Chapter 11
JUNE
“I’ll call you later,” he says to whoever is on the other side of the line and swipes the screen before he speaks to me. “How are you feeling?”
His voice is low, rough, and it slides through my ears like smooth bourbon. I could use a repeat of that night, but it won’t happen. It’s better if I stay away from him. Focusing on the now, I ask some of the questions I have.
“Where am I, and how did I get here?”
He takes a deep breath. “You were sitting on the porch of my rental house, freezing, and I’d say hallucinating. Almost unconscious. I brought you here to make sure you were okay.”
“You undressed me!” I accuse him.
He lifts his arms in surrender. “Just to warm you up, my bodyguard who is a former Navy SEAL and a paramedic knows what to do in cases of hypothermia and I just followed his instructions. Nothing happened though, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I’m pissed at him and myself. “Why not take me to the nearest hospital?”
He points to a large window that takes over the entire wall. We’re definitely in a building but I can’t see much outside, other than the big snowflakes falling down.
“It’s still snowing,” I say the obvious.
“Because of the blizzard,” he answers. “We were closer to my penthouse than any hospital. It was the logical thing to do.”
I have the feeling that there’s more to what he wants to say but I let it go. Because there’re a lot more questions I need to ask. Like … “How did you know where to find me?”
He exhales loudly. “I own the house you’re renting—and the Art of Real-State.” He smirks. “I had no idea when I first met you. Coincidentally, the next morning your background check arrived, and I realized you were the same person.”
“You canceled,” I interrupt. “You fucking asshole. I wanted to see the house and you … you’re unprofessional.”
“I gave you a free month.” He smirks and I hate that it’s so charming I can’t keep the anger at bay.
“Listen, I thought it’d be best not to see each other.
I wanted to keep things simple and … obviously I couldn’t.
That’s why I sent you the email saying see you tomorrow.
As soon as I was done with work, I went to meet you, and on my way to the house, I got your voicemail. ”
He walks toward the kitchen which is big and too equipped for a single guy. What if he’s … I look at the socks I’m wearing. They’re clearly women’s socks. I should leave, I have a feeling that staying here any longer is going to end up in disaster.
“Here,” he says, marching back to the bottom of the staircase and offering me a mug. “It’s Earl Grey tea. I only drink coffee but have some bags in case my brother and sister-in-law visit.”
I look at the socks and lift one foot. “Hers?”
“Part of her Christmas present. They’re new and now yours,” he clarifies.
Okay, so he’s not married. June, don’t get any ideas. He’s hot but stay away from him. With a sigh, I go all the way downstairs and grab the mug. I take a sip of the tea. It’s not too hot or too cold. It’s bitter but not as much as black coffee.
When I look up at him, I wonder what I should do and most of all, how did I get myself into this mess? I’m not going to stay at his house. Not after finding out he owns it. I’ll demand my money back. But then what am I supposed to do?
“This is a disaster,” I confess. “Nothing has gone as planned, you know.”
“Planning is overrated,” he says casually.
“What are you talking about? The only way to make sure everything works properly is by planning. If not, look at what happens.”
He laughs. Even when his laugh is throaty, rich, and so hot that my body becomes too aware of him, I frown.
Control your urges, Juniper!
“You’re one of those,” he declares, and he sounds somehow disappointed. “How many journals do you have? I bet you use different calendars and color code every item on your list. Just like your clothes, meals, and activities. Well, planning didn’t work, did it? You almost froze.”
My ears heat up and I glare at him. “You don’t know me,” I protest.
He doesn’t understand that if I didn’t orchestrate my life, everything would be a string of disasters. Didn’t he listen to my airport story a couple of weeks ago?
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he challenges me.
“It’s so not the point,” I argue because he won’t know why I do what I do. “We just met. So, what if I plan every minute of my day? Having a routine and knowing what to expect is helpful.”
He laughs again. “That’s not living.”
“Says you, because you’re what, an expert on life? The Dalai Lama of Colorado so to speak?”
He smirks. “No, but I know him. D and I are on the same level.” He winks at me. “He’s cool, you know. Not uptight. He’d tell you to chill and learn to experience life, not to structure it.”
“In those words? Ha!” I roll my eyes.
He shakes his head. “He doesn’t speak much, but I learned from him to enjoy the moment and learn to appreciate what I have.”
It’s not possible, is it? To know the Dalai Lama. I mean. He … who is this guy?
I look around his penthouse. The place is different from any apartment I’ve ever visited. Seriously, where am I? It’s not a bachelor pad, more like the museum of modern art. There’s no leather couch, big screen, pool table, or wine fridge filled with beers.
Nope, this one has a long couch, the fireplace. Oils hanging on the walls, sculptures on stands or just standing because they’re big. There’s a dog bed, dog toys, and clothes all over the floor. This looks like a mix between a gallery, a bachelor pad, a doghouse, and a teenager’s room.
He needs a cleaning crew. Where’s the dog?
I get closer to the art on the wall and I discover something interesting. “Sterling,” I say out loud and turn around.
Okay, so this guy is loaded if he has at least three paintings from the famous artist Sterling.
His art is expensive. I’ve had a couple of clients asking me to get them some specific pieces from this guy and it’s almost impossible to get through to his assistant and even when you do, the answer is always the same, “check the website. Only those pieces are for sale.”
“You know him?”
I shrug. “Kind of. Not in person. I figure he’s some sixty-year-old guy who’s swimming in money because his pieces are expensive.”
“Never googled him?”
I shake my head. “I have enough with my clients to be dealing with others.”
“Others?” he asks, and I look at him.
He’s holding a bowl and his left brow is arched. “What does that mean by others?”
I wave my hand. “It doesn’t matter.”
Instead of talking shit about a pompous guy who thinks he’s Auguste Rodin or Michelangelo, I decide to change the subject.
“So, when can I occupy the house?” I ask.
He lifts the bowl and says, “Here, have some soup.”
“Soup at this time?” I ask, a little confused by his offer. “It’s …”
“Almost noon,” he answers. “Lunchtime. Look, I understand this isn’t part of your life plan, however, there’s not much we can do. Everything is closed.”
“Maybe I should just call my brothers, one of them is bound to live close by,” I say, not knowing where I am.
“Where do they live?”
I start looking for my phone. “Where is my phone?”
“Beck took it, it was dead and soaking wet,” he answers.
Well, how am I supposed to get out of here?