Page 30 of If the Ring Fits

The rest of the weekend has been a whirlwind of frantic packing. I started boxing up my stuff with the help of Nina and Hunter, but then Adrian’s people showed up and like little Tasmanian devils, they packed up my entire world in a blink—did most of Nina’s things, too, for her move to Tristan’s place. And now they’re here, reversing the process, unpacking everything for me.

Once the movers are finished, I poke around, exploring my room. The walk-in closet is bigger than my entire bedroom at my old place. In the en suite, the shower has more nozzles and knobs than a spaceship. I bet even the toilet is top of the line.

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly homesick for my tiny apartment with its leaky faucets and squeaky floorboards. Even if I was renting, it felt like mine. And I shared it with people who loved me.

Still, I wouldn’t want to be there either. My besties kept shooting me dubious looks as they helped me box up all my worldly possessions. Nina and Hunter are being as supportive as they can—more understanding than I probably would’ve been if the roles had been reversed—but I’m almost relieved to get some space from them. Their constant worried side stares and raised brows were making me rethink my life choices every five seconds. Not that I can backtrack now. Dylan has officially taken over my and Nina’s leases, and I’m here.

But as I sit alone in this ridiculously luxe apartment, doubts creep in again. What have I gotten myself into? Playing house with a man who makes my palms sweat and my brain short-circuit with a single glance, but who clearly stated he isn’t interested in anything romantic.

But I’ve made my fancy bed—actually one of Adrian’s cleaning ladies (he has several, apparently) did as she helped me unpack—now I have to lie in it.

I go back into the bedroom and search the million drawers for a pair of leggings and an oversized T-shirt. It takes four tries, and another one to find a hoodie. I still shiver after pulling it on. Outside it’s easily eighty degrees, but the air conditioning inside is polar-bear friendly. Does Adrian run hot? Is that why he keeps it at subzero temperatures in here? My teeth clatter as I hunt for the thermostat.

After fiddling with the buttons for a while, I set the temperature to a more humane habitat. I don’t hear or notice any changes, the air conditioning is so quiet, but after a few minutes, I stop shivering.

Since the movers already unpacked everything and I’ve got nothing to do, I settle on the creamy suede couch, feeling small and almost like an intruder amidst the sleek, modern décor. This house feels more like a showroom than a home—all steel and sharp angles, too tidy, and not loved enough. Grabbing a throw pillow, I tuck it behind my back, trying to get comfortable.

Three remotes sit on the glass coffee table. I stare at them blankly. “You’d think a gazillionaire could spring for a universal remote,” I mutter. But no, that would be too easy.

I pick one up and aim it at the massive flatscreen mounted on the wall. Click. Nothing happens. I try another. The stereo system comes alive with a blast of music, techno beats pulsing through the surround-sound speakers and making me jump. I push buttons madly until the music stops, and, finally, the third remote brings the TV screen to life. I cycle through the channels mindlessly, too drained to focus. Instead of watching TV, I should prepare for the future, make a plan on how to turn my career around and become self-sufficient as a single mother. But I’ve barely eaten anything today, kept down even less and, frankly, I’m exhausted.

I watch a romantic movie, crying more than I should for a comedy and get hungry by the end. The nausea seems to have let up for the day, and since my light lunch ended up down the toilet, I could use a snack.

Pushing up from the couch, I pad to the kitchen. I yank open the double-door fridge, not sure what I’m expecting to find. Bottles of champagne? Caviar? The tears of Adrian’s enemies?

Instead, the shelves are lined with stacks of pre-made meals in microwave friendly glass containers. They look like something out of a cooking show, with pretty garnishes and perfect grill marks. Definitely not frozen dinners.

I pull out a few, reading the labels. “Broccoli chicken.” My stomach turns at the thought. Meat of any kind is my enemy lately. “Veggie lasagna. Slightly more promising. Lentil soup…” I wrinkle my nose. “Hard pass.”

I settle on one container labeled pesto pasta and stick it in the microwave, punching the buttons and praying Adrian won’t mind me raiding his fridge.

As the microwave hums, I lean against the marble countertop and rub my temples, still wondering how I ended up pilfering pasta in some millionaire’s McMansion kitchen.

The microwave dings, and the scent of basil and garlic fills the air. My mouth doesn’t exactly water, but at least my stomach isn’t roiling in protest. Baby steps.

I go back to the couch, picking at the healthy dinner I re-heated. The TV drones on but I’m only half paying attention, senses alert as I wait for my new “roommate” to arrive. It’ll have to be soon. How long can a lunch last?

I finish my pasta and drop the empty bowl on the coffee table. Just as the clock ticks to 7p.m., I hear the jingle of keysand the lock clicking open. I fumble for the remote to mute the TV.

Adrian strides through the door looking like he stepped out of the pages ofGQin another expensive tailored suit. He tosses his keys on the entryway table and reaches up to loosen his tie with a sigh. That simple, unconscious gesture oozes masculine sex appeal and makes me feel as if gravity has suddenly doubled.

“Hi,” I squeak.

“Oh, hi, Rowena.” He glances my way with a flicker of surprise, as if he forgot I’d be here. “Did the move go alright?”

I hop up from the couch, smoothing my T-shirt self-consciously—with a mild climate reinstated, I was able to remove the hoodie about an hour ago. “Yeah, great, thanks.” As I walk toward him, I still feel like the G-force is working extra hard to make my knees buckle. “Your people took care of everything, I barely had to lift a finger.”

He kicks off his shoes and leaves them scattered on the floor, reassuring me I haven’t moved in with a total neat freak. “Glad to hear.”

I gesture lamely to the kitchen. “I hope it’s okay that I ate one of the pre-made meals…”

His face softens into a smile, making him look less intimidating. “Of course, that’s what they’re there for. Mrs. Doherty—Rosa—is an excellent cook. Let her know if you have any favorite dishes you’d like her to make.”

We have a chef! I’d figured seeing all the gourmet meals in the fridge, but hearing it is still so out there.

“Err, thanks.” I hover awkwardly, unsure what else to say.

Adrian studies me, his dark eyes unreadable. Silence blankets us, fraught with uncertainty.

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