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“Cell’s broken, and calls to this phone divert directly back to you. What do you want?”
She slips off her purse from the crook of her elbow and pulls out a file. “I wanted to run through your itinerary for the week.”
I stifle the groan. The sooner I let her rattle on, the quicker she’ll leave me in peace. “Shoot.”
The old bat gets a fraction of my attention; I say yes to the right meetings and no to the phone calls from angry club-owners littered around the city. I’ll deal with them when I get word from Antoin that he’s secured the deal in Colombia.
“Eileen, I’m counting down the seconds until you get the fuck out of my office. Can you speed this up?” I grunt, dragging my knuckle over my jaw.
She never lets anything I say faze her. I wonder if my father gave her the same shit?
“There’s nothing else that can’t wait until Monday, I suppose. One last thing—shall I confirm your ten p.m. appointment this evening?”
Her steely gray eyes meet mine over the stack of files in her hand. They are full of judgment, contempt. I couldn’t give less of a fuck.
“My ten p.m.…” I muse out loud, leaning back in my chair. Who’s my Saturday girl? A curvy blonde with big tits pops into my head. Elisa. Or is it Ellie?
Years ago, I remember my brother telling me that Quinn men can’t let their dick rule their decisions. Today, I’m all about trying to stick to that rule. And besides, my dick doesn’t even tingle at the thought of my Saturday night hooker.
“Cancel it.”
I drain the rest of the whiskey in an attempt to drown out that small, niggling voice at the back of my head.
If I’m not getting it from Poppy, I don’t want it from anyone.
Poppy
Up, down. Up, down. To theMonetpainting, back to the bay window seat, then back to theMonet.After pacing that route what must be a hundred times, I switch course.Left, right. Left, right.From the old English grandfather clock to the Venetian dresser.
If I was only visiting this room, I’d be swooning in delight at all of the beautiful antiques covering every square inch. But knowing I can’t leave, I can see it for what it really is: A gilded cage.
And this little bird needs to stretch its wings and escape before it loses its damn mind.
I’ve been locked in this museum for around five days. I’ve read every book Orna gave me—twice. I’ve tried on every outfit she bought me, and I’ve stood in front of the bathroom mirror, braiding my hair in every way possible. Hell, I’ve even started picking at the food that she brings four times a day. Not because I’m giving up my protest, but because I’mjust so goddamn bored.It’s become somewhat of a twisted game, finding the balance between quieting the constant rumbling in my stomach and not making it obvious that I’ve eaten anything at all.
Mentally exhausted from pacing the same three floorboards, I flop back down on the window seat. The midday rays warm my face through the glass, trying to entice me outside.
I close my eyes and imagine what I’d be doing back at Stanford. If itisa weekend, maybe Nellie and I would be hiking The Dish trail, stopping at the top to drink wine coolers while looking out at the rolling hills of San Jose. If it’s a weekday, then we’d be in lectures, probably nursing a slight hangover, itching to get out in the sun.
A pang of guilt washes over me, bringing me back to the gilded museum with a thump. Not once does my little daydream include Sam.
Sam.
He must be going insane wondering what the hell has happened to me.
A familiar knock on the door pushes him, Nellie and wine coolers back in the box labeled real life in my mind. “Come in,” I say, hopping off the window seat and waiting expectantly for any type of stimulation.
Orna pushes through the door, a tray of croissants and orange juice in hand. She runs a surprised eye over me. “Wow, you look amazing, Poppy! That dress is beautiful on you.” I offer a polite smile and mutter some sort of thanks. I must admit, ninety-nine percent of the clothes Orna picked out for me are gorgeous. This Neiman Marcus summer dress fits like a glove, dipping in at my waist and falling past my thighs in floaty, ethereal fabric. Faced with another day of doing absolutely fuck all, I decided to get up, shower, spend an hour doing my makeup with the Sephora haul Orna also got for me, and actually get dressed in something that isn’t pajamas.
Orna sets down the tray and beams at me. “Honestly, you look like a model.”
It’s hard not to like Orna, and I have to keep reminding myself not to unravel in front of her. She may play the role of the worried housekeeper, keeping me fed, clothed, and mildly entertained with a handful of batteredHarlequinnovels, but those amber eyes are a constant reminder that she’s not to be trusted. She can flash me her dazzling smile when my sarcastic comments make her laugh, and she can knit her perfect eyebrows into concern when I’m moments from bursting into tears, but she’s still a Quinn. She still locks that door behind her the second she steps into the room, and she locks it against the moment she leaves.
But today, she’s my only hope.
“I want to go outside.”
She looks at me like I’m crazy.
