51. Roman
It was a growling-monster-with-gleaming-sharp-teeth kind of day waiting at the office, mainly due to me abandoning all of my obligations yesterday to reel the nymph back into my world.
And yet I had a smile that apparently no potential disaster could wipe from my face.
Merger falling through because of poor integration processes? No problem, give the other side another chance and if the struggle persists, move on.
Acquisitions deal number one trickling down the drain due to deficiencies in strategic planning? No big deal, let’s get back to the negotiating table.
Acquisitions deal number two was successful and now needs CEO and CFO? Simple, go out and findthe right candidates. Pilfer them from somewhere else if need be.
Execs were unaccustomed to the grooving Roman, and they were getting flustered with my suddenly-agreeable nature and congenial tone. My usual impatience with any kind of incompetence was replaced with, well, a generous amount of tolerance.
Not to say I wasn’t getting a little irritated with myself and the perpetual cheeriness just flushing through me as if I wasn’t the goddamn CEO and dealing with hundred-million-dollar deals every day.
Meetings ended with cheery goodbyes and suspicious side-eyes from the execs. For all I knew, they thought I was on some drug-fueled rave.
After the fourth meeting, my day assistant Andy sent me a text:
Andy: I have yet to calm down or console any screaming/crying execs today. You’re beginning to scare me. What’s going on?
Me: Apparently you get more done with a smile than a growl?
Andy: Please never let this woman go.
Me: Don’t plan to, believe me.
What cemented this strange and euphoric rush that made me feel on top of the world was that tonight, after a long day in the corporate trenches, I was going home to the luminous nymph upstairs. Not in my wildest dreams could I ever have imagined the turn my life would take in a bookshop one rainy night.
But her being in the north wing and me being in the south limited our communication to texts during the day. More than once my attention veered away during crucial meetings, so I could text about trivial things.
Isabel: Did you know the venom of a female black widow spider is more potent than that of a rattlesnake?
Me: I did not. But did you know snake venom is ninety percent protein?
Isabel: Would it crush your ego if I said I knew?
Me: My ego is a little crushed, I won’t lie.
Isabel: Allow me to cheer you up. Other than humans, dolphins are the only animals that enjoy sex and have it for reasons other than reproduction.
Me: Oh. What does that mean for us? Are we still honey badgers, because dolphins now seem a more suitable choice…
Isabel: My loyalty lies with the honey badgers.
Me: Then so does mine. Semper fidelis.
My only plan now was to turn this one night Isabel planned to stay into two, and then into three and so on, until she never wanted to leave again. She had this whole other life I knew very little about, and it was a challenge to be up against this elusive world of hers that made her so content.
As arrogant as it sounded, I wanted to be the center of her universe, the same way she’d become mine. At the same time I had to tread carefully and not suffocate her with this incredible possessiveness I felt. When the nymph chose this life over the world outside of Belmont Manor, I wanted it to be because she couldn’t live without me, couldn’t breathe without me. I wanted her to need me as much as I needed her.
She didn’t yet need to know how hard I was fighting to lessen the obligations that currently prevented me from formally making her mine. My sole purpose had become to make the prospect of being with me so desirable that none of that would matter to her anyway.
When the final work meeting concluded, I sprinted upstairs to the apartment, where I was greeted by French ballads floating through the air, incredible aromas coming from the kitchen and a glowing Isabel rushing toward me in a frilly white apron, offering me a glass of whiskey and a deep kiss.
“I could go all 1950’s, remove your shoes and give you a foot massage while the chicken is roasting,” she cooed with a delicious smile, “but I’d prefer you watch me cook your dinner while you work up an appetite.”
And as always I was momentarily stunned by the sheer power she had over me, effortlessly drawing me into her orbit of warmth and vitality, into a place where I felt I belonged.
“As if I need to work up an appetite,” I said. “At least let me help. I could chop leaves or a vegetable.”
Her mouth pursed into a pout. “I appreciate that, but why don’t you just relax. Besides, you’re probably not aware that the Shun Kaji knives in your kitchen are the best in the business and call me selfish but the last thing I need is those fingers of yours to get sliced up.”
A teasing smile tipped the corners of my mouth. “Well then. That sounds like a good enough reason. I’ll stick to the finger-preserving activities and pour you a glass of champagne.”
I finished my whiskey and poured us each a glass of Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle.
When I held her glass out to her, she seized my gaze with the most innocent of looks. “To what shall we cheer?” she asked.
“Oh, where to begin,” I said, running my fingers over her cheek, cupping her chin and tilting her face up. Her smile bloomed like a flower in the sun. “To you, my beautiful Isabel, the woman who has shown me a kind of life I didn’t know could exist.”
We clinked our glasses, and she dipped the glass delicately to her mouth and drank it all. “You keep filling these glasses only a quarter full,” she said. “Is that a rich-man thing or am I just greedy and improper?”
“Greedy and improper have their place in our world. Let me fill your glass. No honey badger should starve for champagne.”
And there we were, standing in the kitchen, the domestic goddess and I chatting while she prepared a feast fit for a king and his queen. As if we had been doing this for years. As if we were going to do this for the next fifty years.
In my world where it was everyone for themselves, there was something to be said about having someone you trust, someone who had your best interests at heart, someone to whom you could confess the troubles of your day. For the first time in my life I felt comfortable complaining about a project that didn’t seem like it was going to happen. And to be honest, I relished the sympathetic look the nymph threw my way.
“So let me get this straight,” she said. “You want to build a hotel on a property where there’s already a hotel, but you can’t tear it down because it’s a historical landmark, correct?”
“Yes.”
Now the nymph was using one of the Shun Kaji knives she’d warned me about to cut paper-thin slices of potato. Her precision was immaculate, though I couldn’t help but cringe at that razor-edged blade so close to those delicate fingers.
“And you desperately want to build your hotel there because it’s a killer view,” she continued, undeterred.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “Castle Rock is on a very high overhanging cliff with a 180-degree view of the ocean.”
She placed the knife down and looked up at me with a thoughtful pout. “Do you have a picture of Castle Rock?”
“I have one on my phone,” I said, and as I was pulling up the picture, Isabel leaned in, her closeness and scent momentarily distracting me. But I held it together remarkably well, and showed her the picture.
“Hmm,” she said. “I can see why they wouldn’t want someone to tear it down. That place is gorgeous.”
She continued slicing the potato with that dangerously sharp knife, and I watched like she was a trapeze artist swinging high above the ground with no net below.
At the same time I found myself desperate for her approval. “If you’re only concerned about the aesthetics, a Belmont Hotel would be as dazzling.”
“Well no,” she said. “I’m not only concerned about that. You want to tear down history. People might get a kick out of staying in a place where President Teddy Roosevelt had his honeymoon with his second bride the lovely Edith Roosevelt.”
“Theodor Roosevelt stayed there for his honeymoon? That’s interesting. I didn’t know that.”
“So, do you still want to tear it down now that you know?”
Perhaps it’s the way the nymph pouted, a little smirk tugging at her mouth, that made me wonder. “Sorry, I have to ask, how do you know Roosevelt stayed there for his honeymoon?”
Done with the potato slicing, she wiped her hands on her frilly apron, sipped more champagne and met my gaze with a sassy grin. “I didn’t, I made it up, but see how that made you hesitate about destroying Castle Rock.”
“Fine. Jesus,” I chuckled. “But the point is they won’t let me tear it down, so your precious hotel stays.”
She smiled, and it was one of those smiles that cut right to my heart.
“But what if, “she mused, “and this is just a suggestion, you get your fancy and presumably well-paid architects to come up with a design that compliments that landmark hotel and build around it instead of tearing it down?”
I stared at her, and my expression must have been inscrutable because she shrugged and turned back to the stove. “Just a thought,” she said. “I mean what do I know.”
What Isabel didn’t know was that I was stunned by her suggestion and that I needed a little time for the thought to process in my mind. Why had no one else thought of that? None of the execs who were in talks about the project, including me, considered this simple solution.
I watched Isabel take out a roasted chicken, holding my breath as she handled the scalding pan. She carefully placed those thin potato slices in layers around the chicken, and placed it back in the oven.
Once I figured the nymph was safe from a potential burn, I moved a little closer and ran my fingers over her back. “My sweet.”
She swirled around, a pink flush glowing on her cheeks.
“Would you mind if I go back to the office after dinner?” I asked. “For about twenty minutes or so.”
“I don’t mind,” she said with a puzzled frown. “But can I ask why?”
My hand circled her waist, and I pulled her flush to me. “Because I need to talk to a few people and tell them for all the money I pay them, not one thought of the brilliant idea you just proposed.”
“Only if I can watch you growl at those people and bend them to your will,” she said, a sultry little smile gracing her lips.
Then I kissed her because how could I not, and the nymph folded into me, murmuring into my mouth. “Dinner should be ready soon. What will we do for twenty minutes?”
I bit a smile. “Oh I don’t know, how does a game of checkers sound?”
“Roman,” she whispered. “You can be smartass, or we can get busy. Pick one or the other. The clock is ticking.”
God, I adored her.
And then I had no other choice but to drag the nymph to the couch, remove every thread of her clothing, and make good use of the twenty minutes we had.