Page 41 of Not You Again
“I already know you’re no lord of dance.” I smile, hoping he’ll just relax.
He gives me a look and scans the keycard. I step in the open door and take it all in. The entryway is marble—I note the crystal chandelier above our heads—and the suite opens up into a large living room. There are dark hardwood floors covered in luxurious Persian rugs. Leather couches. I can’t help it: I run my hand along one of the cushions. It’s smooth as butter.
I groan dramatically.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his hands in his pockets.
“You didn’t tell me you were Scrooge McDuck.”
He tilts his head in question. “What are you talking about?”
I point down the hallway off the living room. “If you tell me there isn’t a swimming pool full of money behind one of those doors, I’ll be disappointed.”
“No swimming pool.” He shakes his head, an exasperated smile on his face. “Did you listen to anything I said earlier?”
“No sex dungeon, yeah, I got it.” I brush past him on my way out of the living room.
When I see the dining room—a huge solid wood table large enough to seat ten people—I pause, all jokes lost.
All at once, the stench of stale French fries from the dollar menu at McDonald’s hits me, along with the sound of radio static and my thighs burning on a scalding, cracked leather bench seat as my mother studies a map, looking for the nearest country club.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat, remembering how she had designer dresses in the trunk, leftovers from the marriage she left behind, when I was only fourteen. How she wore one later, looking elegant even without the diamonds we had to sell so we could eat. How she mingled and flirted and—if she wasn’t lucky—would sneak out with some hors d’oeuvres for me. And if she was lucky? She went home on a wealthy man’s arm in hopes she could make him fall in love, marry her, and he could take care of us for a while.
It’s probably why seeing Kit’s place feels like I’m going to break out in hives. The jokes are really there to distract myself from how this is so close to everything I didn’t want for myself. It’s why I hand sew beads and hems until my fingers crack and bleed. My life will be mine and no one else’s.
Kit’s hand on the small of my back startles me back to the present, as does his question. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head and force a smile. “What do you want to take with us?”
His lips tilt into a half grin as he watches me invade his space. “Not much.”
That makes sense, based on what he told me at the door. I wander down a short hallway and step into what appears to be his office. He’s got a laptop open on a heavy wooden desk, screen dark, and a neat stack of brochures on the side table beside an actual wingback chair. He leans in the doorway, blocking the camera from entering. Steve raises the lens over Kit’s shoulder to film me anyway.
I run my finger over one of the piped seams on the chair, then pick up a heavy crystal paperweight from his desk. “Wow.”
“What’s wow?”
I lean on his desk, tossing the paperweight between my hands. “You’ve achieved everything you ever wanted, haven’t you?”
“I mean, now that I know a sex dungeon is a possibility …” His eyes twinkle with laughter.
I roll my eyes. “You told me you wanted a life like this. Don’t you remember?”
“And you wanted to visit Paris. I remember.” He nods. “I’m comfortable. But I’m not in Forbes, or anything.”
“Sure. Whatever you say, Mr. McDuck. I’m glad one of us accomplished what we wanted.” I push off his desk, and my eyes fall to the brochures on the table by the chair. I expect them to be related to the Colonnade, research he’d do on other properties or something.
Confused by the one on top, I push it aside to see the one below it. My brow furrows as I nudge that one aside, too. They’re all brochures for assisted living and hospice, flagged with sticky notes.
My eyes fly to Kit in the doorway. I don’t dare ask him about them now. Not when his eyes have gotten a shade darker as I looked through them. He hasn’t told me the whole truth about his mom, apparently.
I swallow the lump in my throat and ignore the way my heart becomes so heavy I can barely breathe. In a casual move, I place the paperweight over the title of the brochure on top, so the camera can’t see it if Steve wanders in here.
“Should we start with your closet?” I ask, my voice too hoarse for my liking. The lump in my throat wants to climb out as a sob. I didn’t expect a ridiculously lavish penthouse to stir up so much emotion in me today. Especially when there’s so little of Kit here. I’m sure he could tell a lot about me from visiting my loft. I can’t piece together anything about him from this suite.
Kit pushes off the doorframe and continues down the hallway. “Sorry there’s no swimming pool of money.”
“With a diving board,” I add, grateful he gave me a way to get back to a lighter topic.