“It is mine.” She laughs. “I’m American. Born and raised.”
That earns her a grunt.
“Do the rugs match the drapes?”
Years of English/elocution lessons are thrown out the window as my brain blue-screens. “Don’t you decide that?”
“Huh? Oh. No. I meant is the interior similar?”
“What does that have to do with drapes and rugs?”
“Never mind.”
“It’s traditional. Down to the stone hearth in the kitchen where you can toast bread if you want to and the hardwood floor throughout.” Deciding that I’d better face the residential nightmare I purchased for her, I climb out from behind the wheel too.
“How many staff?”
“Five.”
“Liar.”
“Five,” I repeat.
“Guards?”
Seeing no point in hiding, I point out the three guardhouses.
She whistles. “This place came with three extra properties? How many acres is it set on?”
“Four.”
“Are you going to turn into a dairy farmer, Maxim?” she taunts, but I’ll take it. She at least sounds back to normal, and if teasing me is what she needs, then tease me she can.
“The only thing I’ll milk is you. Of orgasms.”
“Oh,” she keens. “That’s a relief. I thought you might be into hucows.”
“No, but that Veronian I have tucked away is.”
I fasten my sports jacket and round the car.
She automatically slips her hand over my forearm then tugs on it. “You worked hard last night.”
Rather than question why she’s repeating herself, I add, “I work hard every night.”
“But… for me.”
“I work hard every night foryou.”
“What?” Her confusion has me clucking my tongue.
“Everyone needs something to strive for. Or someone. You’re my someone.”
She shakes her head. “I’ll never understand you.”
“You keep on saying that, but there’s little to understand. You. Are. Mine. That’s what matters.”
“Andyoukeep on sayingthatbut I don’t know what it means. You blow hot and cold and then tell me you bought me a house. I don’t see you for two years, and then I’m the one who turns up out of the blue, at the brownstone I only knew was yours because I had to ask your damn guards, by the way…
