Page 19 of Black Ties and White Lies

She snatches her hand from mine, the moment gone between us. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she snaps, stealing the sketchbook from the desk and stuffing deep into her suitcase.

Lies lies lies.She knowsexactlywhat I’m talking about.

My lip twitches. “If you say so.”

One of these days we’re going to talk about what happened that night. But I’ll let her warm up to me more. I’m not typically a patient man, but for her, I can be. It’ll be well worth the wait once we finally acknowledge it.

Beck wastedno time getting us to New York. He essentially gave me one night and the morning to say goodbye to my friends and get my things packed before he showed up at my apartment early this afternoon, pestering me in hurrying to get ready so we could catch our flight.

I’d argued. If he owned the jet, couldn’t he technically be late?

I’ve never felt truly poor. My family did what they could to get by. My parents lived paycheck to paycheck to make things work, but we were loved and we were taken care of. I didn’t want for much of anything growing up. Sure, I wanted the three-level Barbie Dreamhouse and only got it a year after it first released and it was on clearance, but all the things I truly needed, and even most of what I wanted, I had. I was a happy kid growing up, even if my family didn’t have a ton of money.

The first few months after college could arguably be the time where I felt the most poor. I was living off ramen noodles and off-brand snacks that were on sale because they were about to expire. In the moment, it felt like the New York way to live.

At least it wasmyversion of the New York college kid way to live.

Standing in the foyer of Beck’s penthouse high-rise apartment, it’s just now occurring to me how incredibly rich he is. My first clue should’ve been that he lived in Manhattan. One month’s rent for a teeny-tiny studio here is almost triple what we paid to live in a three-bedroom in LA. My second clue should’ve been the fact that Beck had to swipe a keycard in front of a sensor when we stepped into the elevator before he pressed a glowing button with aPHon it.

Of coursehe lives in a penthouse. And of course it’s the most gorgeous space I’ve ever seen.

“Are you just going to stand there and gawk?” Beck’s footsteps echo off the black marble flooring. He stops at a lavish gold entryway table, putting his wallet and keycard into a ceramic bowl.

My feet stay planted on the fancy carpet of the elevator. It dings three times before the doors close in on me. With a yelp, I squeeze between the closing doors, almost dropping my purse in the commotion.

Beck smirks from the middle of the room. His fingers wrap around the handle of my suitcase, his eyes watching me closely.

“Thanks for the help,” I say sarcastically.

“I thought you could manage on your own." Turning around, he walks past a large staircase. He turns his head slightly to speak over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s leave the gallery.”

I laugh, shaking my head as I step next to the staircase. The side is all glass, the stairs white with gold metal accents. It’s very modern and expensive looking. “I’ve never heard the wordgalleryused in that context.”

Beck walks past an enormous dining table, his hand still perched on the handle of my suitcase as he wheels my cheap looking suitcase next to a grand table. My old duffle bag almost slides off the top of the suitcase with his jerky movements. I gawk in awe at the table that sits next to my things. It looks to be made out of some kind of black stone that probably has some kind of fancy name. It looks incredibly heavy. I wonder how many people it took to get it up here. “Gallery…” I repeat, testing the word on my tongue. It feels odd to use it to describe a location in a home.

“Yeah, that there is thegallery. And right now, we’re standing in what’s called adining room,” he says condescendingly.

I stick my tongue out at him. “I gathered,asshole.”

Stopping, he lets go of my suitcase and walks toward the most luxurious kitchen I’ve ever seen. Beck runs his finger over the dark countertop. “This right here is called akitchen.” He draws out the syllables of the word, explaining it to me like I’m a toddler.

I ignore him. If he wants to be a dick, I’m not going to engage. Instead of spewing the various insults running through my head, I take in the space that’s going to be my home for at least the next year.

There’s no way Beck had anything to do with decorating the space. It lookstoonice. Even with the dark color scheme, it’s inviting. It doesn’t feel too cold or unwelcoming. The kitchen is what catches my eye. Cabinets take up the entire wall, the dark wood of them have a slight sheen to the material. The wall of cabinets and counter space meet floor to ceiling windows on one side. On the other, it meets a wall that houses two ovens, a little nook with a fancy-looking coffee machine, and then the biggest refrigerator I’ve ever seen.

My feet take me into the space. I slide my hand over the cold countertop of the expansive island, right in the middle of all of it. My fingers trace over the delicate fissures in the dark stone, stopping at a sink that seems large enough for me to fit me in if I wanted. The cabinets, the faucet, all the details of the kitchen are a shiny brass color, fueling the modern look of the kitchen. The color palette works well together. Although I’m sure Beck had nothing to do with it, whoever did design it did a wonderful job.

“Have you ever cooked anything in here?” I stop admiring the kitchen and instead look to Beck, deciding to admire him instead.

He is my future fake fiancé after all.

Beck holds my gaze. He leans up against the lip of the countertop. His hands leave his pockets. One smoothes down the fabric of his tie while the other pulls at the knot around his neck. I watch in fascination as he loosens the tie around his neck until he pulls it off completely. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Margo Moretti, beginning with the fact that I actually enjoy cooking when I have the time.”

My lips part in shock. I’m trying to picture Beck in this kitchen cooking, but I can’t quite produce the image in my head. It seems too messy, too casual for someone who seems to be in a suit and tie ninety percent of the time. “You cook?”

Beck folds the tie nicely and sets it next to him on the counter. “Why does that shock you so much?”

I inch my way to his refrigerator, pulling the large doors open to inspect what he’s got inside. I was expecting a bunch of take-out containers, or maybe nothing in there at all, but it surprises me how well stocked it is with fresh ingredients. Looking over my shoulder, I find Beck watching me with a smug look on his face.

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