Page 94 of Cruelest Contract
He keeps his surroundings simple. Uncluttered. His clothes are either neatly folded in dresser drawers or hung in the back of the closet. The card he gave me is supposed to pay for a new bedroom furniture set of my choosing. The walls are slate blue, alittle dark for my taste but not terrible. Some bright accents and throw pillows would make a big difference.
Unidentified noises drift from downstairs. Some are clearly human. A slamming door. A man’s laughter. I’m puzzled by the occasional sound of heavy machinery. Maybe it’s a tractor. I didn’t realize tractors were this loud.
My journal is open on my lap. I’ve been trying to get motivated by setting some goals for the day. Julian mentioned that the home office where I’ll be working is nearly ready. I have many questions about the legitimate business side of the Tempesta world. From what I’ve gathered, their portfolio is vast with land, hotels, casinos and construction firms. The ranch is just one small piece in a complicated puzzle.
Giving up on my goal list, I close the journal and set it on a small desk. The surface is dark grey and there are no drawers. Given the power strip and collection of neatly bound cords, its primary function seems to be a charging station. As I take a seat in the armless rolling chair, I can’t imagine Julian’s tall, muscled body hunkering down and getting comfortable here. I doubt he uses it.
I miss him. Any secret worries I might have had about marrying Julian were dissolved during the days we spend together at the honeymoon cabin. Julian was thoughtful and attentive and sexy. He treated me like nothing less than a queen. Even Alice would have been impressed.
Julian must be awake by now. Every morning he was up and about before I’d even opened my eyes. The morning after our wedding, my first view was Julian standing in the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts and cutting up a lemon because he knows I like to squeeze a slice into my morning tea. There was an expression of serious concentration on his face as he methodically cut up the fruit, tackling the chore with the same determination he applies to everything he does.
And in that moment, as a piece of black hair fell in his eyes and he refused to move it, I realized I could truly fall in love with my husband.
That’s not really the whole truth.
I’malreadyfalling in love with him.
My phone is sitting inches away and I grab it to pound out a quick text.
Are you awake?
Julian responds by immediately calling. “Good morning, beautiful,” he says when I pick up.
I pull my knees up to my chest, giddy and grinning. “I just remembered that New York is two hours ahead.”
“Yep.” There’s music in the background. An old classic rock song that I recognize but don’t know the name of. “Is everything okay at home?”
“Of course. I was just about to go downstairs to breakfast.”
And I wanted to hear your voice.
Can’t say that out loud. Too corny. Too needy.
While I’m scrambling for some meaningful and non-pathetic words, glass breaks on Julian’s end of the line and a man’s voice brays, “Fucking hell!”
“Is that Fort?” I ask.
Julian chuckles. “Yeah, little brother’s no good in the kitchen. He just dropped a stack of Uncle Sal’s plates.”
“What’s Fort doing with a stack of plates?”
“Nothing anymore,” Julian says with a snort. The voices of multiple men blend together. I can’t hear what they’re saying but bawdy laughter breaks out.
“Sounds like you’re busy,” I say. “I should get downstairs anyway. I don’t want Mel to think she’s obligated to bring me breakfast.”
“I told Tye and Getty to stick close to home and look out for you,” he says. “But if you have any trouble, let Sonny know. I’ll call you tonight.”
“Okay.” I chew my lip. “Julian?”
Miss you. Want you. Obsessed with you.
“Um, have a good day,” I say. I’m glad he can’t see the way I cringe.
“You too, baby,” he replies and I nearly melt into the chair.
The things this man does to me should be illegal.
Before I leave the room, I stick my journal under the mattress. Getty hasn’t invaded my privacy since that one memorable dinner but I’d rather not take chances. A couple of papers fall out of the cover’s inner pocket. There’s a receipt from a used bookstore, saved because the cashier took the time to draw a happy-faced sunflower. The other paper that fell out is the folded magazine page I’d saved from the plane that delivered me to Wyoming.
