CHAPTER TEN
“Not even sex?”
TRENT LIED.
He doesn’t come back for me in two days. Neither does he answer my calls or texts. An entire week passes before I see him again. He calls me out of my sleep at the butt crack of dawn, and when I answer all groggy and grumpy, he tells me, “Chop, chop.”
After I’ve sluggishly dressed and packed up, I lug my bags from the house to the porch and find him out on the lawn adjusting one of the garden lights. I can’t understand how he manages to look so damn good this early in the morning. All fresh-faced, bronze-skinned handsome and shit. Dark denim, black tee stretched across those bulging muscles, and shit-kicker boots.
“There’s a camera in there, isn’t there?” I ask from the porch.
“Nope,” he says while shaking his head yes.
I swear, these men… “You’re creeps. The lot of you.”
He saunters up to the porch and picks up the bigger luggage, and his bicep makes brief contact with my left breast as he does. Just a slight, innocent brush. I tell myself that the faint tingle that darts through me at the contact is normal.
His scent lingers under my nose even as he descends the steps. He smells like sunrise and mischief, with a hint of expensive cologne. “Get-a-moving, Hellcat.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I follow him with my suitcase. “Have I told you you’re an asshole, asshole?”
“A couple hundred times, yeah.”
While he loads the luggage into his jeep, I settle into the passenger seat and type up a text to Monica—who’s still asleep—to let her know I’m leaving. Mama will have left for the restaurant already and she never checks her messages, so I’ll have to videocall her later.
When Trent finally gets in behind the steering wheel, I say, “You know, it’s rude to wake someone up this early and not bring them coffee.”
He shrugs and fires up the engine. “I had some.”
“How does that help me?”
He pulls off from the curb. “Haven’t I helped you enough?”
“Oh. My. God. You are such a—”
“Asshole?”
See? “No, I was gonna say cockroach.”
“Am I at least the kind that flies?”
“No. And I wish I could flick you onto your back and leave you there to suffer.”
“Hm.” Unphased, he shrugs again. “They always survive. Resilient, those fuckers.”
“You said you’d be back in two days,” I say. “Where were you?”
“I figured you’d need a little more time to rest after being so jetlagged and all.”
I should have known he’d use that against me. “Seriously? They’re my family, I can lie to them all I want. What do you care if I fibbed a little?”
“Do you feel rested? Refreshed? Connected with everyone?”
“Yes, bu—”
“Good.”
“There’s nothing here for you to fix, Trent,” I say, annoyed. “Just tell me what I need to do to pay you back and get out from under you. That’s all.”
He makes a strange noise in his throat. “Lexi, if I ever manage to get you under me, all exits will be sealed. No way out.”
I throw my head back against the headrest. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You were always a miserable Grinch in the mornings before your coffee. I wanted to see if you’d changed,” he says with a slide of a smile. “Check the backseat cupholder.”
I twist around and glance to the backseat. A travel mug sits snugly in one of the cupholder slots. “You’re evil.”
“One sugar. Two creams,” he says.
Just the way I like it. I undo my seatbelt and reach in the back for the mug before twisting back around. Taking a sip, I moan in delight. “Hmm. This is some damn good coffee. You made this?”
“Some fancy coffee machine someone bought me.”
Eyeing him, I take another sip. “One of your many Tiffanys?”
His shoulders jerk with a shrug. “Maybe. Don’t remember.”
“Of course, you don’t.”
~
ROUGHLY AN HOUR later, we’re driving through the tall, imposing gates of a property in Pasadena. Sitting up from my slouch, I observe the overgrown grounds on either side of the winding path toward a sprawling estate, the lush high trees and neglected gardens.
When the jeep finally rolls to a stop near a dry fountain in the front yard, I open the door and jump out, gazing up at the widespread, two-story home. It’s a cross between craftsman and country with a massive wraparound porch, long windows, and wide French doors. It’s gorgeous, picturesque, charming even.
It also doesn’t look as if anyone lives here.
Trent gets out of the jeep and starts up the wide steps.
Following, I ask, “Whose place is this?”
With his booted foot, he sweeps away windblown dry leaves from the welcome mat in front of the door. “True’s and mine.”
Whoa. “Really?”
He produces a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks the front door, letting us in. “Yeah. It used to be an inn. Was on the market for a good price and since we’ve wanted to get into real estate for a while, we threw our hats in and bought it.” He pulls the drapes back from the front windows and warm sunlight floods in. “We tried to keep the guesthouse thing going, but it didn’t pan out ‘cause we had no fucking clue what we were doing, one. And two, we just didn’t have the time or motivation. So we shut it down and it’s just been sitting here for the past two years.”
Wow. I wander around, taking everything in. So much space, so airy, natural light spilling in from all angles. I knew Red Cage was successful, but I don’t think I realized how much. They couldn’t have afforded a place like this without making some damn good moolah.
“How many rooms?” I ask.
“Sixteen guestrooms, all with en suite bathrooms.”
“Nice.”
“Come with me.”
He leads me through the space, passing through open areas with white sheets thrown over furniture and paintings, through a huge restaurant-style kitchen, and through quad French doors that spit us out into a gorgeous, expansive backyard and gardens. With two empty pools separated by a cute arching bridge surrounded by limestone tiles and stellar landscaping—though overgrown and choking with weeds.
“This is a really nice place, Trent.”
“Better than Richmond’s?” he asks wryly.
I laugh, punching his arm. “Better than Richmond’s.”
“Come.” He rounds the length of the left pool and heads toward a low hedging with a cute little picket gate nestled in. He opens the gate for me to pass through.
A small, cobble-stoned pathway leads to what looks like a three-story condo.
“Is this attached or separate?”
“Attached,” he answers. “It’s where the owners lived.” He keys the door open and lets us in.
The charm from the main house carries through here, too. Bright, open, and tasteful. But it’s narrower than a usual home, which explains the three stories. Each floor has a spacious balcony with stairs that lead from one balcony to the next.
“Three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, and an office,” Trent informs me as we walk through.
Unlike the guesthouse, the furniture here is uncovered, and let’s just say the previous owners had flare. Aside from a few hideous art pieces, I wouldn’t change a thing.
“This is a damn good investment you’ve made, Trent,” I say. “It’s a shame you’re not making use of it.”
He snorts. “Didn’t bring you here to brag, Lexi.”
I turn to face him. “Oh?”
He’s leaning against the doorjamb, watching me explore, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Like you said, we’re sitting on money here. Not that we’re hard-pressed for it, but I’d like to retire early. Love my job, but it takes a toll sometimes, and it’s sure as shit not what I wanna be doing when I start a family. Which is why I’ve been making a number of investments over the years. But this one…we need help.”
“From me…?”
“Yup.”
What? “How?”
“You’re gonna get this place up and running again.”
I blink at him. And then I laugh. Because he’s clearly messing with me.
When he just stares at me deadpan, I wave my hand at him. “Helloooo. Still waiting for the punchline over here.”
“This is how you pay me back, Lexi.”
Dear God. He is serious. I gape at him. “You do realize that the only thing I have experience in is waiting tables and counting cards, right?”
He shrugs. “You’ll figure it out.”
“You hit your head or something, amigo?” I ask through a cackle. “How are you gonna put me in charge of an investment that I’m sure cost you a couple million and tell me to ‘figure it out?’ Does True know about this?”
“Yup.”
“And he agreed?”
“Once I told him it was you, yeah.”
“You two should never become entrepreneurs,” I say, disbelieving. “Like, ever.”
He chuckles. “Think of it as an on-the-job kind of training. You’re pretty much gonna be the project manager, spearheading everything. You’re not gonna be the one repainting, reflooring, decorating, or whatever the hell needs to be done.”
“Oh? I mean—how? I don’t understand.”
“I’ll email the logistics and protocols later so I can copy True in,” he says. “But quick summary: we give you a budget, we give you a credit card, and you make all the decisions. Only thing we require is that you send all potential hires to us first so we can run background checks. Stay within the budget and don’t overpay for anything. Don’t contact us about anything regarding decor decisions, amenities, plumbing, electrical problems, etcetera. We don’t care. This is your project. You take care of everything and make report logs.”
“Wow. I mean…wow. That’s a lot you’re trusting me with.”
“Well, if you fuck up, you can start over, but you’ll also owe me more—every dollar wasted. So just keep that in mind for every decision you make. You either get it right or be indebted to me forever.”
“I…” Pulling at my ponytail, I spin in a slow circle until I’m facing him again. “Is there another option for payment?”
“Nope.”
“Not even sex?”
“For the amount you owe me, you’d be on your back for a long time.” He straightens from the doorjamb and checks the time on his watch. “Look, I know it’s a big task, but you’re not on a time crunch, so take some time to figure it out; jump online and do some research, watch YouTube videos, create a Pinterest board, whatever the hell you need. Just get on it. I’ve got to get to the office so lemme go grab your bags.”
“My bags? Wait, where am I staying?”
He’d been on his way out, but at my question he stops and looks over his shoulder at me like I’m idiot. “Here.”
I stare at him as he disappears through the door, then I turn and do a three-sixty again. Save for the last seven days at his mom’s house, I haven’t lived in a nice place for a while, not since I broke away from Slim and things went to shit, so I’m looking forward to spending the next couple of months—or however long it takes me to figure this job out—here.
I’m checking the kitchen cupboards when Trent returns with my bags.
“I was just thinking,” I say as he dumps the luggage. “I don’t have a car. That’s how broke I am. How am I gonna get around? Uber?”
“I’ll loan you one of the company cars in the meantime. I’ll have one dropped off in a few hours.” He withdraws his wallet from his pocket and plucks out a few bills. “When it gets here, go get yourself some groceries and whatever else for the house.”
I scowl at the proffered bills. “Fuck off. I’m not owing you a dime more. I can buy my own damn groceries.”
“Suit yourself.” He returns the bills to his wallet. “I placed the keys in the front pocket of your suitcase. I’ll email you when I get to the office.”
He playfully tugs at my ear as he turns to leave, and I swat his hand away.
“Devil’s spawn,” I mutter at his retreating back.
“Heard that, Hellcat,” he throws over his shoulder.
“I don’t care,” I return in a singsong voice.
His chuckle travels away with him.
~
BY THE TIME Trent messaged me that someone was on the way to drop a car off for me, I’d already spent two hours giving myself an intensive tour of the property, armed with a pen and a notebook.
Having taken a more up close observation from room to room, I’ve noticed a bunch of flaws that weren’t noticeable before. A lot of wear and tear and defects.
Though I have no freaking clue what I am doing, I’ve somehow managed to scribble down eight pages of notes, along with a few ideas. It’s a big task indeed, but my debt is even bigger, and things could have been worse. After that failed jewelry dash in Vegas, I could have been in jail right now. Or worse, held captive by the Castellos.
Of the two scenarios, owing Trent pales in comparison. I’ve been given a home and full autonomy with only one rule: don’t fuck it up. So, really, I shouldn’t be complaining. I’m going to approach this with a good attitude and make the best of the situation. On the bright side, I’ll come out of this more knowledgeable than I went in. And if I enjoy it, who knows, it could be the start of something new.
Flipping to a clean page in my notebook, I title it First Priorities, then jot down in bullet points:
Hire an inspector
Hire a gardener
Inquire about surveillance
I’ve spotted multiple cameras, but only the ones outside the condo appear to be active.
I’m assessing a room on the second floor when the honking of a horn tugs me to the windows. Outside the stately front gates are two black SUVs, one behind the other. Waiting for me to give them access it seems.
Getting the jingle of keys from my back pocket, I check to see if there’s a fob or something.
Nothing.
I fetch my phone and text Trent.
Me: How do I open the gates?
Trent: There’s a control monitor in the condo and one by the front doors in the guesthouse.
I head downstairs, find the monitor, and spend the next five minutes figuring out how to work the damn thing. When I finally get the gates to open, I head outside. Two SUVs drive up the brick paved driveway and pull to a stop in front of me.
A good-looking Black man climbs out of the first SUV and holds his hand out. “Michael.”
I shake his hand. “Lexi.”
He flashes me a blinding-white grin. “I know.” He moves to the trunk and pops it open. “Where do you want these?”
Frowning, I ask, “Where do I want what?”
His muscles flex as he lifts out two big bags of groceries. “These.”
“That controlling jerkhole,” I grumble through clenched teeth. Begrudgingly, I gesture in the direction of the condo. “Follow this path here to the side. You’ll see a patio. Just leave them there. I’ll bring them inside.”
I’d discovered two additional paths to the condo while I was roaming—a convenient side entrance with a small patio that leads directly into the kitchen, and a small, green gate hidden in some overgrown shrubs at the front, which leads to a set of stairs that go up to the second floor.
Michael unloads around six bags of groceries before handing me the keys to the SUV. “It’s got a full tank.” He then slides me a business card. “Boss said if they’re any emergencies and he’s unavailable, you call me.”
I raise a brow. “Or I can call the police.”
Michael grins cockily. “We’ll get here faster.”
“Whatever,” I mumble, glancing at the card.
RED CAGE COMMANDO SECURITY & INVESTIGATION SERVICES
Michael Spencer
“Anything else I can do for you, Lexi?” he asks, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. What the hell does he find so damn amusing about me? Ugh. I don’t even want to know. Trent’s his boss, so…enough said.
“Um, no. That’s it. Thanks.”
He jerks his chin and jumps into the second SUV, and off it goes.
I get out my phone.
Me: You controlling asshat! I told you I could get my own damn groceries.
Trent: How long have you known me, Hellcat?
Me: Cockroach!
Trent: Just dying to get me on my back, aren’t you?
Me: You’re SO lucky I’m indebted to you, I swear.
Trent: You have no idea :)