Page 36 of Vicious Arrangement
There’s a huge gleaming kitchen to the right.
I think the fridge is built in to match the white and chrome cabinetry, the island is marble, and the waterfall design is curved. I don’t even want to know how much it cost.
The stove is Wolf. And I don’t see a sink.
I want to explore. I want to run.
Gramps is rich. I could be if I chose to live off the inheritance I have, but there’s a difference between rich and filthy.
A woman, young and pretty, with her hair pulled back and in a uniform—thank fuck it’s not French maid or I’d be out of there, comes out of a room that’s hidden in plain sight behind the kitchen with an armful of cleaning products that she sets down into a clean square bucket I missed. Black, because even the cleaning things are color coordinated in Noah’s world.
She wipes her hands on her trousers and comes up to me.
“Sorry you were taking so long I needed to get some things done. The personal chef’s a little late, so it’s thrown me off today. I’m Carrie. My husband, Alonso, is the gardener, one of the best in the Tri-State area. He’s the reason this place always looks like it’s ready for a photo shoot.”
I must look nonplussed as she points to the billowing curtains. “That’s one of the wrap around terraces. The bedroom level is even better, and there’s an outdoor kitchen, fruit trees and roses. And a sauna and a hot tub. Have a look.”
Curiosity gets the better of me as I head over to the curtains, pulling them back and stepping out, not onto a balcony but an entire outdoor area, the kind of place that could fit a number of studio apartments easily. There are tiles, a wooden deck, even a grassed area that Angus attacks.
I can see other buildings, rooftops, and a nice view of parts of Manhattan. Upstairs must be even better.
“If you’re finished,” Noah says behind me.
I turn. And my heart flutters then sinks.
I don’t want to be excited to see him, I don’t want to yearn for the dimple. I don’t want to think about the two orgasms he gave me.
“You met the housekeeper, Carrie. She comes by three times a week. Her husband too. The personal chef, Andre is here twice a week. There’s maintenance, and the cleaner, she does all the laundry sends out dry cleaning, someone does the floors, too. And here…” He pulls out a card, holding it in the air giving me no other option but to go up and take it. “This is the number for your personal car service. Use it.”
“Because you care?”
He just turns and goes back inside, straightening his tie, and makes himself a coffee from the white machine on the counter that I didn’t see. It’s white and chrome and is a professional thing that immediately scares me.
“No, because you’re my wife, and I expect a certain level of decorum from that. You’ll take a car.” He then looks at me. “Coffee?”
I want one. God, I want one. “Only if I get to throw it in your face.”
“That some kind of weird fetish of yours?”
That, I ignore. “I’m meant to take the car to and from the hospital.”
“About that…”
“I’m not giving up my career for you.”
He sighs. “Maybe there’s a better hospital, private. Or do you work at one?”
“I work at Quentin.”
“Oh.”
“And I’m staying there. Nursing is nursing. Just because a place is for rich fucks doesn’t make it more glamorous.” I hate him, I really do. He might be hot, the best sex I’ve had, and charming when he feels like it, but he’s still an arrogant asshole. Judging by this soulless, white palace he chose to create here in SoHo, he’s also comfortable with being a dick about his money. Servants, cars, people doing everything for him. Yeah… He’s the worst.
His gaze flicks to Angus, who’s left a trail of dirty paw prints, then to me, and finally my cases.
“That all you own? What are you, vagabond adjacent?”
“I pretty much spend half my life in scrubs. I don’t need much but a good bed, a good TV and sleep.” I need food, Katie, Angus, and Gramps, too, but… “This was your idea, remember? You forced this, threatened my grandfather. If you’ve changed your mind, I’m more than happy to go back to my life.”
