23. Jane
CHAPTER 23
JANE
As we enter the nursery, the awe makes me forget to breathe for a second.
The room is magnificent in a cute, adorable, and over-the-top way.
Instead of a regular ceiling, there’s a dome reminiscent of a planetarium, with stars and a moon that look more realistic than anything you can spot in the NYC sky. There are also planets flying around, and they look so three-dimensional I ask Adrian if they’re holograms.
“They’re paper globe replicas hung on very thin wires,” he explains. “I set up a mechanical pulley system so that they move just as they do in the real world.”
“Of course you did,” I say as I gape around some more. The south wall of the room is covered in real-looking butterflies of seemingly every species and color imaginable. Oh, and they are flapping their wings, of course. Similarly, the north wall is teeming with birds, the west wall has animals (with sound effects), and the east wall is blooming with more flowers than a botanical garden.
“How?” I ask, pointing at the walls.
“High-end screens,” he says. “I had some of the inventions in this room patented, so that other parents will be able to do this in a few years.”
“Wow.” I peer at a stylishly futuristic something in the corner. “Is that the crib?”
He nods. “It’s smart, so it tracks all her vitals and adjusts things like the temperature in the room and the firmness of the mattress for her ultimate comfort. Also, it will automatically rock her to sleep as soon as she starts to wake up at night.”
I’ve never seen such a glaring physical manifestation of parental love.
“Piper is one lucky baby,” I say reverently.
He turns to me, eyes gleaming. “You really think so? I feel terrible that she’s going to be bouncing between Sydney and me.”
“She’s a kid,” I say. “It might actually be a fun adventure to spend time here and there. I loved going to my grandparents when I was a kid. This will be similar.”
“I hope you’re right,” he says.
“She’ll love this,” I say confidently. “Just look around.”
He does, and his eyes light up. “I just had an idea. I’m going to add shooting stars to the sky, so she can wish upon them.”
I grin. “How about you go implement that? Meanwhile, I’ll settle into my room.”
“Great idea,” he says and rushes off.
I scan the nursery again, sigh in amazement, and stroll over to my room.
On the way, I spot a door to a room he never showed me.
I peek in.
Ah. It’s his bedroom.
How wrong would it be if I went inside, took a look in the drawers, and—though I’m not sure why—smelled his pillow?
Miss Miller considers that—hopefully rhetorical—question objectionable on many grounds, with moral being just the pinnacle of them.
My phone rings.
It’s Mary.
“Hi, sis,” I say.
Forgoing any pleasantries, Mary assaults my ears with an avalanche of questions, of which I only catch, “How much do you like the place? Is it amazing? Have you unpacked all your stuff?”
“Slow down,” I say, and begin answering the best I can. As soon as I cover some of the questions, Mary produces another bunch.
Midway through all this, I get another call.
It’s Mom.
“Hey,” I say to Mary. “I’ll call you back in a few.”
When I pick up Mom’s call, she hits me with almost the same questions, but with more innuendo, or at least I assume that’s why she asks, “How big is it?”
“Put me on speaker so I don’t have to repeat myself for Mary,” I grumble.
“I’m not near her at the moment,” Mom says.
I roll my eyes. “Then can this wait until you are?”
“No chance,” Mom says. “Now, dish.”
Fine. I allow the interrogation. As soon as I hang up, my phone rings again.
Must be Mary. I forgot to call her back. Annoyed beyond measure, I accept the call, and in my snarkiest tone, I say, “If you keep this up, you’ll grow up to be an even bigger gossip than your mother.”
Someone who sounds nothing like Mary clears her throat on the other line. “My mother is deceased, and sadly, I’ve been done with growing for many years now.”
Oh, shit.
Why is that voice familiar?
“Now,” the speaker continues, “do I have the wrong number, or did you think I was someone else?”
I finally recognize who is speaking, and my feet freeze to the floor. “Mrs. Corsica?” As in, the woman from the horror show that was my library interview?
“Ah, so it is Jane Miller,” Mrs. Corsica says with a chill in her tone that matches my foot situation perfectly.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I thought you were my younger sister and accepted the call without looking.”
“I see,” she says, her tone not a degree warmer. “That would explain what you said—assuming your mother is a gossip.”
“Again, I’m sorry,” I say while a question swirls through my brain.
Why is Mrs. Corsica calling me in the first place?
There can be only one explanation. Despite how poorly I performed at the interview, she wanted to offer me my dream job, after all. Wanted—past tense—because after what I’ve just said, the offer must be caput.
“My late mother was also a gossip,” Mrs. Corsica shocks me by saying. “Long before Facebook, if I wanted an update on anyone, all I had to do was mention them around her. She always had their latest relationship status and other juicy news.”
I pull the phone away from my ear to make sure this isn’t some prank. Nope. The library is listed as the caller, which means that the ice queen herself has just shared a personal detail with me.
“You must miss her,” I say cautiously.
“Very much,” Mrs. Corsica says, her tone just a degree above frostbite. “Anyway…” She clears her throat once more. “Let us get back to my reason for calling.”
Dare I hope? After all that?
“We have considered your application carefully,” Mrs. Corsica says stiffly. “And we’ve decided to extend you a job offer.”
I know I’m probably risking the job yet again, but I squeal like a teen upon seeing her boy band idol.
Mrs. Corsica sighs grumpily. “Your abundance of enthusiasm for the role was actually one of the deciding factors. But please bear in mind that when facing the public, you’re going to be expected to act with decorum and poise.”
Mrs. Corsica would make the ideal chaperone for Miss Miller, or any young lady of good breeding and genteel disposition.
I straighten my spine and bite my tongue to prevent any more squealing. “Of course. Decorum will be my motto. Poise too.”
“Good,” she says. “When can you start?”
“Tomorrow,” I blurt excitedly. In a much calmer tone, I add, “Or whenever it is convenient for you.”
“Tomorrow is fine,” she says. “Now let’s talk numbers.”
“Sure.”
She names a salary, and I do something that all self-help books on job searching do not recommend—accept the offer on the spot. And hey, why not? Thanks to my upcoming fake marriage, I don’t have to worry about paying my bills.
“I’m glad we’ve come to a mutually acceptable arrangement,” Mrs. Corsica says. “Come by tomorrow for your first day, and you can sign all the paperwork at the same time.”
“I’ll be there.” Even though Mrs. Corsica can’t see me, I salute her, like a soldier would a general.
“Oh, and I know it’s self-evident at this point, but bear in mind that punctuality is extremely important for the job,” Mrs. Corsica says. “As is looking presentable.”
“I’ll get there early,” I say solemnly. “And bring a spare outfit in case another dog pushes me into the mud.”
“It’s possible that you will not make me regret this decision,” Mrs. Corsica says. “See you tomorrow.”
Listening to the end-of-call tone, I wonder how big a compliment it must be for Mrs. Corsica to say she might not regret hiring me.
When it comes from a dragon such as that, Miss Miller considers it high praise indeed.
Giddy with excitement, I let my feet carry me into the kitchen, where I bump into Leo, who is drinking water from his bowl.
“I got the job,” I tell the dog. “Can you believe it?”
Leo cocks his head and wags his tail.
“Where’s Adrian? Or do you think of him as Dad?”
Leo’s ears perk up and he runs out of the kitchen. I follow. When we reach the elevator, I watch in fascination as Leo smacks the elevator button with his furry paw.
Huh. This sheep-like creature is smarter than I would’ve guessed.
When the elevator arrives, Leo leaps into it and presses the button for Adrian’s studios.
Seriously smart.
As soon as we reach our destination, Leo wags his tail and runs out into the hallway. I hurry after him. Soon, we reach the room where Adrian is working on something.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say when Adrian takes his headphones off.
“I was almost done,” he says. “What happened? You’re glowing.”
“I got the job,” I blurt. Then, overwhelmed with positive emotions, I run up to my husband-to-be and peck him on the cheek.
Adrian holds his cheek as though I’ve burned or slapped it. “What job?”
Crap. I shouldn’t have invaded his personal space like that.
“The library called,” I say, my face undoubtedly red. “And made me an offer.”
He frowns. “The job Leo allegedly ruined for you?”
I ruffle the fur on the dog’s head. “I guess he didn’t ruin it, after all. Sorry about that.”
Adrian’s frown morphs into a smile. “That’s wonderful.”
“I know, right?” I resist the urge to peck him again, or more.
“We have to celebrate,” Adrian states.
I bob my head. “Definitely. But not too hard—tomorrow is my first day.”
He flashes his white teeth in a grin. “We’ll do whatever you want.”
Oh, the images. In a flash, I see us celebrating in bed, with candles all around and him making my every fantasy come true.
He cocks his head, vaguely Leo-like. “You have something specific in mind, don’t you?”
“Yes.” My face now feels like one of the imaginary candles has set it on fire.
He looks particularly roguish as he demands, “What would you like to do?”
“ Bridgerton ,” I say.
Obviously, there’s no way I’d tell him what I just realized I “really want.”
I want him to help me rid myself of virginity.
More specifically, I want him to be the one to perform the GD.