Closer

by Aria Hawthorne

  “And Hans,” she continued. “Well…dearest Hans was more than willing to lend me a shoulder to cry on.”

  “He lent you more than just his shoulder,” Sven shot back.

  She threw back her head with laughter. “Yes, perhaps he did.” She closed the gap between them and reached out to toy with the waist strings of his silk pajama pants. “But you must know, Sven. I never meant to hurt you…it’s just that…I was hurting, too.”

  She touched his bare chest, her fingernails skating down his flanks. He exhaled and looked into her smoldering eyes. She said she had come to make peace between them. But she wasn’t a woman who inspired peace; she was a woman who inspired vices.

  The sensation of her touch made the hair rise up along the nape of his neck. Celeste always had a knack for soothing his defenses, and after last night, his body was starved for attention. He noted the sophisticated scent of her perfume—something expensive and Parisian. For a brief unguarded moment, he considered gathering her up into his arms and testing the sincerity of her innuendos. It would be the perfect revenge against Hans, and perhaps he would even be able to rekindle some of his attraction for Celeste. Wrath and lust—two of the seven deadly sins.

  In the past, he likely would have done it. But not now. Now, the only thing ringing through his head was the sound of Inez’s sarcastic voice. Your friends are all assholes, Sven. And the only emotion tugging at his heart was disappointment—disappointment that Celeste was the one who was there and she wasn’t. Inez was right—they were all assholes—and something inside him made him want to prove himself different from them.

  He confidently drew Celeste’s arms from around his neck and pulled away from her. “Celeste, you’re engaged to my brother now, and I have other obligations.”

  “You mean like speed dating younger women?”

  He paused and glared at her. It was a petty insult—punishment for rejecting her physical advances, no doubt.

  His cell phone rang out from the sofa where he had left it. Staring at her, he picked up the phone and deliberately answered the call. “Hello? Yes, of course. Please come up.”

  “How sweet. She’s here now.” Celeste’s voice was filled with contempt.

  He didn’t correct her. Instead, he retrieved her coat from the sofa, offering to help her into it.

  “She was wearing your mother’s emerald necklace last night,” she noted curtly, slipping her long elegant arms through the coat’s flowing bell sleeves. “Something you never offered me.”

  Sven didn’t feel compelled to answer. In fact, taking about Inez with Celeste seemed dishonorable. He draped her coat over her slender shoulders before she pulled away and sauntered towards the front door. Its buzzer rang.

  “Open.” Sven called out, triggering the mechanical click of the lock, allowing the porter to roll in the luggage cart.

  “Oh, I see,” Celeste said with a nod. “You’re bringing her tonight, too?”

  “Yes, of course. She’s my girlfriend.”

  The comment rang untrue in his ears, but he didn’t care. He liked the way it felt to say it, and he wanted Celeste to hear it.

  She paused in the doorway, gazing at the two garment bags hanging from the cart’s gold-plated rails.

  “Let’s hope she’s better at influencing you than I was. Eliot Watercross is determined to have you onboard for the Li Long project, even if it means ruining you—just to ensure your participation. Be careful, Sven. I would hate to see you making choices that could hurt you and your career.”

  Without bidding him farewell, she brushed past the porter and strode out the door. Relieved, Sven watched her indistinct figure disappear into the private elevator before opening the door of a side closet, fishing through his coat’s pockets, and retrieving a one hundred dollar bill, which he handed over to the young man.

  “Thank you, Cyrus.”

  “You bet, sir!” the porter exclaimed, stunned by the tip as he exited the penthouse.

  Within the privacy of his own personal thoughts, Sven edged towards the first garment bag, fumbling in his search for its zipper. When he finally succeeded, he buzzed opened the sheath and slipped his hand into it, savoring the silky fabric against his palm. He pulled out a swath of the dress and examined it in the light—shimmering iridescence like the interior of a sea shell. Unconventional and flashy. Clearly, Ebony was determined to taunt him, but perhaps not as much as his own imagination, as he stopped and wondered how much longer he had to wait before he would have the opportunity to see Inez wearing it.

  Chapter Nine

  Groggy and drained, Inez rolled over in her bed, still wearing her street clothes from the night before. She peered over at Luna’s crib. Empty. The comforting scent of homemade pancakes drifted into her bedroom. Breakfast with Nana.

  She had crept quietly through the house last night, trying hard not to disturb her grandmother or Luna. Safely inside her bedroom, Inez had dumped her heavy purse and breast pump onto the floor, tore off her coat, and plopped onto her untouched bed. She didn’t even remember the routine baby cries or the gentle movements of her grandmother, bringing Luna to Inez’s bed to nurse. Through her haze of exhaustion, the only thing Inez remembered was her surreal dream—skinny dipping with Sven in the warm, crystal blue waters of the Caribbean, the sensation of freedom, fluidity, and fun overwhelming her subconscious. It was an absurd dream, really, she thought. Not only was she terrified of the water because she didn’t know how to swim, but she certainly had no intention of letting Sven van der Meer see her naked.

  Drained by her debilitating yawn, she attempted—and failed—to pull herself completely out of bed. She spread her arms out across her mattress like she was being crucified. What had she gotten herself into? Only in her messed-up life could Inez possibly believed that she was being paid to pretend to be the girlfriend of someone as prominent as Sven van der Meer. She exhaled a languishing sigh of surrender before unzipping her jeans and wiggling out of them. Last night’s dinner was a faded memory now, but the final moments in Sven’s penthouse within his bedroom still lingered with her. She had changed out of the black corset and back into her orange sports bra, but she hadn’t removed the French cut G-string. Why? Because she liked how it made her feel sexier than just a struggling single mom.

  She gazed down at the wad of cash, peeking out from her open purse lying on the floor. Five thousand dollars. The money stared back, taunting her. She had successfully escaped from him last night, but it had been surprisingly hard. And although she had refused Sven’s advances, she felt like a whore for indulging in her own private fantasies of him this morning. Touching her leg, kissing her throat, tugging up on her G-string while groping her backside. Apparently, not even in her dreams could she avoid letting him see her naked. Weak, weak woman.

  She dragged herself up from her bed and lifted the stack of cash out of her purse. Yes, he had been a total prick to her during her “job” interview—if that’s what you could even call it. But by the end of the night, it had been hard to resist the sensation that there was actually some type of meaningful connection between them. There was nothing pretend about the intensity in his gaze—and his touch—which hinted at something more than just forbidden sexual attraction.

  And let’s be real: Inez was officially on the rebound. It had only been a year since Enzo left for Argentina to renew his visa, leaving her accidentally pregnant and uncertain about their relationship and her future. After all that drama and heartache, she actually felt like she wanted to do something to get over Enzo, and yet, sleeping with Sven van der Meer—world famous architect who was paying her five thousand dollars a day to pretend to be his girlfriend—would easily score her a mention in the Dumb Girl’s Almanac under “Most Desperate Rebound Options.” Her life was already complicated enough and the last thing she needed was any more complications—much less engaging in anything illegal like an awkward form of prostitution. Thank you, but no thank you.

  Simmering blueberries. The seducing aroma of
berrylicious compote floated up the staircase and into her bedroom. Her grandmother was sending her a message: breakfast time.

  She quickly slipped on a fresh T-shirt and yoga pants over her orange sports bra and G-string and slung her breast pump over her shoulder in case Luna wasn’t interested in feeding. She shuttled down the wooden-paneled staircase and exhaled a sigh of relief. Home. Even with its unstable newel post staircase banister, drafty cracked windows, creaking foundation, and dusty floor rugs, she always loved being there in her grandmother’s house. It was the same house her own mother had grown up in, and now that she was gone, Inez often found comfort in the framed photographs that lined the fireplace mantel. Her mother’s portrait as a child. Her mother and father’s wedding picture. Grandpa’s vintage portrait as an army serviceman. Remembrances of family. Now, life was different and loved ones were gone. But that didn’t change the way that Inez felt about living in that house, or her vow to care for her grandmother there for the rest of her life.

  Inez immediately spotted Luna swaying in the baby swing, mesmerized by the chirping, rotating bird mobile above her.

  “Hi honey. I missed you so much.” She swooped the baby into her arms and snuggled her chin against Luna’s pink flannel onesie, kissing her soft black hair.

  “She’s waiting for the boob,” Nana called out from the kitchen. “I tried the bottle, but she’ll have none of it because she knows you’re here. She always knows.”

  Inez carried Luna into the kitchen and sank down into a chair at the formica and chrome dining table, happily dumping the breast pump onto the floor. Her grandmother scuffed across the linoleum floor in her tattered bunny slippers, seamlessly delivering Inez a fresh cup of coffee before shuffling back to the gas range and flipping the last batch of pancakes like a gourmet chef.

  “So what’s this new job that has you skulking home in the middle of the night like a robber looking for a bullet between the eyes?” Nana asked. “Your friend, Sarah, pretended like she knew zippo about it.”

  Inez unclasped her nursing bra, nestled Luna against her breast, and relaxed with her only cup of coffee for the day. It was a familiar morning routine and the main reason why she never accepted jobs that forced her to work in the morning. The morning was their bonding time—her only chance to spend time and an uninterrupted meal with both her daughter and her grandmother.

  “Did I wake you?”

  Her grandmother swatted the insinuation away with her spatula. “You know me. I’m a geriatric insomniac. I was already up, listening to reruns of Bonanza.” Glaucoma had stolen her grandmother’s sight years ago, but nothing could take away her love of watching TV. “Did you know that Richard Simmons just released a new exercise video and it’s only nine ninety-nine?”

  “Please tell me you didn’t buy it.”

  Nana placed the plate of pancakes squarely in front of Inez. “It’s called Sweatin’ with the Grannies,” Nana overrode her. “I didn’t. But I sure as hell wanted to. He’s got seventy-year-old biddies out there on the dance floor, movin’ and groovin’ their false hips like the Hokey Pokey is their second language. Luna loves Richard Simmons, by the way. I think it’s because he sounds like a Muppet.”

  Nana turned back to the range, stacked up two pancakes onto a second plate, and then took a seat at the table next to Inez. Inez suddenly was reminded of Sven. Just like her grandmother, he moved through his penthouse with a confidence and grace that impressed her. Within the familiarity of their own houses, Inez almost forgot how handicapped they both were by blindness.

  As usual, Inez saw the copy of today’s Chicago Tribune newspaper on the table, awaiting her.

  “Which section do you want me to read first, Nana? Arts & Leisure? Or Business & Finance?” She stroked Luna’s perfect little baby feet and settled into her seat for a long stint of reading aloud.

  “Neither,” her grandmother replied, shifting her glacial eyes onto Inez. “I want to know why you’re being so coy about your new gig.”

  “Because there’s not much to tell. I go to work. I make money. I come home.”

  “After midnight?” Nana folded her arms like a schoolteacher searching out the truth. “Are you involved in the mob?”

  “You’ve been watching too much Sopranos, Nana.”

  “True. But only when you and Luna are gone, and I really want something to put me asleep. What about your clothes?”

  “My clothes?”

  “Are they making you take off your clothes?”

  “Not unless I want to,” Inez replied sarcastically. But then she paused, suddenly thinking about Sven and last night.

  “Hm.” Nana didn’t sound convinced. “Are drunk men involved?”

  “No, actually just an incredibly demanding blind man.”

  “Really?” Nana replied, as if she suddenly approved. “Is he a widow?”

  “He’s not your type, Nana. Trust me.”

  “Ah…too old for me, eh?”

  “A total grumpmeister.”

  “Hm. I hate grumpy.” Nana stuffed her mouth with pancake and then offered her own solution. “Well, I heard yesterday from Phyllis that the church still has an opening in the office.”

  “Which barely pays five dollars an hour, Nana.”

  “And free BINGO on Friday nights.” Nana replied, sweetening the deal.

  Inez loved her grandmother, but she was clueless about inflation and even worse about managing her own finances. She didn’t have the heart to tell her that her disability and social security checks barely paid the monthly bill to heat the entire house, much less anything extra like groceries, clothes, Luna’s diapers, and the cost of Nana’s glaucoma medication. Her earnings from her job as Sven’s faux girlfriend would ensure them financial security for the rest of the year, plus the unexpected opportunity for Inez to spend more time taking care of Luna herself rather than relying on Nana and babysitters.

  “Don’t worry, Nana. I promise it’s all legit and I only have to work three more nights. And I even get to use my Tribune factoids to impress my new boss and all his snobby friends.”

  “Well, see…? There you go. I never believed all this talk about that internet thingy replacing the importance of newspapers.” Nana sat back in her seat in triumph. “So this morning, let’s go with Arts & Leisure.”

  Inez flipped through the pages until her phone pinged from beneath the table. Her breast pump bag. She had deposited her phone in one of its pockets during the car ride home and forgot about it completely.

  “Sounds like you’re being summoned by Señor Grumpmister,” Nana said.

  Inez glanced down at the text.

  Good morning, Scarlet.

  Inez texted back. Good morning, Mr. Van der Meer. Without a beat, he sent back his reply.

  My driver said he didn’t return you to the same place last night as the apartment building where you returned in the afternoon.

  Nosy cadaver, she thought, shooting back her response. Your driver needs to mind his own business.

  He usually does, except I asked him if you got home okay.

  Inez dropped her phone. It was easy to be snarky and rude to someone who was spying on her; it was another thing to be rude and snarky to someone who was caring about your safety.

  “It’s my new boss. He’s checking that I got home safely last night,” Inez relayed to Nana.

  “The horror!” her grandmother cried out.

  Inez tuned out her grandmother’s sarcasm and watched her phone. Sven’s text suddenly appeared. He said he dropped you off at mansion in West Ravenswood… If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were cheating on me with another billionaire.

  She marveled at the speed and shrewdness of his response. Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think? She added the question mark at the last minute to soften the snark.

  Definitely true. That’s why you’re meeting me at the fart museum. Two o’clock.

  Inez died. You mean, the Art Institute?!?!

  Clearly, he was using the speech
-to-text feature.

  Of course. What better way to better get to know my girlfriend than to visit the place we first met?

  A shiver of anticipation snaked down her spine. “He wants me to meet him at the Art Institute,” she said aloud.

  “Is he some kind of art collector?” Nana sounded intrigued.

  “Architect,” she answered, lost in her own thoughts. There was no hint of cockiness or condescension. There was only a serious attempt to be charming and romantic. Inez slouched in her seat, lost in his text, as if they were back in his penthouse, shrouded in darkness except for the intimate, kindling glow of the fireplace.

  “Hmm,” Nana mused, reading her silence. “Are you sure this architect isn’t more than just demanding, blind, and grumpy?”

  “Well…” Inez paused, on the verge of confessing everything. “He might also be wealthy, intelligent, and ridiculously…hot.”

  “BINGO!” Nana clapped her hands like she was in the winner of her church’s annual Sinners & Saints tournament. “So finally we have it. The reason why you’re working until midnight every night. Your new boss is a stud muffin.” Nana stressed “stud muffin” like she was pronouncing a delightfully dirty phrase.

  Inez eyed her grandmother’s glee. “You’ve been watching reruns of The Bachelor, haven’t you?”

  Nana shrugged. “Apparently it’s more fun watching it than living it.”

  Inez eyed her grandmother. Sometimes it was just better not to tell Nana anything.

  Sven abruptly pinged back. Come on, Miss Sanchez. We can stroll through the Impressionist suite and pretend we’re in Giverny. It might actually be enjoyable.

  Flustered, she texted back the first random excuse that popped into her mind. I have nothing to wear and my dollhouse clothes from Ebony are all at your penthouse.

  What are you wearing now?

  Considering the truth, Inez dropped her phone again and chewed on her fake fingernail. Her orange bra and black G-string? Yeah, wrong answer. Instead, she got creative.

  XL sweat shirt and fat girl sweat pants.