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What kind of man doesn’t have a coffee maker in their house? He has fifteen different watches – I counted them under the glass-covered center console of this closet – but no coffee maker? I almost said something to Thomas this morning, but then I thought the less I engage him, the better.
One, because the man goes hot and cold faster than the Arizona desert at night, and two, after last night my new plan is to be as small and unobtrusive as possible.
I just wish my newly awakened libido would get with the program.
From what I remember – all sex, no marriage – my night in Vegas was life changing. Or, at least, sex life changing.
The morning after… not so much. Add in a confusing, yet passionate mile-high club introduction, and now I also know our chemistry isn’t alcohol induced.
Which is irrelevant.
He is my boss. I am his employee. I am living here on his charity/my blackmail in order to protect my niece. Any sexual involvement, although guaranteed delicious and mind-melting, would be unwise.
But the other parts of me – everything from the neck down – wants to junk punch logic in its dangerously thin and clingy workout shorts.
Why did he have to look so adorable sitting next to my niece this morning at breakfast?
‘Purple really is your color.’ Mary continues to play, seemingly fully recovered from yesterday’s traumatic events. ‘Purple is the color of royalty.’ She giggles, probably from something Mike did.
Who would’ve thought a hairless cat would be such a good therapy animal?
‘Wake up little rosebuds, wake up!’ A posh, lyrical voice reverberates from somewhere farther away in the house.
I spring off the chaise.
The voice sounds eerily like Mrs Moore. But that’s impossible. Because Thomas’s mother is on a cruise, sipping cocktails and doing things billionaires do far, far away.
‘I’m up!’ Mary shouts, followed by the sound of her racing footsteps.
I’m up and running to the stairs myself, cursing tall mansions for having so many levels. I’m out of breath by the time I’ve sped down two flights of stairs.
I really should do more cardio. The word cardio makes me think of Thomas in his workout apparel this morning and, well, it’s best not to think about that.
When I reach the foyer, I can barely see the inlaid parquet floor, it’s covered with so many bags.
‘A princess dress!’ Mary jumps up and down in front of Mrs Moore who’s holding up a lavender child-size ball gown.
Mike slithers between the bags, rubbing up against them. Black glossy bags with Moore’s gold and green logo on the side.
‘Mrs Moore?’
‘Emily, dear.’ She hands the dress to Mary who hugs it to her chest. ‘Call me Emily.’ She bends over and pulls a matching set of purple shoes out of another bag and Mary squeals. ‘Didn’t I tell you to call me Emily?’
‘Oh.’ I’d just thought it a one-time deal for the wedding. ‘Uh, yes. Sorry, Emily.’ I stop on the second to last step, too tired to navigate my way through all the bags. ‘I thought you were leaving today for your cruise?’
Mrs Moore pauses while rifling through another bag. ‘Leaving?’ She laughs. ‘Why would I leave when I have a princess to spoil?’ Mrs Moore, Emily, unveils a tiara with a flourish.
Mary, staring at the sparkling silver half-crown, looks fit to burst with happiness.
Those better be rhinestones.
‘And a new daughter-in-law.’ Emily reaches over the empty bags to hand me a large full one.
Frowning, I grasp the bag from the bottom and peer inside. ‘For me?’ There’s too much tissue to be sure, but I think there’s a Chanel blazer inside.
‘Of course, dear.’ Emily claps her hands together. ‘Now where did Brian go?’
‘Here, ma’am.’ Brian pushes open the front door.
