“Did you read the entire contract?”
That godforsaken contract. How many times is it going to come back and bite me in the ass?
“Of course I did.”
I didn’t.
Who really reads contracts these days? Lawyers, that’s who. I read the important parts—at least, I thought I did. There was a section about staff, but I breezed over it. I thought it was just about how he has staff that works for him, so, I don’t know . . . be kind. Something like that.
“Then you’d have noticed that section. Andre is my trusted right-hand man, he knows of our arrangement, but he’s the only one.”
“Doesn’t your staff have NDAs?” I ask.
“Yes, but things always seem to slip. We’ve fired a few staff members for tipping off the media, so I still don’t fully trust everyone in my house.”
“Seems stupid to me.” I reluctantly take his hand. “Allowing these strangers to come into your house and take care of you, but you don’t trust them. Yeah, really intelligent.”
“There are very few people I trust.”
“Do you trust me?” I ask as we walk toward his grand entrance. The black door feels incredibly intimidating despite the potted flowers welcoming you.
“No,” he answers without thought.
“Wow, that’s . . . that’s fucked up.”
“I barely know you. Why would I trust you?” He opens the front door and I’m greeted by an expansive entryway, light blond floors, white walls, and a straight shot all the way to the back of the house, where the largest sliding glass doors I’ve ever seen open to a beautifully lit-up pool and dreamy backyard with enough foliage to block out the neighboring properties. He places his hand on my back and says, “You need to earn my trust.”
I glance up at him and say, “You’re not the only one who needs trust to be earned.”
“You’d be a terrible businesswoman if you offered up your trust right away. I respect you more for making me earn it.”
“Oh, yay, I earned your respect,” I say sarcastically as I walk into the house. I take in the impersonal décor and the calculated placement of each item. Large vases, sleek-looking bowls, and foliage offer the lack of personalization I’m talking about. He probably doesn’t even know half of these decorations exist.
Past the entryway, the house opens up into a great room with vaulted ceilings covered in white shiplap and lightly stained wooden beams. The house is devoid of any color, only decorated in variations of white, with pops of black and green here and there from a plant I’m sure he doesn’t bother watering himself. The kitchen is massive. The island traverses the entire length of the kitchen, with marble countertops and black cabinets, but the uppers and lowers around the kitchen walls are white with modern, black hardware. It’s an absolute dream kitchen, and I’m pretty sure if Kelsey saw this house, she’d be drooling.
“You’re welcome to anything in the kitchen. My chef prepares premade meals and puts them in the fridge. If you’ve any requests, just let me know, and I’ll make sure they’re prepared.”
“I can get my own food.”
“Do I need to remind you, you’re my fiancée?”
I turn toward him and catch him with his hands in his pockets, looking somewhat vulnerable as I take in his house. I lean in and whisper, “Fake fiancée.”
Ignoring my comment, he says, “Nothing is off limits in the house. What’s mine is yours.”
“Oh, so no threat to stay out of the west wing?”
His brow knits in confusion.
“You know, like from Beauty and the Beast.”
“Are you comparing me to the Beast?”
“Not quite. He seemed to have more manners when dealing with his captive.”
“I don’t find that amusing.”
“Shocking,” I say and walk over to the fridge. I pull open one of the enormous Sub-Zero doors. Just like he said, there are meals fully prepared and stuck in the fridge with dates marked on the top. Man, the kind of things money can get someone. “Like Brussel sprouts, do you?” I ask, seeing a lot of them in the containers.
“They’re good for you.”
“So I’ve heard.” I shut the fridge and then ask, “Where’s my room?” And then it hits me. “Uh, wait . . . are we going to have to share a room?” I hold up my hand. “Because that’s where I put my foot down. There’s no way I’m sharing a bed with you. I need my own space.”