Chapter 12
TWELVE
Avril
I wake up grinning as I remember the day before.
Taking me to the whispering gallery was the move of a champion.
I’d defy any woman in New York City not to be taken in by Ben.
He’s good at what he does. And what he does is charm you.
But his technique is not as unctuous as I expected it to be.
Everything is rooted in authenticity and it’s so, so, so easy to get taken in by it.
I sit up and push up my eye mask as I remember the kitten that we took to the vet’s. Did he plant that just so I could see how sweet and sensitive he was—a rescuer of kittens? I mean, if a woman were to design a perfect man, a kitten rescuer would be up there as a premium add-on.
I stagger out of bed. I want answers. When I step into the kitchen, Ben is behind the kitchen island, grinning at me.
“Cute mask. I have one too. Want a coffee?”
I scowl at him, not quite sure what he’s saying, and then I reach for the top of my head and pull off my eye mask. “Hey,” I say. “Did you plant that kitten outside your building yesterday?”
“Plant it? I’m making lattes.”
“Yeah, did you have the cat there to show me what a great guy you are?”
He stops what he’s doing and looks me straight in the eye. “You think I have the power to have a cat loiter outside my building until I’m ready to come out and rescue it? Have you ever met a cat before?”
When he puts it like that, it sounds implausible, but anything’s possible. “You didn’t answer the question.”
“No, Avril, I did not arrange for a cat—that you noticed and decided needed rescuing—to be outside my building in need of said rescuing.”
“Right,” I say, trying to buy myself time to think of a reason why I sound so insane. “I had a dream is all…”
“You didn’t have a dream. You’re looking for reasons to hate me. Probably because you like me more than you want to. Now, come and sit down, drink your coffee, and stop being so distrusting and paranoid.”
My shoulders sag because I feel like an idiot. I clamber onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island and he slides coffee in my direction. “Sorry. You’re right, I was being…” What was I thinking? Of course he couldn’t conjure up a lost cat just to make himself look good.
“Unhinged?” he suggests with a grin.
“Yeah. Unhinged works. Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome. You’re gorgeous in the morning. Wanna hear our plans for the day?”
Did he just slip in the best compliment ever? I’m going to ignore it, because…I won’t be charmed by this man. Instead, I groan. “Plans? Are we going to the gym?”
“What’s with the aversions to plans? We’re meant to be hanging out. I mean, you agreed to this deal, right?”
“Right,” I reply. “But it doesn’t mean we always have to do things. Like, we could just hang.”
“Hang?” he asks, his eyes narrowed.
“You know, just do Sunday things.”
“Okay, I’m going to bite,” he says. “What are Sunday things?” Then his expression brightens. “Do they involve getting naked, because I’m absolutely down for naked Sunday.”
I try not to smile, but it’s hard. He always seems so easy-breezy, like nothing’s too difficult or too much for him. I just can’t help but wonder how much of it is real.
“No naked Sunday,” I say with a glare. “I just mean hanging out. PJs, breakfast in bed while watching mindless shows, snacks, naps—Bed rotting.”
“Bed rotting?” he asks, like he’s never heard of the term, But he must have, right?
“Yes. Rotting in bed.”
“Rotting? You want to rot?”
“Well, not actually rot. But just chill out in bed all day.”
“Naked?”
I stifle a giggle. “There’s no sex involved.” But I might snag a glance at his ass. He has a really nice ass.
He pushes his hand across his jaw, like he’s considering the idea.
He looks so hot as his t-shirt lifts a little, exposing some of the flat of his stomach.
I know how good that bronzed, hard skin feels.
I look away, mentally chastising myself.
I have to stop seeing him as attractive.
A day bed rotting would help. I can reframe him as a slob, rather than a highly polished billionaire who never wastes a second of any day.
“Wouldn’t that waste the day?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” I say. “And reset the body and mind at the same time.”
He shrugs. “Well, you went along with my plans yesterday, so I should fall in line today.”
“Hey, oysters Rockefeller were in your plans yesterday. It’s not like I had to sacrifice too much. Seriously, if you’ve arranged things, then let’s do what you’ve already got on our agenda.”
“I’m open to expanding my horizons to bed rotting,” he says, as if I’ve asked him to go fly-fishing for the first time or take Mandarin lessons. “You’ll have to be gentle with me, though. I’m a beginner.”
I laugh at how earnest he’s being.
“What’s first?” he asks.
I shrug. “We go back to bed, of course.”
“Really?” He glances out of the window. The sun is shining and the sky is blue. I bet it’s cold, but it would be that dry cold that’s perfect with the sun on your face, wrapped up in a big, warm coat.
“We can go out,” I say.
“Absolutely not,” he says, nodding toward my bedroom. “We’re bed rotting. We can’t go out on bed-rotting Sunday, Avril. Don’t you know anything?”
I laugh, pick up my coffee, and pad back to my bedroom. “Follow me and let Bed Rotting 101 commence.” I shuffle over to the side of the bed nearest the window and toss a couple of pillows at Ben. “Get comfy,” I say.
“Let me get the TV on,” he says. Opposite the bed is a large black-and-white photograph of a chair, with a straw seat, and a pipe on it, like a remake of the famous Van Gogh painting. The picture opens like a door to reveal a TV screen.
“Do you have hidden cameras around here as well as hidden TVs?” I ask.
“Distrustful and paranoid. Stop it.” Then he pauses. “Have you ever recorded yourself…having sex? Is that your thing?” His eyes meet mine and everything tingles. Pajamas feel like not enough clothes and being so close to a bed suddenly feels dangerous.
“No,” I snap. Then I look at him out of the corner of one eye. “Have you?”
He shakes his head. “Too paranoid and distrustful, I think. But I would be open to it if…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, which is infuriating.
“If what?” I ask.
He tosses a remote control onto the bed and climbs in next to me. “I don’t know. I think it could be hot if you trusted a person.”
“But could you ever trust a person that much? And anyway, what if someone hacked into…”
He nods. “Yeah, you’d have to go old school.”
“Like a camcorder with tape or something? I don’t think you can even buy that kind of thing anymore.”
“I’m sure you can get them. Anything’s available at the right price.”
“Of course it is,” I say, scornfully.
“You can hate it, but it’s life.”
He’s right. And he knows that better than most people. He’s seen his life collapse because of not having enough money. It’s not like he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
“You’re right,” I say.
“It’s still a risk. Someone could break in, take the tapes.”
“That’s extreme. I’m not sure burglars are looking for old camcorder tapes. They’re going to break in here looking for watches and jewelry. And cash.”
“Right,” he says. “So we’ve got the security figured out. Just gotta find the right person.” He turns to look at me and raises his eyebrows. “Want to put a fresh spin on bed-rotting Sunday?”
I push him away with my palm. “‘Wanna make a porn video with me’ isn’t a charming question to ask a woman. You should know that.”
“I’m not sure if it’s porn. More of a documentary if anything. But I’d pay a lot of money to be able to watch what happened between us last Saturday night.”
I turn to face the TV, determined that he shouldn’t see the flush of my cheeks or the way my thighs automatically squeeze together at the memories of Saturday night. “Put the TV on, Ben,” I say, my tone warning.
Ben sighs with mock disappointment and fluffs up his pillows behind him. We sit side by side, facing the TV as he presses the remote. “So what do we watch in the first hour of bed rotting?”
“There’s no set format. We watch what we want to watch.”
“So what do you want to watch? Seeing as we don’t have tapes of last Saturday night, because that would definitely be top of my list.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“But I have a nice arse. And I’m a rescuer of cats.”
“Now put on Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. That will calm your libido a little.”
Eventually, we find the entire series of the New York City outpost of the franchise. “Oh this,” I say. “Definitely this. You’ve probably banged a couple of these women. Let’s see.”
It starts to play and the housewives line up on the screen, holding out their apples for us all to be tempted by.
“Nope, haven’t slept with any of them, but I know a couple, and that one,” he says, pointing at the screen, “has definitely come on to me.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Is it so hard to believe that someone finds me attractive?” he says with a dramatic sigh.
I laugh.
We settle in and start on the first episode of the first season. I’m impressed that he doesn’t pull out his phone and start going through his emails or something else more productive. He commits, and I like him better for it.
“Is it like a mother-daughter show?” he asks, as Ramona and Avery appear in a scene just after Jill and Ally appear.
“No,” I say. “I haven’t watched this in a long time and everything evolves but I think they were trying to show people their real lives.”
“Right,” he says, studying the screen. “And this was how long ago?” he asks, when Countess Luanne appears.
“Twenty oh eight.”
“That tracks,” he says. “It’s been a while since I saw this look. And are these women still on the show?”
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“I’m a pretty smart guy. If I can’t keep up, then I’ll let you know.”