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“It doesn’t hurt that she’s attractive, I suppose,” Gloria remarks. “Maybe one day you might look up from your stuffy meetings and realize that.”
“Mother, the only thing I find attractive about Evelyn is her ability to string a sentence together that doesn’t, in effect, request money.” I stand and make out a waitress hurrying in our direction. “I’ll leave you to your lunch. Should you choose to drown yourself in wine today, rather than your typical martini, order a bottle of their finest,onme.” As the breathless waitress approaches, I reach into my breast pocket for a business card and toss it onto the table.
“Put whatever she orders on my tab,” I tell her before turning to the door. I don’t have to look behind me to know that my mother is more than willing to accept my offer.
After all, her affection is completely transactional in nature.
It is a Bellamy family trait.
CHAPTER3
evie
My first unscheduled “afternoon” off in three years unfolds the same way I figure anyone else’s might—I head up to the office and straighten Bellamy’s desk before inquiring about any new messages left for him with Ann, his secretary—completely out of my own curiosity. Unsurprisingly, none of them are from Adrian Riley.
Forfun, I spend the next two hours organizing my planner, and by the time I stumble into my apartment, it’s only four-forty-five—about fifteen minutes earlier than when I usually arrive home.
The moment I walk in the door, I spot the end table placed against the nearest wall, taking stock of the items neatly arranged on top of it—first, the framed picture of me and Dad, the vase he saved from his tour of Vietnam, and finally a single plastic rose I couldn’t bring myself to throw away. Last is Mom’s cheap clown figurine and a barely-alive ficus plant I was attempting to revive with daily infusions of tap water. Those few objects are all I need to tether me back to reality after hours spent chasing Graeme Bellamy.
After all, this is the reason I put up with the bastard in the first place—to afford enough money to support myself with no one’s help—even if it means sacrificing my sanity. Telling myself that doesn’t erase the glaring fact that paying for this new condo is bankrupting me. To be fair, the expense was a small price to pay for peace of mind after a thug looking for my brother, Danny, tracked me down and tried to break in. Long story short, unless I want to lose another security deposit, or wind up on the street, I need a raise.
And I somehow have to convince Graeme Bellamy to give me one. Despite this morning’s dustup, I still have hope that I can somehow wrangle him into a new contract before the week’s end.
And before I lose what’s left of my mind.
For now, I’m supposedly off for the rest of the day, right? After kicking off my shoes and munching on a nuked burrito fished from the back of my freezer, I head into my bedroom and set about cleaning out my closet. I double-check that everything is properly organized by color, season, and style, rearrange my shoes by height, and I’ve forgotten all about Graeme Bellamy and his mysterious meeting by the time six-thirty rolls around.
Six-thirty.It’s when Bellamy finally leaves the office and heads to the gym to work out for exactly two hours. On a normal day, I’d meet Maria, his maid, about an hour before she gets off and “help” her turn down his bedsheets as well as place a satchel of lavender on his pillow before he arrives home. Lavender supposedly promotes a calm and restful sleep, and I’ve been determined to ensure that Graeme Bellamy enjoys its full effects for all our sakes.
Considering I have the “rest of the afternoon off,”I don’t have to do those things tonight. Instead, I gather my fresh laundry and safety-pin each pair of socks together. Then I shelve the items in my fridge by expiration date while attempting to ignore my neighbors—the two above are shouting while the family down below is blasting some film involving what I think is a high-pitched chipmunk singing show tunes. I’ve only been in this place a few weeks, but I’m already uncomfortably aware of the other tenants’ habits. For instance, in exactly two minutes, the couple upstairs will loudly break off into separate rooms and slam the doors while the family downstairs will cut off the movie to signal bedtime.
The itch to escape the inevitable leads me to grab my jacket and head for the door. Normal people take walks on their days off, right? I let the resounding thud of two slamming doors and the high-pitched whining of the children down below make my decision for me. It’s a brisk climb down three flights of stairs and out onto the street, where I find the evening traffic cutting a lazy flow through the quaint brownstones that dot this part of the city. I chose this building specifically for the security. It’s impossible to enter without being buzzed in by a resident.
I can’t let myself miss my old apartment with the breathtaking view and the bakery right across the street. Or the proximity to the office that made it only a quick ten-minute commute to work rather than a forty-five-minute sprint across a subway line and four blocks.
This location does have some merits—it’s not long before I find myself in a place where rich socialites stroll the sidewalks with their teacup-whatevers while anxious bellhops attempt to flag down taxis for their wealthy patrons. When I glance up ten minutes later, it's entirely by coincidence that I find myself standing outside of a posh high-rise formed of sleek metal and polished glass—The Royal Suites.
“Evening, Ms. King,” the doorman says, holding the door open with a smile. “You’re always right on time. If only I had just a fraction of your dedication.”
It would be rude to ignore him, so I happily approach. “Evening, William. I’m not here on business tonight.”
At least not until habit completely takes over, and it’s impossible to stop myself from squeezing into the next elevator going up, and riding it all the way to the top floor. There, I run into a frantic woman muttering Spanish under her breath. When she sees me, her brown eyes threaten to bulge right out of her head. “Oh, Ms. King! I thought you weren’t coming. I… I tried to do those little things, but I—”
“Good evening, Maria,” I say, feeling a real smile shape my mouth for the first time that day as I extend my hand for the black key card she yanks from her apron. I continue past her and approach a gleaming silver door at the hall’s end. One swipe of the key card and it opens, revealing the entryway of Graeme Bellamy’s penthouse.
Unlike my own hectic living arrangements, he’s dwelled in this building for as long as I’ve known him. There’s a picture of Gloria on a glass end table beside a leather chaise in the living room. The chicly modern furniture hasn’t changed much in three years. Lucky bastard. I doubt he has to keep half of his belongings in storage, just in case of another last-minute move. Staying ahead of Danny and his debt has basically been a part-time job—meanwhile, his sibling quietly manages half of a billion-dollar fashion empire while backpacking across the world on whatever wellness journey has struck her fancy. Am I jealous? I don’t know, maybe, but I don’t give myself time to put a name to whatever emotion pings in my chest as I climb the metal staircase leading to the upper level.
The last door at the end is already ajar. When I enter the room, I find that Maria has done her best to turn down the dove-gray sheets, but I remake the bed anyway and grab a satchel of lavender from the stash I keep in the hall closet. With only ten minutes to spare, I arrange his outfit for tomorrow—the same gray suit, red tie, and patent leather he wears every Tuesday. Then I hurry back downstairs and leave, tucking the key card into a nearby ficus plant for Maria to pick up tomorrow morning.
As I head toward the elevator, I glance at my watch. Eight-forty-five. Unless there was unusually heavy traffic this evening, Mr. Bellamy should have been on his way up right about… now. I decide to play it safe by heading for the stairs, and by the time I reach the lobby, there’s only the smiling doorman to greet me, and Mr. Bellamy is none the wiser.
* * *
“I thought I told you to take the day off yesterday,” Mr. Bellamy admonishes when I enter his office.
I try to hide my guilt by running a hand down the front of my cream blouse and tweed skirt. His eyes track the motion, and I’m sure he’s noting the many ways my appearance doesn’t live up to his high standards.
If only he wasn’t so damn perfect in comparison. His clothing doesn’t display so much as a wrinkle. His hair is lazily slicked back as if he’s been tearing through it absentmindedly while reviewing this morning’s reports.Damn.I hate the lurch that shoots through my belly at the thought, and I blink my gaze away while I try to form a coherent reply.
