by Lee, Nadia
“Awesome.” He picks up the tray.
“Let me help you clean up,” I say.
“No, no. Today is Court Makes Skittles Smile Day. So, go take a nice, leisurely shower and then come down when you’re ready.” He kisses my forehead.
I feel the soft caress all the way to my heart. I hug him and give him a wide smile. “You’re perfect.”
“Tell me about it.” He walks out, making me laugh.
Court acts like I make him happy, but in reality, I think it’s him who knows exactly how to make me ecstatic. If I were strawberries, he’s the whipped cream. If I were the cake, he’s the frosting… Or maybe it’s the other way around. Whatever it is, we’re compatible and seem to be on the same wavelength all the time.
After the shower, I come out and see my clothes from yesterday, freshly laundered and laid out on the bed. A housekeeper? I go still and listen, but I doubt it. Besides, didn’t he say that he made breakfast?
He must’ve done it. It’s so thoughtful…and surprising. I assumed a guy like him wouldn’t know how to use a washing machine or dryer even if the fate of the galaxy depended on it. If I hadn’t seen it in those articles, I would never guess he’s one of three heirs to a vast fortune and likely grew up as a one percenter.
I can’t wear my work outfit to the pool, so I step into the huge closet for something I can put on. His clothes are laid out neatly, everything pressed and hung or correctly folded. There isn’t as much as I thought there would be. Aren’t billionaires supposed to be clothes whores?
On the other hand, what he does have is very high quality. A few bold, masculine rings sparkle under the light, and the belts are supple leather, the buckles shiny. I spot a midnight-black tux in one corner, and stick my hand underneath the clear dry cleaner’s cover. The fabric feels soft and silky under my fingertips. I bet Court looks mouth-wateringly hot in it. It’s too bad that tuxedos aren’t something a man wears often.
I step back, pulling my hand away. Everything in the closet is also organized by occasion and color. This has to be the work of a housekeeper. I can imagine Court being neat and ironing…kind of. But to be this organized? Nope. That’s definitely not a guy thing.
I change into a white button-down shirt long enough to pass as a micro-mini dress on me. The label says it’s cotton and doesn’t need to be dry-cleaned, so even if it gets a little wet, it won’t matter.
The downstairs level feels different in the morning. The natural light pouring in makes the place appear even bigger and airier, every surface shining. The baby grand positively sparkles like a hunk of polished ivory. I go to the pool, where a huge parasol is set up. Court’s already in a pair of navy bathing trunks. His smooth, bronzed body moves beautifully. This is going to be a great view to work to.
He hands me a bottle of sunblock.
“Want me to put some on your back?” I ask.
“Nah. You see how tan I am? I brought it out for you. You’re probably going to burn.”
I give him a mock glare, but note how pasty I am compared to him. Hawaii was going to fix that, until my stomach decided not to play ball. “Are you calling me ghostly pale?”
“Of course not, Casper.” He gives me puppy eyes and a smile. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Skittles. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
I flush, pleasure and a warm glow mixing together. How can he say things like that without sounding corny and insincere?
Or maybe you’re just that into him.
He takes the bottle and squirts the coconut-scented lotion on his hand, then rubs it between his palms. Slowly, he glides them over my jaw line, neck and below, dipping under the shirt to touch the valley between my breasts.
“You know the sunlight can’t reach there, right?” I say, trying hard to breathe evenly.
“I understand sunlight can penetrate shirts.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“But it’s probably best to focus on the exposed parts first,” he says, way too seriously, even though the corners of his mouth are twitching.
He dumps out more lotion then moves his hands to my legs, starting from my toes. He smoothes his palms over my ankles and calves and up…up…up… He moves between my legs, ostensibly to make it easier to apply the sunblock. My throat dries as hot shivers run through me. We had sex, like, how many times last night and this morning? But somehow it doesn’t seem nearly enough.
“You smell delicious,” he says, and kisses me.
“Mmm. So do you.” And I could melt into his firm, skilled mouth and forget everything except the stirring of pleasure inside me. Part of me even encourages it, tugging at me to let Court set the pace. But the more logical part—the one that made me study when everyone else in my class was out partying late at night—says sex isn’t on the agenda at the moment. “But I really do have to work on my résumé,” I say, albeit half-heartedly.
“I know.” He gives me a final peck, then pulls out a laptop from a bag set under a small drink table and places it on one of the loungers under the parasol.
I settle down under the shade and take the laptop. “What’s the password? Or if you want, you can just type it in,” I say.
“No password.”
“Seriously? Why not?” Doesn’t he have important stuff on here? Or things he doesn’t want people to see?
He snorts. “What’s there to steal? My thesis?”
He watches me open a Word doc. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to hover, but he pats my shoulder. “If you want, I can reward you for your hard work with sex.”
My lips tingle at the offer, and I swear I can taste him again on my tongue. “Isn’t that more like a reward for you?” I say primly.
Laughing, he turns and dives into the pool in one smooth move. I admire it—and the way his lean body effortlessly cuts through the clear water. I’m not a bad swimmer, but he’s something else.
He makes quick work of one lap, then grins at me. “When you need a break, you can always join me.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit.”
“Yeah, I know.” He gives me a grin. “Don’t let that stop you. If you’re just feeling a little shy, I can always take off my trunks, too.”
“Haha,” I say to cover up the naughty excitement that sparks through me. I’ve never been skinny-dipping. Never even considered it. But now it sounds like it’d be fun as hell. And illicit, too. “We’ll see.”
After shooting him an exaggeratedly stern look, I start working on my résumé. It’s a lot harder than I thought. To start, I type out all my accomplishments in bullet points, but no matter how I try to word things, I can’t hide the fact that I was at my dad’s firm for four years without a single promotion or official recognition.
Damn it, Dad. If you’d just let people give me the credit I deserve, I wouldn’t be in this situation.
The laptop pings. A small alert box pops up about a new email from Tulane Blackwood. That’s Court’s dad, if I remember correctly. The subject line reads: URGENT.
“Court, you have an email,” I call out when he breaks the surface and runs a hand over his face. “It’s your dad. Says it’s urgent.”
Court’s expression freezes for a moment, then goes back to normal. But his shrug is stiff and unnatural. “Ignore it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. It’s really not that important.”
I frown at the tight tone of his voice, but what he told me yesterday clearly showed that his parents are a complicated topic for him. Court’s in such a good mood today that I don’t ruin it by probing. If he says it’s not urgent, it probably isn’t.
So I focus on making my SFG years sound as impressive as possible, then finish the résumé and draft a simple cover letter template. By the time I’m done, it’s lunchtime.
Court comes out of the pool and starts drying himself off with a sun-warmed towel. “I’m starving,” he says.
“Me too.” I email both documents to myself and hand the laptop to Court. “Wanna grab somethin
g?”
He tosses it carelessly on a lounger. “Sure. There’s a cool little Japanese place we can try, if you like sushi.”
“I love it. Can I grab a quick shower first?”
“Excellent idea,” he says with bright eyes. “I’ll join you.”
My body starts tingling in places I didn’t know could tingle. “No, because then we’ll never eat.”
He gives a mock sigh, but lets me use the master bathroom alone. I change into my clothes from yesterday and put on some powder and lipstick from my purse. For once, I wish I’d taken Curie’s advice and carried a small makeup pouch with me. She’s big on that, saying you never know. But my complexion’s decent, and the lipstick does the trick, I think.
Court—because he’s a guy and lucky—just throws on a T-shirt and shorts after a quick shower of his own. He drives to a pretty place with bright wood interior. A couple of Asian chefs are laying slices of fish over bullet-shaped rice balls at an open counter set opposite the door as the hostess leads us to a table. The seating area of the restaurant is rectangular, with an elegant square stone garden in the center and a bamboo water fountain.
I get my favorite—maguro sashimi with a small side of seaweed salad, miso soup and steamed white rice. Court gets a basket of edamame and a huge deluxe nigiri sushi set—aptly named “Sumo”—that has thirty-six pieces of sushi.
The service is brisk and efficient. A woven basket full of freshly boiled and chilled soybeans in green pods comes out first. Court wasn’t kidding about being hungry, because he starts inhaling them like he’s in an eating competition. I barely touch a couple of pods before the basket’s half gone.
“If you want, I can pass your résumé around to some friends,” he says, finally coming up for air. “I know some people.”
For a fraction of a second, I’m tempted. If he puts in a good word with his buddies, the fact that I haven’t been promoted in four years might not be much of a factor. But I’ll be damned if I take a pity job. Stuff like that never stays quiet, and I’d rather die. “Thanks, but I really want to make this work on my own. I want to prove to Dad I don’t have to be a guy to do what needs be done.”
He smiles warmly. “Can’t argue with that. But if you change your mind, I’m always available.”
“I know.” I start to reach for his hand.
“Cooourt!”
The high-pitched squeal stills my hand. I turn and see a well-groomed redhead in a bright lemon tube dress rushing toward us—actually to Court. Her face is so well made up, it actually looks airbrushed, and her nails have glue-on stones that glitter.
“There you are!” The woman comes clopping up, somehow sounding like she’s running on cobblestones. “I thought you left town and totally panicked!” She laughs like she’s on helium.
Even though his mouth is still curved in a smile, a combination of annoyance and disgust fleets through Court’s eyes, as though he’s looking at a lump of dog poop some irresponsible owner left behind.
“Tiffany,” he says. “I thought you were busy job hunting. What are you doing here?”
“I am, but Daddy bought me lunch because he knows I love sushi.” She laughs and rolls her eyes. “I just can’t afford it here.”
“Right.” He nods.
My estimation of her is slowly going down, not that it started out that high anyway. I don’t like the way she puts her hand on his shoulder or leans so he has a better view of her overgrown frontal melons. Bitch. Doesn’t she realize he’s with me?
“So,” she says, “have you heard anything?”
Court, being a total gentleman, keeps his eyes on her face. “About…?”
“The job. Your dad never called me back.” She twists her body this way and that, the fabric over her Himalayan boobs stretching tighter. And she’s getting so close that they’re almost rubbing against him.
Oh geez. Is this how she plans to score a job at the company Court’s family runs? That’s…sad.
Tiffany continues, “I mean, he hinted it’d be great for me to work for you because you’re going to need an assistant—”
“I actually have zero desire to work,” Court says. “I plan to be as lazy as possible. As a matter of fact, I’m going to be a professional bum.”
The idea is so absurd that I almost burst out laughing. I can’t believe Court can deliver the line so seriously.
Tiffany actually does laugh. “I’m not talking about vacations, silly.”
“No. As permanent employment.” Court uses his hands to frame an imaginary floating billboard. “Can you see it? ‘Beach Bum Billionaire!’ Has a nice, alliterative ring, doesn’t it? Sadly, it isn’t the kind of position that requires an assistant.”
“But—”
“Tiff, you’re interrupting our date.” He glances at me meaningfully.
She finally turns toward me. Her eyes catalog me from head to toe—my hair, my face, my breasts and clothes. Then she dismisses me as though I’m no competition to her bottle-red hair, overly made-up face, huge tits and extra-tight dress.
I raise an eyebrow. At least my tits are real. And I don’t need to cajole a man for a job.
“Sorry.” She doesn’t look sorry. “But like I was saying—”
“If you don’t leave, I’m going to be really unhappy, Tiffany.” Court is speaking entirely too mildly, like he’s vaguely annoyed with a puppy that hasn’t been housebroken yet.
“But…” She pouts. Then her eyes widen. “Wait! Are you going to hire her?” She points like I’m something that ought to be scraped off hot asphalt.
“I have zero interest in working for him,” I say blandly. “I don’t date my bosses.”
“Tiff, meet Pascal. See how gorgeous she is? Scary smart, too. A strong, independent go-getter. Just my type.”
He’s probably saying all this to piss Tiffany off. But pleasure warms my cheeks anyway because those are attributes I’m working hard to achieve.
He continues, “Now listen. Good luck with your job hunting. I’m sure it’ll be fruitful for you.” His voice has turned coolly formal, his words hard. It surprises me, because he always seems so jovial and fun. “Don’t ever interrupt my personal time again. If you want to talk to me about professional matters, you can make an appointment and pay my hourly rate of five thousand dollars, wired in advance.”
Her mouth drops open like a maguro I can see on the cutting board. “How can you be so cold?”
“Quite easily. Goodbye.” He gives a little wave.
Her massive chest heaves. I brace myself for a scene, but she inhales—very impressively—a few times and stomps out of the restaurant, making more noise than a rhino trying to kill a roach.
Court turns to me with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry about that.”
“No, it’s fine. Does, um, this happen a lot?” I’ve never had an encounter with an ex’s previous girlfriend like this. I can’t pin down how I feel about it. Annoyed, obviously. Awkward. And pitying…because it’s just pathetic for any woman to do what Tiffany just did. But that doesn’t mean I feel much empathy for her.
His left eyebrow twitches. “Define ‘a lot.’”
“Like…a few times a month?”
“It happens. They know who I am, what I have, who I know.”
“That must be irritating.”
He shrugs. “It is what it is.”
Our server finally brings our entrées. I start to pick through the beautifully laid out maguro with my bamboo chopsticks, my appetite no longer quite so hearty. Our mood is quiet and somewhat somber.
I place an elbow on the table and prop my chin on my fist. Court is eating like there’s nothing wrong with his appetite. Maybe he isn’t at all bothered by the fact that people try to use him because of his money and family. But I am. I’ve never dated somebody like him before, and I wonder…
“Do you ever wonder if I’m going to use you?” I blurt out.
He nods, his mouth set in a flat line. “You already have.”
I have? When?
How?
“Last night. It was great.” He lets out a soft sigh, his eyes shimmering with something stormy that should scare me but doesn’t. “You need to do it again.”
My face flames, half with embarrassment and half with inexplicable pleasure. “You aren’t taking me seriously.”
“Of course I am. I can’t believe you’re worried about it. You aren’t like them. You left me fifty bucks that first time, remember?” He taps his chin. “I think it maybe covered the service charge or something.”
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Nope. Gonna milk it for life. When I’m old and lying in a nursing home bed, I’m going to be like, ‘Skittles paid me after great sex. One thousand dollars.’”
My eyebrows are probably disappearing under my hairline. “A thousand dollars, huh?”
“Adjusted for inflation.”
I laugh. “Okay, buster. No more money for you after sex, regardless of performance.”
“Not even a little?”
“Nope.”
“Even after you take advantage of me?”
“Most definitely not,” I say with mock severity.
He grins. “Deal.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Pascal
For the rest of the week, I debate long and hard about skipping this Saturday’s dinner. Court invites me to spend the day with his brother and friends at his place, and it’s really, really tempting. I still have no idea what I’m going to say to Dad. We haven’t spoken since Monday, and my disappointment and anger haven’t fully dissipated.
But Curie and Joe are back from their honeymoon, and they’re going to come. No matter how upset I am with my dad, I can’t let what happened at the firm taint my relationship with the rest of the family. And I also need to figure out how I’m going to deal with Dad. Avoiding him won’t solve anything.
On Friday, when Court realizes my plan while we’re having pizza and watching an old episode of Buffy, he asks, “Do you want me to come with you?”
