46
1033 Words
“Good morning, Arlo. Please don’t call me madam, I don’t own a brothel. Emery is fine. Also, what the hell are you doing?”
“I wondered if you’d like to take breakfast in bed?”
I sit up and rub my eyes. Thank God I didn’t sleep n***d, or Arlo would be getting an eyeful. “No, thanks. I’ll just have coffee.”
“Mr. McCord prefers that you eat something in the mornings.”
I frown up at him. “And I would prefer that Mr. McCord mind his own business.”
Ignoring that, Arlo says, “If you’d like something light, we have a selection of fresh seasonal fruit, organic yogurt, and steel-cut oats. I can also have the chef prepare eggs any way you like them—”
I cut in sarcastically, “What, the lord of the manor doesn’t already know?”
Arlo clasps his hands at his waist. “He indicated you enjoy them poached, but I didn’t want to presume.”
I close my eyes and sigh.
Arlo says, “Poached it is. How do you take your coffee?”
Opening my eyes, I send him a death glare. “Don’t pretend like it’s a mystery.”
Unmoved by my murder face, he smiles. “Two poached eggs and coffee with whole milk and brown sugar coming right up.” He turns and walks out, leaving me to stew in annoyance.
My new husband and I are going to have a serious discussion about personal boundaries when he gets back.
I get up, use the toilet, and wash my face. Then I realize I don’t have any cosmetics or toiletries here. Then I remember Arlo saying my things were being brought from my apartment, so I head out to investigate.
Sure enough, all my clothes have been hung up in the master bedroom closet. My cosmetics are in a drawer under the bathroom sink. My shampoo and conditioner are on the shelf in the cavernous white marble shower, along with my razor and the loofah thing I use to scrub my face.
I suppose other women might find this show of dominant caretaking endearing. But I don’t know any of those women. As for me, the thought of a bunch of strangers packing up my apartment and personal things at the behest of Callum doesn’t feel like a romantic gesture, it just feels like an invasion of privacy.
It’s impossible to reconcile the two sides of him.
On the one hand, he’s incredibly generous and thoughtful. On the other, he’s incredibly controlling. And his fanatical knowledge of my habits, preferences, and whereabouts is flat-out disturbing.
Irked, I change into fresh clothes and emerge from the closet just as Arlo is coming in the bedroom carrying a tray.
“Ah, there you are. Should I lay everything out on your writing desk?”
“Sure. Might as well eat the breakfast I didn’t want on the desk I didn’t buy in the bedroom I didn’t decorate in the house I don’t own. Sounds fantastic.”
Setting the tray on the desk, Arlo turns to me. His tone gentle, he says, “You’re having a hard time adjusting.”
I snort. “Who, me?”
“I think once you get to know Mr. McCord better, you’ll find him to be an excellent companion.”
“Thanks, but you have to say that. You’re on his payroll.”
I pull out the chair and sit. Arlo hands me a white linen napkin.
“Give him a chance. I know he can be…difficult. But he’s an exceptional man. And having known him as long as I have, I can tell you with total confidence that he’d do anything to make you happy. It’s all he wants.”
Startled by that, I look up at him. His expression is passive, but his silvery-gray eyes are warm.
“I’m pretty sure all he wants is his inheritance.”
He frowns and opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but must think better of it because he closes his mouth again and doesn’t respond.
I say, “What’s been done with my furniture and books?”
“The furniture has been put into storage. Your books are in the library on the first floor. There are several boxes of personal items in the garage—photo albums and whatnot. If you tell me where you’d like them, I’ll have them unpacked.”
“I can do it.”
“Mr. McCord would prefer—”
“He’s your boss, Arlo, not mine,” I interrupt, growing more irritated by the second. “I’ll unpack the rest of my things. Where’s my car?”
“In the garage.”
“Good. Thank you. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to rage eat these eggs so you won’t be in trouble with Callum, then I’m going to work. Which I’m only telling you so you don’t get into trouble when he asks where I am, which I know he will.”
“You didn’t like the Ferrari?”
“I didn’t like its GPS.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
He hesitates, then says, “I’ll leave you to your breakfast,” and walks out.
The moment he’s gone, I take the eggs into the bathroom and flush them down the toilet. Then I take off my too-big diamond ring and leave it next to the faucet on the sink.
I drive my VW to the store, feeling strangely relieved to be out of the castle. It’s beautiful, but way too huge for two people and a few domestic workers. I don’t know why Callum bought it. Maybe billionaires are used to living alone in homes the size of Disneyland.
Not me.
When I unlock the shop and walk in, I’m overcome by a rush of emotion. I stand in the entryway and look around at the old-fashioned register, the displays of books, the faded, overstuffed chair near the window with the calico cat curled up on the seat, and have to fight back tears.
Lit Happens is still standing.
We don’t have to close our doors anymore.
- Writer
