“Tell me everything.” Pearl’s exaggeratingly demanding tone and the way she strokes her cat conspire to make her resemble an evil villain—or to reveal her true nature. “And I mean every detail,” she continues. “Or else.”
With a sigh, I gesture for her to sit on my raggedy couch and launch into it, pacing around the tiny space of my studio. For self-preservation reasons, I do not mention the water bottle incident or the wet dreams Pearl interrupted by showing up so early.
“So… you didn’t know that Lucius Warren is one of the richest men in the country?” She says this with such passion Atonic stops being catatonic and gives me a lazy once-over from her lap. “The closest an American can get to being a prince?”
I shake my head, still stunned by that bizarre article.
“Or that he owns the building you were interviewing in?”
Another headshake. I feel dumb about this one because he did have the attitude of someone who owned that elevator. And the building, and the people, and the sky above it all. In hindsight, it makes sense that he turned out to be a billionaire—a reclusive, grumpy one at that.
Why on earth would anyone think I’m his girlfriend?
Pearl’s eyes drill into me. “And you are absolutely, positively sure you guys are not dating?” The disappointment she’s channeling rivals that of Star Wars fans when they first saw Jar Jar Binks.
I roll my eyes. “The reporter totally made the whole thing up. By now, Lucius has probably forgotten all about me.”
My doorbell rings.
Pearl arches an eyebrow. “Expecting anyone?”
I throw a suspicious glance at the door. “No.”
She leaps to her feet. “Let’s go see who it is.”
I check the peephole and gasp.
It can’t be.
I rub the eye that just tried to fool me and check again.
By saguaro’s spines, it’s Elijah—the driver of the billionaire we were just discussing.
I open the door.
Yep. Still Elijah.
“Hi,” is what comes out of my mouth.
“Morning,” he replies.
If this is a hallucination, it’s not just visual anymore.
I dart a glance at Pearl. Given her confused expression, she’s seeing the same thing I am.
Okay then, Lucius’s butler is here. At my door.
“Introduce us,” Pearl whispers loudly enough for the neighbors to hear.
“Sorry,” I say. “This is Elijah. He works for Lucius Warren.”
Pearl’s eyes widen. “Oh. Will you invite him in?”
Oh, right. “Please come in.”
Elijah darts a glance at the cat. “I was instructed not to get any cat on myself.”
“Oh, the cat was just leaving,” Pearl says.
“Indeed?” Elijah looks like she’s promised him peace on Earth.
“She’s actually my pet,” Pearl says with a wink. “So your employer doesn’t need to worry about allergies when he hangs out with Juno.”
Gah. Even after all the reassurances I gave her about us not dating, that is where her mind goes.
“I’m sure this will come as great news to him,” Elijah says with a bow to Pearl. Turning to me, he says, “He sent me to say that he is eager to speak with you when you have an opportune moment.”
I blink stupidly at everyone. “Eager… to speak with me?”
“Probably about the article,” Pearl says helpfully.
Oh. Shit. I didn’t even think about that. Am I in some kind of trouble? Is he? Is there a special FBI task force out there that polices the dating life of bad-tempered billionaires?
I bite my lip. “I guess I can talk to him.” Nodding at Pearl, I add, “If he kills me, I have a witness now.”
“Wonderful.” Elijah grabs a giant box off the floor by my door and hands it to me. “Mr. Warren kindly requested you wear this.”
In a stupor, I grab the box and look inside—as does my nosy best friend.
I’m not sure if I expected it to contain the cut-off head of the paparazzi who took our picture, the cut-off head of the person responsible for the elevator jam, or a portable potty in case I need to pee in Lucius’s presence again, but I definitely did not expect a dress, shoes, and undergarments.
“Wow,” Pearl says.
“Versace and Gucci,” Elijah says. “If I’m not mistaken.”
I take the dress out and gape at it, then repeat the action with the shoes and the undies. Each item is more expensive than anything in my place, including possibly the apartment itself. “What’s all this for?”
Pearl rips her envious gaze from the dress to look at me. “Seems like someone wants his girlfriend to look nice in the next picture… as well as in the bedroom.”
Elijah purses his lips. “Mr. Warren wanted to provide something new for you to wear out of concern for his allergies.”
“Oh,” Pearl says, her disappointment palpable. “I probably should take the cat out of here, before I ruin that part of the plan.”
Elijah steps out of her way.
“Wait a second,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No one is going anywhere until someone explains to me what Lucius wants.”
Despite what Elijah has said, I can’t help but think that the underwear implies something inappropriate, though it’s possible Pearl has just primed me.
Elijah’s expression turns inscrutable. “I cannot say. I’m not privy to Mr. Warren’s confidences.”
“He wants you,” Pearl says. “Obviously.”
That can’t be it. Impossible. But he does want something, and if I don’t learn what, the curiosity is going to kill me.
I guess I am going with Elijah—especially since I’m dying to try on the dress and the shoes, and the only socially acceptable way to do that is to agree to this craziness.
Wait a second. I examine the items I’m holding. “How did he know my sizes?”
Pearl waggles her eyebrows obscenely. “He ‘sized you up,’ obviously. A keeper, that one.”
“Nothing like that,” Elijah says. “He had his security team do a little research into you. That’s how I knew which apartment door to ring as well.”
A security team figured out my bra size? How? And more importantly, why? Not to mention, the guy has a security team?
“So alpha,” Pearl breathes in awe. “Total keeper.”
Yeah, if by that she means an asshole who casually invades your privacy. Maybe that FBI task force exists for a reason.
“Okay.” I put everything back in the box. “I’m going to go try this on, and if I like how I look, maybe I’ll speak with him.”
Elijah clears his throat, looking very uncomfortable. “Mr. Warren has a request that’s a prerequisite to everything else.”
I sigh. “What is it? Did his security team forget to tell him what brand of tampons I use?”
Elijah blushes like a maiden. “Could you wash the cat from your skin and hair?”
“Excuse me?” I feel my face pinching like a crab claw. “He wants me to shower?”
Pearl grins. “I bet his exact words to Elijah were, ‘Bathe her and bring her to me.’”
Elijah’s blush deepens. “Once again, this is about medical safety.”
Is it, though? He survived being in an elevator with me ‘dirty,’ not to mention with the cat menace herself. Still, I was planning to shower since I happen to do that every morning, so no point in discomfiting poor Elijah further.
“I’ll take the stinking shower,” I say grudgingly.
“And I’ll take the cat out of here,” Pearl says. “Before the unthinkable happens and a cat hair lands where it shouldn’t.”
“Would you mind if I disinfected your apartment in the meantime?” Elijah asks me.
My initial impulse is an angry rebuke, but then I realize I’m about to get a free apartment cleaning. “Why the hell not?” I say with a sigh.
“That reminds me,” Pearl says. “Where is Atonic’s litterbox?”
I tell her and stomp to the shower.
As the limo drives through Malibu, I can’t help but reflect on how annoyingly perfect the dress, the shoes, and especially the undies feel.
It’s like those designers custom-made them for me.
Grr. What if this ruins TJMaxx clothes for me? Relatedly, what if these limo rides ruin Uber for me? Or—
We stop, and Elijah does that trick where he opens the door for me impossibly quickly.
“Thanks.” I step out and take in the glorious view of the ocean. “Is that the place?” I gesture at a beachfront restaurant that’s so fancy and expensive that the closest people like me can get to it is reading about it in The Michelin Guide. Which I have.
“Indeed,” Elijah says. “Mr. Warren is already inside.”
Okay. Here goes. I click-clack over there in my new pumps, my blood pressure rising as I picture myself facing off with Lucius again.
“Ms. Lazko,” says the hostess. “Please follow me.”
Should I even bother getting surprised that she knows who I am?
She leads me through a completely empty restaurant until we reach the table with the best view.
Lucius is waiting there, a glass of wine in his hand. For some bizarre reason, my breath catches, and I feel warm in all the wrong places.
Suppressing my wayward libido, I tear my eyes away from how his suit jacket hugs his broad shoulders and get straight to the point. “You bought me a bra and panties?”
Lucius looks me over from head to toe, his expression unreadable, while the hostess sounds like she’s choking on her saliva as she says, “I’ll tell the chef to start the omakase.”
“Do so,” Lucius says to her with a dismissive wave of his hand before standing up to pull out a chair, presumably for me.
I plant my butt in said chair. “Don’t dodge my question.”
“I’m not.” He returns to his seat. “The answer is obviously yes.”
By saguaro’s roots, he’s set a new record for bringing out my violent urges. “You don’t deny being completely inappropriate?”
“Is this how you always react to gifts? You must be a joy on your birthday.”
“There are appropriate gifts, and there are inappropriate gifts,” I grit out.
He lifts a thick eyebrow. “So… you’re not wearing the bra and panties I bought you?”
“None of your business.”
His pupils dilate slightly. “Are you wearing any underwear?”
“That’s even less of your business!”
He cocks his head. “I claim you are wearing my gift. Want to deny it?”
Grr. A tingly sensation circumnavigates from the back of my neck all the way across my face. “If I am wearing anything, it would be because Elijah played the cat allergy card.”
His expression darkens. “That reminds me… Who carries their friend’s cat to an interview? Or anywhere?”
When did he hear about Pearl? Was this also part of the info his security team dug up? Elijah doesn’t seem like the text-and-drive type.
I massage my suddenly stiff neck. “Don’t try to make this about me. Apart from the undies, you also have to answer for the invasion of my privacy.”
Before he can reply, our waiter—a tall, handsome guy about my age—comes over with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“1996 Screaming Eagle,” he says, displaying the bottle like he’s in a magazine ad.
Lucius nods, and the waiter uncorks the wine and pours a glass for him.
When it’s my turn, the waiter sneaks an appreciative glance over me. I blink, equal parts surprised and flattered, but then I remember what I’m wearing. My newfound attractiveness is due to Versace and Gucci… and Lucius for buying the outfit.
Speaking of Lucius, his eyes are flinty all of a sudden—and zeroed in on the waiter. “Where is the waitress?”
The waiter sets down the wine and looks like he’s about to bolt. “Which one do you mean? We have several.”
“The blonde,” Lucius says imperiously. “The one with good memory.”
“Jessica?” the waiter asks cautiously.
“Whatever,” Lucius says. “Where is she?”
Should I feel less special now that I see Lucius is a rude bastard not just to me?
The waiter backs away from the table. “When someone books the whole restaurant, I’m the one who—”
“Get someone else.” The sentence sounds like a military order.
The waiter glances helplessly at the hostess. “How about Maddy? Everyone else is—”
“That’s fine.” Lucius reaches into his pocket and takes out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. “For your trouble.”
The waiter snatches the money and rushes over to the hostess.
Their conversation is easy to picture:
“Maddy, you pulled the short straw today.”
“No, Hot Waiter, I don’t want to serve that guy. Please don’t make me.”
“He tips in hundreds.”
“Fine. But I bet I’ll feel like I earned every penny by the time their meal is done.”
With the conversation over, the hostess-turned-waitress and the handsome waiter head over to the kitchen.
“You realize they’ll spit in our food now,” I whisper.
Lucius scoffs. “If anyone dares to spit in the masterpiece that the chef has so carefully crafted, he’ll carve them into sashimi.”
My palms feel twitchy, like they want to smack someone. “You made me look bad by association.”
He swirls the wine in his glass. “How?”
I pick up my own glass lest I actually do smack him. “By being an ass?”
He takes a sip. “He was unprofessional, and I didn’t fire him. An ass would have.”
I put my glass down. “Wait. You own this place?”
He shrugs. “When you taste the black cod, you’ll see why.”
Unable to come up with a rebuttal that isn’t filled with expletives, I pick up my glass and take a sip of the wine.
Holy grapes. I’m not a connoisseur, but this is by far the best wine I’ve ever tasted. It’s feather light, silky smooth, and has an earthy aftertaste I can’t quite place.
“You like wine?” Lucius asks, watching me intently.
I didn’t think I did, but maybe I do now. “You’re still changing the subject.”
His expressive eyebrows ask a question.
“My privacy,” I enunciate. “You invaded it.”
“You realize you applied for a job with a company I own?” he asks.
I squint at him. “So?”
“What my team did isn’t all that different from the background check you would’ve gotten from any employer.”
I catch my fingers tapdancing on the tabletop and stop them. “That’s done before offering someone a job.”
He sets down his glass. “Why do you think you’re here?”
I’m so stunned by the question that I gulp my wine, tasting none of its earlier subtleties.
Something like, “Why am I here?” should’ve been the first question I asked, but somehow, I find it hard to do the logical thing when Lucius is around.
As I open my mouth to finally ask that important question, the waitress/hostess, Maddy, sashays over to our table with a tray in her hands.
“Lobster tartare,” she says as she sets two plates in front of each of us. Batting her fake eyelashes at Lucius, she demurely adds, “Was there a reason you asked for me to serve you, Mr. Warren?”
Jeez, lady, have some dignity.
“I merely wanted a professional,” Lucius says coolly. “Someone who doesn’t ogle the customer’s dates.”
Does he not realize the irony of saying that to a woman actively ogling him as they speak? She doesn’t know I’m not really his date, despite what he’s just said.
Maddy does seem to be quick on the uptake because she halts her own ogling instantly and mumbles something that sounds like, “Understood, sir.”
As soon as she leaves, Lucius nods at the lobster. “I want your opinion.”
Feeling like I’m in The Twilight Zone, I stab some lobster on my plate and dip it into the buttery sauce.
The flavor explosion in my mouth is so surprisingly pleasurable I have to bite my lip to suppress a moan.
Lucius watches me with his signature intensity. “Well?”
“It’s good,” I say in an understatement of the century.
With a self-satisfied nod, he eats some of his own dish, making the action look so annoyingly sensual that for a second, I wish I were a lobster. When he swallows, he nods again, approvingly.
“Now,” I say as my hand spears more lobster onto my fork of its own accord. “Why are we here?”