Chapter Five

Tessa

The night passes quickly, despite the evening duties. I distribute blankets to the female clients in the women’s wing. Later I make sure the bathroom supplies are replenished. Finally, I set out water bottles and a basket of apples and oranges. Sometimes clients get hungry in the night.

In the morning, after catching a little better than five hours of sleep, I grab a shower. I have a few things with me to tidy up. A shirt, underwear, makeup and a toothbrush. Maybe it’s from having to pick up and leave foster homes in a hurry that I always carry everything I need for at least one day of bugging out. My ID. Makeup. Charge cord and phone. I had too many living arrangements ripped out from under me. I’ve learned to travel light.

Chelsea and my apartment could be swept away in a tidal wave or hit by a meteor and I’d have everything I need, for a couple of days anyway. After I drag a brush through my damp hair, I put it in a ponytail holder and head to the kitchen.

I set up the coffee for the staff and clients. I help make breakfast which means scrambling a huge pan of eggs and baking dozens of biscuits. Since they’re short-staffed this morning, I stay on and help clean the kitchen. But then it’s time to go. I pull on the jacket Roman lent me last night, grateful for the protection against the brutal wind. The blizzard hasn’t arrived yet, but already the buses are delayed. I grab my regular bus and check text messages. Part of me hopes there’ll be one from Roman. But he hasn’t called or texted.

He reminds me of Mr. Savage. I realized it this morning when I woke from a torrid dream about Roman. Weirdly, he and Mr. Savage were sort of morphed into one person. Which is ridiculous. What are the odds Mr. Savage volunteered at the Com Center?

My phone chimes, making my heart jump in my chest. I scramble, searching for my phone in the depths of my purse and dropping it twice before I manage to bring up the message. But the message isn’t from Roman. It’s from Chelsea. An image of her dressed in lingerie, sprawled across her bed, giving the camera a sultry look. I draw a sharp breath.

Brendon said he can get $100 for this pic. He wants to know if you want in.

I stare at the image, wondering if I’m seeing things. With a shudder, I promptly delete the picture of my friend. What’s happened to her? And how crazy is it that he’d ask me to do something like that? Can Brendon really imagine that I’d pose wearing next to nothing? How could Chelsea suggest that. With him, of all people?

The worst part of that image is that it means Brendon and Chelsea are definitely back together. He probably spent the night last night and will again tonight. I close my eyes, feeling the weight of the situation sink onto my shoulders. Working for Mr. Savage pays very well, but that doesn’t mean I have enough to move out. Even if I did, I’d need a roommate, at least until I got full-time work at a restaurant.

I think about Roman’s words last night.

Tessa, I could help you find a place to stay. Away from your roommate and that whole situation.

And what did that mean, I wonder. Am I jumping to conclusions, imagining that some stranger wants to put me up in an apartment? Because I’m so irresistible? I glance at my boots, combat boots I bought at an army surplus store. Chelsea and I both got a pair. We paid ten dollars and painted them with flowers and vines.

What kind of woman would Roman go out with, I wonder. Probably a woman who’s the opposite of me in every way. Tall and slim. Wealthy. With a degree from an Ivy League school in something like finance or pre-law. She probably wouldn’t touch a carb. If it weren’t for carbs, I probably wouldn’t have a career. Or at least not a very fun career.

By the time the bus drops me off, I’m nearly an hour late. The blizzard hasn’t arrived yet. The wind whips my hair and as I turn the corner, a blast of arctic air hits me with a force that practically knocks me over. I run to the apartment building and burst through the doors, grateful to escape the cold.

Hopping from foot to foot, I wait for the elevator. I’m trying to coax the blood flow back into my feet. The elevator carries me up to the top floor. As usual, I pause to listen for any sounds before getting off the elevator. No one is here, thank goodness.

I go about my usual tasks, tidying the kitchen, when a call comes over the intercom. A man’s voice breaks the silence and I nearly scream. My nerves are seriously on edge. I stop myself from shrieking by clapping my hand over my mouth.

“Miss,” the man’s voice said. “This is David.”

“Um… hello. Yes? David?”

“I’m the doorman. There are some packages for Mr. Savage. Would you like me to bring them up?”

“Okay.” My voice is shrill. “That would be fine. Perfectly fine.”

My heart jackhammers my ribs. I’ve always avoided any of the doormen, but now I’m panicking even more. Does this guy know Margie? Grabbing my phone, I hastily dial Margie’s number.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I hiss, pacing around the kitchen.

“Hellooo, Contessa,” Margie drawls.

I don’t have time to correct her. Margie always said what a pretty and feminine name Contessa was and refuses to call me Tessa. The light on the elevator lit the numbers, one by one as the car ascends. “The doorman’s bringing some packages. What do I do?”

“Really, that’s interesting. I wonder what he’s bringing?”

“No idea, but what if he recognizes me, or what if he figures out I’m not you?”

“Don’t be such a worrywart. Just smile and act natural. The doorman will probably think you’re Mr. Savage’s girlfriend.”

I watch the numbers above the elevator door. The elevator passes the twentieth floor. It will arrive in a matter of seconds.

“His girlfriend, okay.” I let out a huff of air and laugh a little. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I heard you’re getting a blizzard. It’s a clear eighty-five here in the Keys. I’m planning on staying another couple of weeks.”

“Great. Glad you’re having fun.”

“Everything okay with you, dear?”

“Yup. Perfect. I’ll call you soon, okay?”

Without waiting for a good-bye, I end the call. I yank my ponytail holder free, fluff my hair and paste a smile to my lips. The doors slide open, revealing a uniformed man holding a stack of boxes. He steps off the elevator, giving me a polite nod.

“I assumed these packages were for Mr. Savage, but I must be wrong, Miss.”

“Not to worry, David. Just set them on the table.” I gesture to the foyer table, a massive, ornate piece with a marble inlay. “I’ll put them away.”

“Of course, Miss.”

He carries the boxes to the table, returns to the elevator for another stack and once more for the bags. Then he tips his cap and steps into the elevator car. The doors close. He’s gone, leaving me alone in the penthouse once more.

I stare at the boxes and bags, unsure what to do next. What would Margie do? Probably put them away. Warily, I step closer and inspect the various parcels. Peering into a bag, I part the swathes of tissue to find a pale pink, silk blouse. A woman’s shirt.

I jump back, shove the shirt back into the bag and grab another bag, and then another. Every bag and parcel has the name of a woman’s boutique or lingerie shop written in elegant scroll across the front. My mouth goes dry. Mr. Savage expected company. Clearly. This is a first. In the weeks that I’ve been working for him, I’ve never seen a hint of girlfriend.

I draw a deep, trembling breath. What difference does it make if he has a woman? It’s none of my business. Still, my throat feels parched. I get a glass of water and pace back and forth in the kitchen a few times until I am able to gather my wits. Instead of stewing on this, I focus on carrying the shopping to the guest room. I set things on the floor beside the bed. I have no idea if his friend will stay overnight, but I don’t want to just leave the stuff in his room.

Just as I finish, my phone pings. It’s a message from Roman.

I have to tell you something crazy.

I read the words several times. He’s kind, and funny. He’s a little off, but he has a lot of money, that much is clear. I’ve worked with lots of rich people and he’s nowhere near as eccentric as some of them. He’s gorgeous too. The memory of the dream I had of him last night makes my heart somersault. I smile and text him back. How crazy?

I can’t stop thinking about you.

A flood of warmth comes over me. I read the text again and again, and yelp when another text comes in.

I told you it was crazy.

I’m flattered. I wince, wondering if I should say more, decide against it and send the text.

I’m not sure if that was the right thing to say. He doesn’t respond, so I keep myself busy by cooking a few dishes for Mr. Savage. My thoughts ping-pong between the two men. I overcook the noodles for the lasagna and scorch the tomato sauce. My mind is in complete disarray.

I go to the formal dining room to get silverware for his dinner setting. My phone chimes. It’s Roman. His deep voice makes me smile.

“I’m taking you to dinner. Tonight.”

“That doesn’t sound like a request.”

“Because it’s not. It’s a statement of fact.”

He’s bossy, but I sort of like it. Maybe. One thing I’m sure of is that he’s not creepy like Brendon or any of the guys Chels usually dates. I was locked in a freezer with him last night and he was a perfect gentleman. I can’t imagine being locked in a confined space with any of the nasty guys Chelsea’s gone out with. No, Roman has a way about him that makes me feel safe. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace nice. Elegant.”

I scoff, eyeing my combat boots and the ragged hem of my jeans. “I’m not dressed for that.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Pretty much what you saw me in last night.” My heart sinks a little. It stings that I have absolutely nothing that would work for an upscale restaurant. “I wouldn’t know what to wear to a place like that. I’d be more at home in the kitchen than in the dining room. Give me an icing bag and I’m good. Silk and heels, not so much.”

“Don’t worry about it. Over dinner we can talk about your living arrangements. I have an idea.”

I bite my lip. He’s making this hard to turn down. His seductive voice washes over me and makes me think about last night. He carried me in his arms. The memory makes me blush. He’d been sweet and protective.

“What do you have in mind?” I ask softly.

“Nothing illicit. You like to cook. I like to eat. I think we can figure out an arrangement that would make both of us happy.”

My breath catches. “Like… an arrangement-arrangement?”

I cringe with embarrassment. I’m probably reading way more into this than is really there.

“It will make more sense when we talk face-to-face.”

His voice is a sexy rumble. Chocolate on a summer day. I shiver. Is this how Chels feels when she meets a guy and agrees to a hook-up after the second day? She’d laugh if she saw me now, flailing awkwardly with a man I barely know.

“I need to Google you before I agree to dinner.”

“No, you don’t.”

He’s back to bossy and my heart flips. I’m an idiot. There’s no way I can meet this man for dinner if this is what he does to me.

“Why don’t you want me to check you out? Because you’re some sort of serial murderer or something?”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, and fear squeezes my heart. After a long pause he replies.

“I’m not a serial murderer.”

Another long pause, one that has me getting more worried by the minute.

Finally, he mutters. “It’s complicated.”

“You’re married. That’s it, isn’t it? You have a gorgeous country club wife and 2.5 children and you’re looking for a side piece.”

“Tessa,” he says, his tone stern. “We’ll talk over dinner. I promise I’m none of those things.”

Why did I give this guy my number? Last night he was kind to me, and he’s handsome and sexy, but the last thing I need right now is more trouble. And this guy is trouble with a capitol T. I cup my forehead and slump against the buffet. It shifts, the ornate, carved feet screeching across the parquet flooring.

A vase sits near the other end of the buffet. It wobbles. For one horrifying moment, time seems to slow. I try to cry out but can’t make a sound. The vase twirls crazily, spinning and when it tips over and hits the surface of the table, the delicate ceramic lip makes a sickening crack. I watch, rooted to the floor as the vase rolls to the edge and plunges over the side.

I can’t see it fall or land, but I hear the shatter and tinkling of shards flying across the floor.

“Tessa,” Roman says sharply. “Are you okay?”

I can’t move. Can’t think. My feet feel like they’re glued to the floor. All I can do is stare at the spot on the buffet where a moment ago a vase sat.

“Tessa.” He’s practically shouting.

“I just broke a vase.”

He doesn’t say anything. I kneel beside the shards, pick up the thick base and turn it over in my hand. “I just broke a vase…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says gruffly. “It’ll be all right.”

“I can’t imagine what this thing costs.”

“I said don’t worry about it, Tessa.”

I stand up. “Don’t worry about it. What do you mean don’t worry about it? Not everyone can write big checks to the Com Center. Some people have to worry about things like this. Everything in this house looks like it came from a museum. I have $400 in my account. How am I going to pay my boss back for something that probably costs more than I’ll make in a year?”

“Listen, Tessa. Let me explain.”

“I don’t need an explanation, Roman. I can’t have dinner. I’m not a fancy date kind of girl. I don’t want to meet you or anyone. I can’t do anything until I…”

“Until you do what? Glue my vase back together? Just listen to me for a second.”

Warmth oozes from my palm. My hand’s covered in blood. My fingers throb. Blood drips onto the parquet tiles. “I have to go, Roman,” I whisper. “I’m bleeding.”