6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Tage
I stare at the email, annoyed but not surprised.
At this point, all I can do is laugh. Fighting his advances—though they seem empty and only for his entertainment—does nothing but rile him up more.
Maybe it’s time I give in to them, play his game.
See how far he’s willing to take it. Why not entertain him? It’s not going to hurt.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, not sure if I’m prepared to play this game with the type of man that Lane Monroe is.
The more I resist, the harder he pushes.
I should just let the guy take me out for lunch.
It’s not that serious of a thing, and it is a free meal.
Not that I’m hurting for money after this job, but I’m closer to hurting than he is.
I should take what he has to offer; it just feels wrong.
After everything I’ve been through, everything I’ve done, it feels icky to accept it.
I go back to the email to figure out what I need to do to plan this trip exactly how he wants it.
Penthouse suite only.
Non-negotiable.
I know enough to know I’ll have my own space, but really? Really?
Shaking my head, I jot down the dates and call the hotel while booking our first class—also non-negotiable—flights.
This man really does think money is everything, but I try to look past it because it’s probably not his fault.
And there is something about him that makes me think he’s a little different from the others.
I don’t know what it is; I haven’t figured it out yet.
I will though, because it’s just what I do. I figure things out about people.
“Hello, yes, I’m here. Sorry,” I say when I hear the woman on the other end asking if I’m still there.
“I was just letting you know that the penthouse suite is booked from Friday until Sunday.”
“Great, thank you so much.”
“Of course. We can’t wait to see you.”
I end the call and mutter, “I bet not.” They should be ashamed of the price of that thing, but also, anyone who books it should be too.
I just started this job, but I already feel like a vacation is needed to get my head clear. I’m letting stuff bother me that shouldn’t. I chose to work for a millionaire CEO; I shouldn’t be complaining about everything he does. Maybe a drink after work and some take-out will make me feel better.
I moved into my apartment three days ago, but that’s about all I have so far.
I’ve been sleeping on the floor because my furniture won’t be delivered until this weekend.
I ordered the bare minimum for now, like only the mattress and not the frame because I don’t need the frame just yet.
Every paycheck, I’ll buy more of what I need, until I get to a point where I’m buying things I want.
I can’t wait for those days—buying my own things with money I earned. I just have to be patient.
The apartment is perfect for me. Small, but it’s all I need.
The painted walls are plain, but eventually there will be art to liven things up a bit.
The windows are a little drafty and the toilet runs and squeaks every now and then, but all in all, I am so happy with it—to be on my own by my own doing.
My gaze moves to the space beneath my desk, where my lunch bag rests. Beside it is the white paper bag that Lane brought me. I don’t know what’s inside, but I bet it’s delicious. He’s not the kind of guy who eats bad food.
A glance back at the clock tells me it’s nearly two, and I always get hungry around this time.
Today is no different. My stomach feels empty.
I should probably eat it, but if I do that, then he’ll think he won.
I don’t want him to win. I use the toe of my shoe to push it under the desk so I can’t stare at it and suck it up until I get home and can eat dinner. Tomorrow, I’ll bring extra snacks.
I gather everything I need for the meeting—a notepad, pen, the file, and the iPad.
At 1:55, I knock on his door, wait for his call to come in, and then walk in ready for this two o’clock meeting.
There’s a smirk on his face that tells me he’s thinking about the email he sent.
I responded to tell him it was all set, and I know he thinks he’s got one on me.
Maybe he does. But when we go on this trip, I’ll be nothing but professional.
What happened that night was a one-time occurrence. And I really mean that.
I drop my keys on the kitchen counter when I step inside my apartment; the relieving feeling of being home, in my home, is almost overwhelming.
Emotion tightens in my chest, and I let out a shaky breath.
For years, this was all I wanted. What I dreamed of.
Now I’m here. It’s hard to believe, but it’s real. This is all mine.
I go to my bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes. When I left Boston, I took only what I needed. The bare necessities. A few outfits, my cell, and my bank card.
Mine. The one in my name only. There wasn’t much in there, but it was enough to start with.
Right now, my apartment has that hollow feeling. Every step echoes too loudly. Each room is a little too cold. Soon enough, though, it’ll be filled with warmth and comfort.
Everything I’ll need is already in my cart, because I’ve stayed up late at night picking things out. Changing my mind a hundred times, not sure which color scheme I wanted to go with. I’ll probably change my mind again, but that’s okay. Because it’s only me here and I can do what I want.
My gaze moves to the makeshift bed in the corner of the room, just a pile of blankets and a pillow. I’m counting down the days until my mattress is delivered, and I can sleep on something other than the carpet. Still, I’d choose the carpet over where I came from any day.
I’m tired of money being a band-aid, of it being the glue that holds people together.
There are other things in life that are more important—like emotions and trust, and friendship.
Meaningful things that last. Money comes and goes.
You can be a good person or a bad person with or without it.
It doesn’t make you who you are—you choose to do that yourself.
But too many people choose to be assholes when they have money; too many choose to throw it around, specifically in other people’s faces.
Which is why Lane Monroe confuses the hell out of me so much.
He has money—a lot of it. He makes it known.
He spends it. Tells me I should be impressed by it and is confused that I’m not.
Yet, there is something about the way he does it that isn’t…
hurtful. It isn’t offensive, and it doesn’t make my blood boil with rage the way it does with other people. And that… I can’t explain that.