Page 45 of A Temporary Forever

“Do you want a coffee?” he asks softly, and his voice wraps around me like cashmere.

I nod, and he puts his hand on the small of myback. I almost recoil. He leads me to a large sofa, rubbing his thumb up and down my spine.

Calming me. Without being privy to the storm inside me, he knows what to do. Or at least senses what he should do.

“Have a seat.” He helps me sit, like I’m a child, and saunters across the room to a fancy coffee machine.

“What is this place?”

The grinder echoes as I take in my surroundings: the soft carpet, the comfortable sofa, the glass table, the smell of coffee, the lavish decorations and expensive paintings on the wall.

“It’s a private office to conduct business.” He hands me a small espresso. “Milk or sugar?”

“No, thank you, I’m not a barbarian.” I take the cup.

Caleb chuckles and looks at me with admiration in his eyes. Like I passed some coffee-drinking test.

“This does not look like an office.” I take a sip.

Caleb shrugs. “They want their VIP clients to feel comfortable, I guess.”

“Oh, you don’t bank with the plebs downstairs.” I down the best espresso I’ve had since I arrived in New York almost ten years ago. There are advantages to being rich.

I have rich friends and former clients. Saar, I assume, is wealthy. They never made me feel less orpoor. And I’ve never judged them for their riches, but listening to Caleb earlier, I realized my view of rich people has been mostly negative.

Yet, he talks about money with knowledge and care. While he doesn’t recognize his privilege, he also doesn’t flaunt it around like it’s his birthright. He’s business-savvy, for sure, and takes for granted what was granted to him.

But I’m realizing his surprise about my studio, or about me questioning where we are right now, is more ignorance than superiority. And not even a pompous ignorance. He’s simply never had the opportunity to see how the other half lives.

“Have you ever dated a poor girl?”

He jerks his head. “I don’t date, but I don’t ask women I hook up with about their net worth. I don’t care. There’s more to people than money.”

No dates, only hookups. Why does that disappoint me? It’s not like I would date him.

“Mr. van den Linden, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m Antonio Guerra, the personal banker here.”

I startle, but don’t look at the man who’s just spoken. I’m still looking at my new pretend husband like he’s a unicorn.

This will be a culture shock for both of us. Ithought I knew how the rich live, but clearly, I’m in for a surprise.

“It’s okay, Antonio. May I call you Antonio? We didn’t have an appointment. This is my wife, Celeste, and we’d like to open a joint account.”

Not even half an hour later, I walk out of there, not only having a joint account with Caleb, but the proud owner of a new credit card. Approved and issued just like that.

I flip the black card between my fingers before I put it in my small purse. “Do you trust me that I won’t ruin you?” I tease.

“Do you plan to buy several airplanes and yachts?”

I laugh. “As if I could—” My words die on my lips because Caleb wasn’t really joking. “I could, couldn’t I?”

He snakes his hand around my waist and pulls me to his side. “Since you don’t even want the apartment I haven’t bought you yet in our divorce, I think my assets are safe.” He pulls out his phone, aiming the camera at us.

“What are you doing?”

“Say cheese, Mrs. van den Linden.” He presses his lips to my hair, snapping a few pictures.

“You’re very dedicated to collecting proof of this relationship.” I jerk away from him, because his hand on my waist, his lips in my hair, his consideration of myneeds, it’s all stirring something inside me. And we can’t go down that road.

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