“And guess what? I think my family would rather us lose everything, than for me to be verbally attacked by an asshole. I’m a human, Huxley, treat me like one,” she snaps at me and then turns in her seat so she’s not looking at me at all, but rather out the window.
Fuck.
Guilt swarms me, because she’s right.
She is a human and she did a fucking great job today. I’m not generally an asshole. I know how to be civil, so why have I thrown out all decorum when it comes to Lottie?
I glance over at her. She’s closed off; there’s nothing I can say right now that will penetrate the wall she’s erected, so instead of trying to deliver some half-hearted apology, I stay silent for the rest of the car ride, stewing in my own thoughts and reliving the night.
Dave seems to be his most receptive when at home, when with Ellie, but he also clearly won’t talk business then either. So how can I combine the two?
Normally I wouldn’t chase a deal like this. I never have, really. In fact, I’ve never had to lie nor be a complete asshole to anyone to achieve my goals. But with my eyes set on the ten-million-dollar profit this deal will procure, there’s no stopping, as far as I’m concerned. Cane Enterprises needs those properties. That is the priority.
They will be mine by the end of this, I guarantee it.
Chapter Eight
LOTTIE
I hate him.
I hate him so much.
Here I am, performing my ass off, caring about the difference between frozen spinach and fresh spinach as Ellie tells me all about her spinach balls that Dave likes so much. I listen with a smile, respond with thoughtful questions, and even delight in exchanging emails so she can send me, as she said, “all of the recipes.”
And what do I get at the end of the night from Huxley?
Are you thinking a thank you?
Possibly a good job?
I’m not looking for a celebration of my accomplishments, but I’d appreciate a little bit of kindness.
But it seems as though kindness isn’t part of Huxley Cane’s repertoire.
That’s fine. Totally cool. Because, guess what? I know what to expect now.
Which would be nothing.
I should expect nothing from him.
Silence fills the car as we make our way through Beverly Hills. Huxley flies through the streets, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift, disregarding every speed limit stated on the side of the road. And when I glance over at him, I notice the tight grip of his hand on the finely conditioned leather, the steel of his jaw, and the pinch between his brow. What the hell is he so disconcerted about? I’m the one who has been thrown through the wringer today.
He just sat there and dictated.
Annoyed with him, I keep my eyes forward as we begin to slow down. We pull up in front of a large, wooden gate. He presses a button on the visor of his car, and the gate slowly opens to the right, into a white stone wall covered by vines. Of course.
Ahh, this must be home sweet home. In my head, he has some ostentatious house with pillars, obnoxiously large fountains, gold fixtures, and marble everywhere, even on the walls, because he can afford it, but as we turn into the driveway, I’m completely surprised by the house that comes into view. A coastal-looking white house with black-framed windows, large, southern-looking lamps flanking each side of the main door, and a simple black tin roof.
This was not what I was expecting at all.
It’s chic.
Modern.
In style.
Nothing ostentatious about it other than the size.
Huxley parks the car just as someone steps up to his car door and opens it for him. “Mr. Cane, welcome home.”
“Thank you, Andre.” Huxley hands him the keys. “Everything all set?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you for staying late. You can head home.”
“I’ll park your car in the garage and plug it in first. Have a good night.”
“You too,” Huxley says, and excuse me while I pick up my jaw because . . . how come Andre gets spoken to like a normal person and I don’t?
Huxley opens my door for me and then holds out his hand, but since we’re no longer under the eyes of Dave and Ellie, I ignore his help and attempt to shut the car door, his grip on the top of the door preventing me from doing so.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.
“I can open and shut the door myself.”
Leaning in close, he says, “And I have staff around the house that will be watching us interact, so you need to act like you’re my fiancée.”
“Uh, excuse me?” I ask. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”