you don’t let anyone see it.”
I huff an incredulous breath. No one, apart from my own sister, would describe me as tender. “I’ll call them back,” I concede.
“Thank you, brother of mine. I’ll let you get back to your tea.”
Alma clicks off the call before I can ask her how she knew I was drinking it. I guess I’m nothing if not predictable. With a shake of my head, I return to my considerably cooler cup, able to drink down a healthy swallow before my phone alerts me of the time.
I press the intercom again. “Gloria, I’m going to stay another hour or so. You’re welcome to head home.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Larsen?”
“Yes. Have a good evening.”
“You, too, Mr. Larsen,” she replies.
I finish up the acquisition paperwork Benjamin, my personal assistant, forwarded me earlier, and that’s as far as I get before the throbbing in my head demands I call it a night.
I didn’t get as much done today as I’d hoped—when do I ever?
—but I need a pain-reliever and a dark room, or this migraine will follow me into the morning.
Admitting defeat, I shut down my computer and call for the car.
Less than twenty minutes later, my chauffeur, Charles, is dropping me in front of my building, and after a quick hello to Delroy, my doorman, I take the elevator up to the top floor.
The moment the doors swish open, I let out a deep breath, the soft light and calming scents of home providing some measure of comfort.
The respite is short-lived, however, seeing as one step inside the foyer, I trip over an obstacle and nearly go sprawling to the floor. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, I catch myself against the sharp edge of the entryway table before I can fall.
“ Fuck . Denny!” I call out, rubbing my arm and then reaching for the shoes lying haphazardly on the floor. I place them to the side of the door as Denny comes shuffling around the corner.
“Shit! I’m sorry. I forgot,” he says, voice apologetic.
“This is the third time,” I say flatly.
“It won’t happen again,” he claims.
Yeah, well, that’s what he said last time and the time before that.
Denny steps close, and his hands slip beneath my suit jacket. He brushes his fingers up the sides of my dress shirt, the touch coy yet suggestive. “Can I make it up to you?”
I try to muster up even an ounce of interest, but it’s no use.
“Maybe later,” I say, side-stepping him and walking into the kitchen. I fill a glass with water and chug it down before grabbing my migraine medicine from inside the cupboard, shaking out two pills and swallowing them.
“Anything I can do to help?” Denny asks, rubbing lightly over my back. He gives my jacket a little tug, and I let him maneuver me out of the material.
“I just need to lie down.”
Denny follows as I make my way into my bedroom. He stays near the doorway while I close the blinds and black out the Vegas lights. It’s not until I’m unbuttoning my dress shirt that his footsteps draw near, but he doesn’t say anything.
“What is it?” I ask, trying and failing to keep the ire out of my voice.
Denny has only been living here for a month, but I’m already sensing this isn’t going to work.
He’s been enthusiastic about the sex, but if I’m not fucking him, Denny is bored.
And vocal about it. It’s not my job to keep him entertained, something he’s well aware of yet chooses to ignore, and no matter how much patience I try to will into my being, I can’t seem to call up enough to deal with Denny.
I should end it now, but I keep hoping it’ll get better. It won’t.
“I just missed you,” Denny says, the pout evident in his tone.
I finish undressing, leaving my Tom Ford briefs in place, before I swing back the sheets and climb between the cool layers. Denny sighs, and I finally answer him. “Why don’t you go out with some friends?” I suggest.
He harrumphs. I found that cute the first couple times. Now I’m over it.
“Fine,” he says, turning on his heel and stomping out the door. I wince as it slams shut, wondering if it’s time to call Genevieve again.
It’ll have to wait. Right this minute, my head is throbbing, and I can barely string two thoughts together, let alone deal with a long-overdue phone call. Instead, I close my eyes and let myself drift uneasily into sleep.
I don’t know how much time has passed when a series of loud bangs wakes me some time later. With a groan, I roll over and tap my phone, discovering it’s not even nine o’clock yet. The two hours of sleep I managed did nothing to quell the storm inside my head.
The noise outside the bedroom ramps up in volume: a few hoots, some laughter, music kicking on in the living room.
“Fucking hell. You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan, swinging my legs over and rolling out of bed. The rhythmic tattoo inside my head is just as loud as the one blaring over the speakers, and for a moment, I have to hold onto the side of my mattress to regain my equilibrium.
Once I’m stable, I tug on a pair of lounge pants. Too damn irritated to bother with a shirt, I head for the door and pull it open angrily. I’m halfway down the hall when my foot catches on one of Denny’s shirts, and I curse yet again.
“Denny,” I call over the music, stopping at the entrance to the living room.
“Oh, hot damn ,” one of his friends says.
“Your daddy looks pissed,” another whispers loudly.
“I am not his daddy,” I grit out. “Turn off the goddamn music.”
It takes a second, but the sound cuts off, leaving my ears ringing as Denny’s indignant “Yes?” pierces the air.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I growl, in no mood to temper my temper.
“You said to hang out with my friends,” he replies like a petulant child.
“I also said I had a headache, so what made you think this was a smart decision?” I retort, my hand on the wall for balance as my head swims and spots dance across my vision. Shit , this is a bad one.
There’s a beat of silence, and then Denny says, “Sorry.” He doesn’t even sound it.
I rub my eyes, heaving a sigh. “I think you should go, Denny.”
“What?” he squawks.
“This isn’t working. You should go,” I reiterate.
“You can’t just kick me out!”
“Actually, I can. That was part of the agreement.”
He gasps before rushing up and pushing my chest, barely swaying me an inch. “You’re such a dick!”
I sigh again, grabbing Denny’s wrists and lowering them slowly. “I’ll give you an extra ten grand if you make this as painless as possible.”
The fight leaves him in an instant, as I knew it would.
“I’ll have Benjamin deliver your things,” I add.
“Fine,” he says, just short of a whine. “You’re a cold-hearted bastard, but you have a nice cock. I’ll miss it. Not you.”
Charming.
He sniffs before breezing past me, sending a waft of cold air over my skin.
I wait at the entrance to the living room, the awkward silence stifling as Denny’s friends whisper to one another in his absence.
Ignoring them, I count down the three minutes it takes for Denny to grab a bag of his things and whiz back past me.
“Come on,” he says, prompting his friends to follow him to the elevator. He pauses at the threshold. “Bye, Henrik.”
“Goodbye, Denny.”
He steps through, and the door whooshes closed, dinging with a finality I can feel in my bones.
I slump immediately.
I’m so tired of this, going round and round with these boys, but the alternative—being alone, truly alone here—is the less appealing choice.
It’s borderline terrifying, if I’m being honest. Of course, my parents would have a field day with that knowledge.
I’m sure they’d insist on me moving home immediately, telling me how they knew it all along and that it’s okay to need a little help, honey .
I clench my hands into tight fists at the prospect, my fingers aching with the tension.
That’s not something I’ll ever allow to happen. I’ve come too far, worked too hard, and if all it takes to keep the empty void at bay is to have some shallow twenty-something occupy my sanctuary, so be it.
Hopefully, the next one lasts longer than a month.
When I get back to my bedroom, I pick up my phone. “Call Genevieve.”
It rings three times before the call goes through, and Genevieve’s smooth, dulcet voice greets my ear. “I was hoping I wouldn’t hear from you quite this soon, love.”
“I need another one.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she says lightly. “I take it you already sent poor Denny to the curb?”
“He’ll be fine,” I grumble out, flopping back on my bed and closing my eyes.
“Yes, he will. He’s a handsome young man. He’ll be snatched right back up. It’s you I’m worried about, Henrik.”
“I’ll be fine, too,” I say, softening my tone. It’ll do no good to gripe at Genevieve when all she’s ever done is try to help me in her own way.
“Will you?”
I sigh. “Yes. I simply need another one.”
Genevieve hums. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Tomorrow,” I tell her.
She makes a noise of surprise. “That’s a tall ask, Henrik.”
“I’ll pay handsomely.”
“I’m not worried about that,” she says, her nails tapping against the surface of her desk. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” I reply around an exhale.
Genevieve makes a quiet noise of acquiescence before clicking off the call.
I rub my face, my hand catching on the short stubble along my jaw. I need to shave. “Text Benjamin.”
My phone chimes, announcing speech-to-text is rolling.
“I need an early cleanup and delivery to Denny’s prior address on file period . Bring a bottle of my favorite Malbec period .” I pause. “Thank you period .”
My phone reads the message back to me, and I send it, knowing Benji won’t mind the late-hour text. Feeling utterly drained, I drop the device onto my nightstand and roll onto my stomach, sinking my face into the pillow. The cool fabric does little to abate the jackhammering inside my skull.
Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow will be better.