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“Yes. Those were all incredible,” I said. “But none of them was reason enough to stay with him.”
“Not to mention how competitive he can be.” She dragged a hand through her long blond hair. It was always so shiny. “God, was that annoying. Tell me the truth.” She leaned in. “Did he have a small dick?”
I nearly choked on my own spit. “Emerson!”
“What? It’s a valid question.”
I shook my head. “No.” It wasn’t. “I’m not going there.”
“I mean, it’s not like you’re dating him anymore. I won’t tell anyone. He did, didn’t he?”
I ignored her request, leading her through the primary bathroom. She stopped and stared at the enormous free-standing tub, and I had to hold her back when she tried to climb in.
“Holy shit. This bathroom…” She was peering up at the chandelier as she said it.
“I know, right? And it’s one of thirteen. Though it’s the most spectacular.”
“Thirteen?” she choked out. When I nodded, she said, “Damn. How many bedrooms?”
“Seven.”
“Oh, only seven. Psh.”
We laughed and headed for the closet. When we stepped through the doors, the lights immediately switched on. Emmy’s eyes widened.
“Okay, forget Jude and his perks. I want to marry whoever owns this house.”
I laughed, though I knew how she felt. After living here for only a few weeks, I was already in love. I was scared to meet the man who owned it for fear of falling for him as well.
“This is… Wow. This closet is bigger than my last apartment,” she said.
“I know.” And it had more custom built-ins than the Container Store. It even had a freaking couch.
Emmy plucked a hanger from the rack and held up one of the shirts. I’d wondered what the man who owned them looked like. Judging from the cut of his shirts and pants, he had a good body.
I told myself he was probably a jerk. Or married. Or a serial cheater.
“Stop that!” I chided, trying to take the shirt from her. But she was fast. Too fast.
“Why? It’s not like he’s going to know.” She perused the rest of them. “It’s not like you were trying it on or wearing it out.”
Judging from the mischievous look on her face, she was imagining doing just that. “No,” I said in a stern tone. “Put the shirt down and step away.”
“But it’s Prada,” she whined, admiring her reflection in the mirror. “And the sleeves look like they’d actually be long enough.”
“I don’t care,” I said in a stern tone. “I need this job.”
She pouted when I held out my hand expectantly for the shirt. “But you already have another job. Besides, who’s going to ever know?”
“Emmy,” I whispered. “This house has a security that could rival the Louvre. And the Hartwell Agency warned me that owners can be crazy particular. As in, some of them are so anal, they get pissed if you disturb the vacuum lines from the cleaning crew.”
She shook her head but returned the shirt. “Always such a rule-follower. Don’t you ever get tired of doing the right thing?”
“Maybe I would if I had a choice.”
“Mm.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her hip against one of the built-in dressers.
“What?” I asked, sensing she had something more to say. Something that was bigger than trying on designer shirts or breaking the rules.
