Chapter Seventeen
Juliet
We are on a private jet—I’m about to pass out from sheer excitement and nerves.
We’d gone back to Gran's house so that I could pick up something to wear and put a few things in an overnight bag.
I have on a cute little black dress and a pair of chunky black satin heels.
I also put on a long black Cashmere coat.
These are the nicest items of clothing I own.
I threw some sleepwear into my bag as well as one more nice outfit in case Marcel springs something on me tomorrow.
I'm excited, I'm scared, and I'm feeling and thinking so many contradictory things.
I don't want to give in to Marcel and allow him to destroy the community I grew up in.
I have to say, however, there is an intoxication in being treated like a princess by a man who has more money than God.
I eat some of the best vegan appetizers I've ever had and, before I know it, the plane is landing.
My heart races and I can't help but feel a little bit nauseous as to what's to come.
“Are you nervous?” he asks and takes my hand as if to soothe my stress.
“I think maybe I'll feel a little better if you let me know where we're going. I'm starting to hyperventilate.”
“What scares you most?” he asks, being sweet.
“I don't want to fall in love with you,” I blurt out, feeling like shit because, of course, I want to fall in love with him, but he doesn't want me. I’d hate to be hurt and left stranded. There's nothing worse than being dumped by a billionaire who was just getting his kicks.
“Well, our needs are aligned there.” That stabs.
I look at Marcel and almost tell him I lied, that he's mature, sexy, and beautiful. I could care less about his money but somehow this is seducing me too. I'm too naive, idealistic, and bright-eyed for the world he lives in, but I can't imagine mine without him.
I feel like I might cry and kick myself for it because I am not overly sentimental.
I've become so crazy emotional. It's as if everything has been heightened.
My skin crawls. Things smell strange and food tastes different.
Everything is just, I don't know if it's love or lust or—what is this man doing to me? And then I fucking cry.
“Okay,” he says, bringing me into a hug. “Maybe you've fallen in love a little bit?”
I burst into sobs, I can't say anything.
“I understand,” he tells me. “Maybe I have too.”
We don't say anything more on the subject and we walk a short distance through the private part of the airport to a waiting limousine. He helps me into the car and in the backseat, I try to collect myself and put my makeup back on.
“You don't need to wear makeup," he tells me in conversation, not scolding, just making an observation.
“Thank you,” I say quietly and note that it’s almost eleven at night.
“Tonight,” he touches my leg. “You are going to meet my friends. I have exactly three of them, but two come with wives and tons of children, the other is single and is a hockey player who you’ll probably fall in love with.”
“I’m not going to be walking in on the arm of one man only to go home on the arm of another, Marcel.” I say quietly. “I’m looking forward to meeting them. They don’t mind going out this late?”
“They’re going to love you.” He kisses my forehead and again, I have both an ache of sadness and a spark of joy. “And it’s early for New York City.”
He brings me to his favorite pub. The place is much more down to earth than I expect and is on the outskirts of Manhattan.
It’s a dark boozy bar. His friends are all devastatingly beautiful men.
Two of them, Beckett and Griffin, are around the same age as Marcel.
The last man he introduces me to is Cayden.
He’s in his early thirties and seems well built and muscular.
I can see why Marcel may have thought I'd be interested in Cayden; he's got a rogue-ish boyishness that is attractive. All of his friends have a rich, aristocratic air about them. They drink and swear and surprisingly keep their conversation centered around gushing about their beautiful wives and families, and Cayden’s prowess on the ice. Cayden is, apparently, a famous hockey player but, since I have no interest in the game, I don’t recognize him.
“Everyone,” Marcel announces, resting a hand at the small of my back, “Juliet, is my arch nemesis. She’s simultaneously trying to get me to save a struggling community and believe in Christmas all at the same time.”
His friends laugh as if he's made some kind of horrible joke. This defeats my spirits but I'm tough. I can handle a little laughter.
“Good luck with that,” Griffin says still laughing, “Marcel is an evil bastard.
“I believe she is aware because her nickname for me is the Grinch,” Marcel says and I smile as he kisses my cheek.
I see that his friends love to tease with caustic humor.
There's more laughter, drinks, and food. With each round something vegan shows up that is absolutely out of this world. I’m gracious and try to be charming.
For a while I forget about Clara and Eaton and enjoy good beer, laughter, amazing food, and Marcel in his element.
I have to admit I have not seen him so effortlessly happy.
Although I don't know him well, I know him well enough to observe that he's always a little tightly wound.
With his friends he's loose, joyful, and a little naughty.
They really do like one another's company.
As the evening wears down, so do I. We didn't sleep well together in my bed the night before and we’d had a whole day exploring the community and Christmas.
Now it's nearly two in the morning and I'm about to turn into a pumpkin, or a pumpkin pie I guess. I’m trying to hide my fatigue but, of course, Marcel is dialed in.
“I should get this little lady to a bed.” He makes his suggestion sound raunchy and his friends do not miss a beat.
There are jeers and quippy remarks about getting me in a bed and not letting me get out because I’m a keeper and he usually dates throwbacks.
I'm assuming it's some kind of fishing reference but again I'm too tired and hazy-minded to keep up with their billionaire banter.
We say our goodbyes and Marcel calls a car.
The limo that took us from the airport to the pub picks us up and I snuggle against Marcel at his beckoning, cuddling into his arm and resting my head on his chest. I feel warm and secure in his embrace.
“Go ahead and close your eyes.” He gives me permission to sleep, so I do and within seconds, we’re at a mansion and, when I say mansion, I mean sprawling estate. The car pulls around a circular driveway in the front of a massive set of stairs that lead to enormous double doors.
“Where are we?” I ask, opening my eyes and acclimating to our location.
“I live here,” he says softly.
“In all of it?” I cannot believe that one person resides in this freaking massive house that should accommodate millions of people, or at least twenty or more.
“Well, I must admit I don’t really live in all of it. I have a wing and I keep to it usually, but the whole house is mine. I throw pretty large lavish parties in the summer and I’m happy for the extra space then. Otherwise, it’s just me and a half a dozen staff members.”
“A half a dozen?” I’m shocked.
“Well, I have a butler who is like a household assistant; he manages all of the maintenance and staff schedules. There are two housekeepers who do the laundry and cleaning. I also have a chef, and he has an assistant so there is someone always on call. Finally, I have a personal assistant who keeps track of my business and personal appointments and what not. There’s also a gardener and pool person and various others who come and go.
The six I employ full time live on the grounds and work every day in some capacity.
” He tells me this as if he’s reading off a grocery shopping list.
“How come your assistant didn’t come to Rhode Island?” I’m curious why I haven’t met anyone he knows but the odd driver here and there.
“Clive manages my life from my home base. We usually talk by text. There’s no need for a conversation.
He puts things in my calendar, texts me or emails if it's more detailed and I approve or disapprove. If we need longer conversations I have them with him in private because he manages my business and home life. When I move to Rhode Island for the project, he’ll likely come, but he does have a wife and baby so . ..” His face crumbles a little.
“You’re a good man for a Grinch,” I say, since he really is proving to be that.
“I’m still a dick, don’t let my sporadic kindness overshadow how shitty I am.” I’m not sure if he’s joking.
A man a few years older than Marcel opens the door.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur,” he says in a thick French accent. The rest he speaks in English. “Will you be needing Mr. Cosgrove this evening?”
“No Jacques, we’ve eaten. Unless …” Marcel looks at me. “Are you still hungry?” He asks, looking worried.
“No, I’m very full,” I laugh and it sounds weirdly giddy because I’m not entirely comfortable.
The butler eyes me suspiciously. “I’ve had a room prepared for the Mademoiselle. There are toiletries and amenities already laid out.” Yikes, does he have women over so often that they’ve got women’s amenities at the ready?
Well, I guess now is the time when I’ll see Marcel’s true colors.
“Thank you, Jacques. She’ll be staying in my wing,” Marcel says as he pushes past the man and offers me his hand as I step over the threshold.
“I can stay in the guest room, if you want.” I nearly trip into him.
“I don’t want.” He gives me a tired smile.
Soaring ceilings highlight the grand staircase, the glinting chandeliers, and everything is as if it stepped right out of a French magazine.
It’s a mix of modern and antique, elegant, and masculine.
I can’t quite describe Marcel’s decorating tastes.
It’s like a hunting lodge and a garden party slammed into one another and made each a little less garish.
I’m in complete awe, I’m not going to lie, though the opulence does kind of build a wall between us.
Last night we were crammed into an attic bedroom, and tonight we’re in the Smithsonian Museum.
There are worlds between us. No wonder the only place we had in common was an airplane, in no other place on earth would our lives ever cross.
“I'll show you to the room that Jaques set up for you just so you can take a shower and change into your nightwear. I’ll answer some emails and tie up a few loose ends before we go to bed.”
I believe I'm being dismissed so I nod my head and put on a fake smile.
“Of course. Show me the way,” I say and follow him as we go up a flight of stairs.
On the ceiling above the staircase is a mosaic made of clear pieces of glass in geometric patterns. You can see the night sky and stars twinkling through the moonlight which is refracted onto the staircase making it look ethereal.
“That window is incredible.” I marvel at it, being an architecture student and one who studies ancient buildings. I know for a fact this was lifted from a church or some other building and must have cost millions of dollars.
“Leave it to you, Juliet to notice my prized possession. This is a stained glass mosaic mosque window from the Ottoman empire. It is priceless and it makes this house a home.”
I agree that the glass is beautiful, but I don’t think it makes his opulent, sprawling, dwelling very homey.
“I love it,” I say to appease him, because maybe that’s all he has, just stuff.
“I do too.” His voice is fond and amorous.
“Your room is down this hall and mine is there at the end of the opposite hallway. I’ll leave the door open for you but do knock before you enter.
I have a few matters to deal with the Singapore company and it would be a conflict of interest if you heard.
” He was suddenly stern and business-like.
“Of course,” I say and we part ways.
The guest room is just as beautiful as the rest of the house.
There are a few more feminine touches in this room with large floral prints on the bedspread and a light mint color on the walls.
There's also a wardrobe with the door open to reveal several silky garments tucked within.
I do need to use the restroom so I walk into the ensuite and I find a parade of high-end hygiene products lined up.
I couldn't afford a sample size of some of these items and he's got full size shampoo, conditioner, hair mask, hair oil, face cream, face wash, shower gel, lotions, and potions; all to beautify the woman who spends the night in this room.
I open the medicine cabinet to look inside and there I find several boxes of emergency contraception, condoms, feminine wash, and three or four different bottles of lubrication from warming to flavored.
It’s very clear who stays in this room and now I'm embarrassed because Jacques knew who I am to Marcel. He’s the one who made sure this room was ready.
I have an impulse to run but I can't leave because there’s no way to get back to Rhode Island tonight. I either have to confront Marcel about the number of people who have slept in this room or ignore it because he never once said he wasn’t a man with a revolving bedroom door.