Chapter 34
PIP
"This isn't the way to your apartment at the Mandarin Oriental," I say, when the driver turns up Madison Avenue.
"Right. I have a place uptown too."
I keep my thoughts to myself. Snickers is an enigma. He's not just the owner of a single multi-million-dollar residence.
He has two.
Not for the first time, I wonder why he isn't married by now, with kids of his own. Then I remember Antoine's words about losing his mother at such an early age, then Kellie as well.
I watch as the driver pulls up in front of a gorgeous five-story townhouse.
“You’re a DJ,” I say as the driver helps me out of the limousine, Piglet still snug in my arms. “Guys like you are supposed to live in cool places like Tribeca. This is a neighborhood exclusive to fussy rich matrons who wear head-to-foot Chanel."
"Ah, now you're speaking about women like my mother. I grew up in this house. Me and Preston both,” he says. “We’ll be putting it up for sale soon, and I wanted you to see it.”
“Wow. It must be worth a fortune,” I say, craning my neck to take it all in. “I saw a mansion like this on that TV series about our city a hundred or so years back. The Gilded Age.”
“Good call. The house was quite prominent at that time. My mother inherited it from her parents, and they inherited it from theirs, and so it’s gone on for generations.”
I gasp. “You’re living in your great-great-great-great-grandparents’ house?”
He nods. “Her family arrived on the Mayflower.”
“I learned all about the Mayflower in fourth grade. Never in my life did I think I’d meet a real Mayflower descendant.”
Piglet wiggles out of my arms to scamper up the stairwell leading to the mansion’s front door.
“Hey, in big manor houses like this, aren’t a flock of servants supposed to come out and greet us, like in Downton Abbey?”
“I gave the staff the night off. All except for Whiskers,” he replies.
“Whiskers? Is Whiskers a cat or an employee?”
As soon as I finish saying the words, the door opens to reveal a tall man dressed in what looks like a costume of an 18th-century servant.
“Sir,” he says. “Miss,” he adds, inclining his head toward me.
“Whiskers, I’d like you to meet Miss Fletcher. She’s a friend of mine.”
If Whiskers has been watching our fake dates on social media, he doesn’t show it.
“Of course. Would you like Champagne, sir?”
Snickers turns to me. “Would you like some?”
“Uh, yes, sure,” I say.
"Whiskers, would you mind taking Piglet to the kitchen? He might enjoy some roast beef left over from last night’s dinner. His own meal was cut short tonight.”
“Of course, sir. Come with me, Mr. Piglet,” Whiskers says.
Piglet gives me one last glance before trotting after the man. From his jaunty gait, he's looking forward to a good cut of meat.
As Snickers guides me through the house, I glance around at the gorgeous oil paintings and chandeliers. It feels more like a museum than a home.
Snickers leads me through a maze of sitting rooms. Then he guides me up the stairs to a larger room filled with books and lined with burnished wood.
“Beautiful library," I say, as I hear a noise coming from the inner wall. "What's that?"
"Our Champagne."
I gasp as Snickers opens what looks like a wooden cabinet built into the wall. Inside, a bottle of Champagne rests in a silver ice bucket. Two tall champagne flutes stand on a silver tray.
"What is that?" I ask.
"A dumbwaiter. It uses pulleys in a vertical shaft to move between the kitchen and the rooms above. In the old days, people could enjoy their libations in private—without fear of a servant catching them locked in an embrace."
I blush as Snickers sits me down on the sofa. He opens the Champagne with a soft pop, fills the glasses, then hands me one. The bubbles inside catch the light, delicate and shimmering.
"What should we toast to?" he asks.
"This photoshoot nonsense ending soon," I say, raising my glass and clinking it with his. "I'm not the type of woman who gets off on stalkers."
"I'm sure Clare will have some information for us tomorrow morning. Can we just put it aside for the moment?"
I nod and turn my attention to the museum-like decor of the room.
"What was it like to grow up in a place like this? I'd be afraid to move, for fear of breaking something."
"It wasn't that bad."
"What were meals like? I only have that Gilded Age series as a reference. Did Whiskers serve you? Or did every member of your family have a servant in a fancy uniform standing behind their chair?"
"It was nothing like that. But dinner was formal, yes. My mother was a stickler for that."
We're silent for a moment. Then, without warning, he leans forward and kisses me.
Something flutters inside me. A whisper of the last time we were together.
For a moment, neither of us can breathe.
His hand slides over my breast, teasing my nipple through the fabric of my dress.
My breath catches.
Encouraged, Snickers hikes up my dress, his fingers skimming my thigh, moving between my legs.
He grabs my hand, putting it over the front of his pants.
I feel his erection, his longing for me, hard beneath my palm.
Then, suddenly, he pulls away, his breathing ragged.
“We can’t do this. Not like this,” he says, his voice rough as he pulls himself upright.
“Why not?” I ask, my own ache a raw, unrelenting thrum.
He looks at me, his eyes full of something deeper than lust. “The last time we were together, it was just us. No cameras, no lies, no stalker hanging over our heads. I want that again. I want you when we don’t have to worry about anything else.”
“But we’re supposed to be engaged,” I say softly, still breathless. “What’s the harm?”
“I just don’t want to jinx it, that’s all,” he says, straightening his clothes and reaching for his glass of Champagne.
He takes a big gulp before his gaze rests on me again. “Let’s wait until after the wedding rehearsal at the Plaza tomorrow. Then we’ll be free to do what we want.”
I don’t understand. Not at all. But I nod anyway, pretending I do.
He kisses me softly, then pulls away. “It’s getting late. Piglet needs his beauty sleep.”
I giggle at the thought.
But then, I hear something scratching frantically at the library door.
Snickers casts a curious look my way, then walks over to open it.
Piglet darts into the room, and puts his paws on my legs.
"Piglet! How did you find your way up here?" I pull him into my arms and hold him close.
Then I turn to Snickers. "Remember that lady at the dog shelter? She told me that Piglet had an usually strong sense of smell. Hard to believe he followed my scent this whole way."
"Yes. Well, I'll have my driver take you home."
Snickers sees us out to the waiting limousine.
“Until tomorrow then,” he says once Piglet and I are settled in the back seat.
“Yes. Tomorrow.”