18. Baldo
“You don’t have a guest room?”
Brook looks around at the open concept of my apartment in Lisbon.
It’s a three thousand square feet attic room with one side of the roof made of glass.
My housekeeper hates the feature, but I love it. Not that in the middle of the city there is a chance to see the stars, but still.
“But you have enough room for your dancing.” I smirk, but she glowers.
With the state-of-the-art kitchen in one corner and a custom-made bed on the opposite side, the room has been designed with a minimalistic approach.
Under the row of windows, near the bedroom corner, I have a desk, a sitting area in the middle, and a dining table beside the kitchen island.
I can see how there is no privacy anywhere in the cavernous space. Besides the bathroom and walk-in closet. But I never bring anyone here, so it’s not like I need privacy from myself.
Brook doesn’t move from the elevated entrance. We’ve been avoiding each other since I announced this trip.
The tension has lingered since I went down on her two nights ago. It’s driving me mad that I don’t understand what the fuck happened.
I want an explanation, but something tells me she needs time to get there herself. In the meantime, we’re radiating with frustration, tension, and anticipation. I’m just not sure if we’re anticipating the same thing anymore.
“Look, I have guest bedrooms downstairs. You can have this place to yourself.”
I’m stubbornly ignoring the fact I offered her my personal space instead of one of the bedrooms on the lower level of the building.
I take her suitcase and roll it into the closet.
The silence is so pronounced that it feels like I’m drilling a ridge into the hardwood floor with the wheels.
It takes too long to get her luggage to the other side of the room, and suddenly I hate my own apartment.
I fucking hate this whole situation.
I worked on the plane to give her space. She seemed like she wanted to tell me something several times. She didn’t. Instead, I got a lot of scowling and sulking from her.
Now I remember why I never got married.
And apparently, I’m lying to myself. Because let’s face it, there is only one woman in the world who I would want to marry.
Fucking shame she is currently so unattainable. Even though she is my wife and she’s only a few feet away.
I don’t even know if I’m pissed at her rejection or at her bullshit.
“I’ll get my housekeeper to fill the fridge. Let me know if you want anything specific. I’ll text you the Wi-Fi password, so you can work if you need to. I have things I need to take care of downstairs. Call me if you need anything.”
My apartment is above my business. The basement and first two floors are the nightclub, the third floor houses private gambling rooms, and the fourth floor has the offices and a couple of guest rooms.
The fifth, the attic, is where I live when I’m not traveling.
I push the elevator call button and turn. Brook moved to the sitting area, but she hasn’t sat on the large L-shaped leather sofa. She stands there, and fuck, she looks so small and lost in my large space.
“You’ll be okay?”
Why do I have this need to make sure she’s good? She’s a grown woman and capable of taking care of herself, but somehow I feel responsible for her.
“It’s my honeymoon.” She spreads her arms, mocking the sentiment. “I’ll be more than okay.”
Fuck.
“I’m sorry I dragged you here, but I thought it was a good solution to get away from Rupert. It’s not like he’d spy on us here, so we don’t have to pretend. Besides, I wasn’t planning on my temporary relocation, so this gives me an opportunity to take care of business.”
And to regain my wits. On my home turf, and buried in work, instead of being exposed to her on a daily basis.
The elevator opens behind me.
“Of course. You’re right.” Her voice rings with bitterness.
“I don’t know what your problem is. You said we’re not a good idea. I’m trying to make this as painless as possible.”
The elevator closes before I get in.
She opens her mouth and then closes it. Then she opens it again. “As I said, you’re right.”
“Fuck.” I growl and hit the call button again. The door opens and I step in, ignoring the acid spreading around in my stomach. What is that even? Shame? Regret?
Get out of here now, idiot.
“Baldo.”
I look at her, stopping the door with my foot. She steps forward, worrying her lip, but before she says anything my phone rings.
I pull it out of my pocket. “I got to take this.” Not really.
“Sure. It’s okay. We’ll talk later.” She smiles. It’s tentative, but it’s there.
And coward that I am, I take it as permission to avoid her and leave.
* * *
I’m an asshole.
Complete, despicable piece of shit.
I’ve successfully avoided Brook for three days now. Between all the fires I needed to put out in several of my clubs, the slot machine supplier in Budapest, a potential hospitality workers strike in France and a million other things, I’ve been too busy.
It’s a partial truth.
But I wasn’t that busy. So many times I entered the elevator then stopped myself.
Part of me is fucking mad at her rejection. Part of me is confused. And the sober, reasonable me knows that we’re better off surviving this without poking at the past, or tempting the current attraction.
But I can’t claim I’m being rational here. While I’m staying away, I’m checking on her even more obsessively than I used to before.
Like right now. My eyes trace the column of her neck as she sits at my dining table. The table where she’s been taking her meals. Alone. Yep, definitely an asshole.
I should be concerned about my lack of boundaries, but this is the first time I’m really grateful I had the cameras installed upstairs.
When Art Mathison, my security consultant, suggested it, I didn’t see the point. But I live so close to the club and the building is constantly full of strangers. Besides me though, only a few people have access to the private elevator. Brook is now one of them.
In the last three days, Brook has danced, worked on her computer—a little too much—and slept. She doesn’t eat enough. She goes out once a day for a few hours and I have one of my bodyguards follow her.
According to him, she works at a cafe or takes a walk, sightseeing. She texts me when she needs something but keeps it brief.
Right now, she’s sipping wine and chatting with her friends, whose faces are stretched on her laptop with equally large glasses in their hands.
“Are you even listening to me?” Chloe huffs.
She flew in today to discuss… I don’t even know what. Fuck. I pinch the bridge of my nose and turn to face her. “Sorry, I’ve been distracted.”
“No way, I haven’t noticed.”
I sigh and lean in my chair, grabbing a stress ball someone once gave me that I’ve never used before. “You were saying?”
“What the fuck is going on, Baldo?” She stands up and starts pacing. “You extend your trip to New York without explanation, then you come back, but you’re only half present.”
“I got married.” That fucking stops her.
Her expression would be amusing, but I’m more busy with the revelation. Why the fuck did I tell her?
I don’t have friends. I’m on a friendly basis with some of my business associates, but I don’t let anyone get close enough.
It doesn’t pay off, as I learned early in my life. I never knew my father, my mother chose Micah over me, and Brook… well, that heartbreak still hurts.
But this fucking situation has been living in my head and I need to get it out, so poor Chloe gets a dose of her boss’s private life.
Fucking hell. It’s not like I can take it back now.
Her reaction is less than helpful, because the woman dissolves in a fit of laughter, doubling over. She grabs the armrest of the chair and laughs while I wait impatiently.
When she meets my eyes and takes in my serious expression, she stops abruptly and drops into the chair.
I have to give it to her—she finds her typical professional composure fast, straightening her shoulders and flattening her pencil skirt. “I didn’t know you were dating. Congratulations.”
“Someone from my past I ran into in New York.” I consider if I can—or should—tell her the truth about the pretend wedding, but decide against it.
“Oh, that makes sense. But you haven’t been there in many… Oh, the one who got away.” The smile that stretches across her face forces me to fist my hands.
Shit. I forgot I told her something along those lines when we hooked up years ago.
“Anyway, it’s been an adjustment and kind of unexpected, but I need to figure things out as I’ll be living in New York for several months.”
Chloe clears her throat, but chooses not to share what she thinks about this recent development. “Of course. Let me know if you need anything from me.”
“I think I’ll need to travel back and forth, and I will need to reassign some responsibilities. Obviously I don’t want to increase your workload, but I might need you to take on a bit more. Temporarily.”
“Baldo, you kept my job and tackled all my duties when Mary was sick. I will get shit done. You know that. I might need you to deal with some of the misogynistic assholes who didn’t get the memo that women are not objects, and God knows there are enough of them in this business, but you can count on me.”
I did step in when her partner was ill, but I never thought of it as a reciprocal favor.
I glance at my screen. Brook is holding a dress in each hand in front of her computer. Is she getting ready to go somewhere?
Chloe clears her throat and I snap my eyes back to her. “Thank you, Chloe. I know I can always count on you.”
I stand up and step round the desk so I’m in front of her. It’s not the best move, but I need to get away from my screen if I want to focus.
Chloe fidgets and stands up. Of course she does, she wouldn’t put up with any power games, though in this case my move was to stop myself from stalking Brook, not asserting my control over an employee.
We continue discussing the business in this awkward stand-off, but somehow the awkwardness falls away as we continue to tackle issues and brainstorm solutions. And eventually she paces, because that has always been her way of thinking better.
“One last thing. I know we’re focusing resources on our New York location, but I heard about a club in Nice that is up for sale. Do you want me to look into it?”
I scratch my neck. “It wouldn’t hurt. If it’s a viable business, that wouldn’t require much start-up effort, we can find the available cash. But let’s not expand too fast. Especially with the looming strikes in France.”
“Sounds good. If you don’t have anything else, I may try to catch the last flight out.”
I check my watch, pushing off the table and moving to the door. “I need to greet a group of VIPs in the poker room, but I wanted to talk to you about the declining revenue in Italy.”
“Yeah, my brain is fried for that conversation. Maybe I should stay.”
At that, she stumbles. “Goddammit,” she squeals, and I catch her elbow before she falls.
Her arm flails and lands on my chest, but her fast pacing propels her sideways and I have to snake my hand around her waist.
“Those fucking heels of yours, Chloe.”
We both laugh as she leans to take off her broken shoe.
“Stay overnight. We’ll have breakfast together.” I steady her.
Something strange crawls up my neck, and I snap my eyes to the door. It’s closed, but I could swear it just clicked.
“Okay, I’ll stay. I might see the Porto supplier tomorrow before I leave. One more thing off your list.”
“Good.” I open the door and we both exit.
“Is she here with you? I’d like to meet her.”
A pang of guilt spreads through my digestive system, and I decide to ignore Chloe’s reasonable question and steer toward the poker room without another word.
Chloe snorts. She’s experienced me avoiding conversations before, and this is no different.
Only for the first time in… well, ever… I feel like shit about it.
Not so much about ditching Chloe’s request, but about what I keep telling myself is me giving Brook some space.