Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (16 page)

Noah wants me to know something. Noah is afraid of me knowing something. And Noah
wants
something. Pretty certain I can guess the last, but the first two are a mystery.

“I will.”

He delays for a moment longer before turning and getting into the elevator. He’s staring at me, I’m staring at him, and Qwesie is rattling off some inconsequential question. “Yeah, mate, like I was saying about that prick tease downstairs with the peach little arse—”

The doors slide close. And I
know
, feel it in my gut, that when Noah gets back, it’s going to be a whole new game.

E
IGHT

T
HE SECOND
N
OAH
is gone
,
I phone Kiera and rattle off my whereabouts.

“Be there in an hour,” she tells me, mad excited about my return to the Upper East Side.

I call Graham afterward, making his day with the news that I’m no longer with Andrew, and assuring him I’m safe and sound. I hold off on telling him where I am and why I left, however. Better for me emotionally to do this one person at a time.

Having nothing on my to-do list today, I eat breakfast and laze around the house, listening to music and stalking pretty people on Instagram with a fake account I created out of boredom last week. Question: What’s up with women making videos of themselves just looking pretty in the camera and saying nothing? Really, what’s up with that? Vain and annoying much?

Tired of all the waist-trainers, fake eyelashes, overdrawn lips, and big booty pics, I toss my phone aside, kick off my stupid tennis shoes, and make myself comfortable on Noah’s sofa, thinking this is
the longest hour ever.
I’m so bored. Kiera needs to hurry up and get here.

I’m just picking up the remote to power on the television when I hear the ping of the elevator. I know it’s not Kiera because the concierge would’ve called to confirm sending her up.

This person has to a key.
Or they broke in
.

I’m frozen on the couch, my heart ricocheting in my chest. I knew it was too good to be true. Believing this apartment would keep me safe. Andrew has found me, and he’s going to drag me back to Brooklyn and beat the ever-loving shit out of me for trying to leave him.

I hear footfalls, more than one set. Rustling, like bags. Rolling, like wheels. What the heck?

Slowly, quietly, heart in my throat, I slide off the couch like a snake and drop on my belly. As a set of footsteps approaches the living area, I push up on all fours and try to scurry around the back of the couch without a sound.

“Hello,” a voice greets my rear. The voice is female, older, and very familiar.

Still on all fours, and suffering an unusual combination of scared-shitless and disgracefully-awkward, I glance over my shoulder to a gorgeous middle-aged dark-haired woman, dressed impeccably in a cream pantsuit and flats, a Prada handbag dangling from her wrist, hair wrapped in an elegant coiffure. She looks like money. Crisp, fresh-from-the-bank money. And she’s watching my rear with the most bemused expression.

I know her. At least, I think I do. She looks crazy familiar. And maybe if I get off my darn hands and knees and turn to face her properly, I might be able to place her. “Uh…um, hi. Yeah, hello.” I give an awkward wave.

Okay, so, she isn’t Andrew.
Thank heaven’s bells for that.

The woman purses her red-painted lips. “Do you want to get off your hands and knees and tell me who you are and what you are doing in my son’s apartment?”

Son?
Ohhhhhhhh
. She’s Noah’s mother. Well, now I don’t just
look
like an idiot, I also feel like one. Clambering to my feet, I wipe my palms down the front of my uniform and turn to face her.

And now that I’m facing her full-on, I recognize her. She’s Gloriel Van Der Wells. Nate Van Der Wells’ mother. Which makes no sense whatsoever if she’s also Noah’s mother. Noah doesn’t have a brother. At least, not that I know of. Is Noah a bastard? Is that the reason he’s ostracized from the original family? Because he’s an ugly secret? Is Gloriel Van Der Wells living a double life with—

“Charlotte?” Gloriel cuts through my thoughts. “Charlotte Cooley, is that you?”

Oh, sweet swing-songs
. Of course, she remembers me, too.

My mouth opens and closes, as I debate whether or not I should agree that I am indeed Charlotte Cooley. I can just duck my head and deny it, tell her she’s mistaken. I’m not sure I want to revive my past. The embarrassment is too great. Or, I could—

“It is you, isn’t it?” she pushes on, cocking her head, green eyes wide with wonder. “Those eyes. I could never forget those eyes!”

Oh, frig it. Makes no sense lying now. Giving yet another tiny wave, I smile. “Hey, Mrs. Van Der Wells.”

With an elated smile, tainted with a splash of confusion, she regards my uniform. “What is—what’s going on? I don’t—“

“Oh, uh,” I glance down at my outfit and shrug. “You know my story. Dad. Embezzlement. Jail. No money. Shunned. Yeah. It hasn’t gotten any better. Noah hired me as his live-in maid.”

Her brows furrows. “
When
?”

“Ah, roughly two weeks ago.”

“
Two weeks
?” She sounds indignant and offended by this. “You’ve been here, in Nate’s apartment,
working
for him, for two weeks, and he’s said nothing to me? He
knows
I’ve been worried over the years whether you were doing okay or not. How you’re getting along. And he’s said
nothing
?”

“Noah,” I correct. “It’s Noah who hired me. How is Nate, by the way? Did he stop running after I left?”

Gloriel gives me a weird look, her face the ultimate picture of bewilderment. “I named my son
Nate
. I refuse to call him anything else no matter how many times he changes his name. And, yes, he never stopped running. He ran off a hundred pounds. Shouldn’t you know this? You’re living with him.”

Oh. My. God.

My jaw hits the floor.

No way.

No. Way.

No. Freaking. WAY!!

‘Gotta say
,’ mutters Rational Lotty, ‘
I did
not
see that one coming
.’

‘Whoa
,’ Reckless Lotty whispers, ‘
Fatty Nate has transformed into Hottie Nate
.’

Nate has been pretending all this time?
Why
? Why not say anything? Is he embarrassed? Going from fatty to hottie, what’s there to be embarrassed about?

Before I can be consumed by all the WTFs and OMGs going around in my head, Gloriel is in front of me and enveloping me in her arms.

“Oh, honey,” she chimes, “you have no idea how much it thrills me to see you’re alive and well.” She draws back and scans me again, before hugging me even tighter. “A little too skinny, but nothing beats
life
.”

I hug her back. For a long, not-so-weird moment, she just holds me.

Finally releasing me, she gives me a warm, bona-fide smile, accompanied with an arm-squeeze. Her delight to see me seems veritably genuine. And damn if that doesn’t make me feel better about myself, that someone actually gives a hoot whether I live or die.

“What are you doing with yourself now, Charlotte? Apart from cleaning up my lazy son’s mess, of course.”

It doesn’t surprise me that she makes no inquiries about Mom. My mother made herself an enemy when she wrecked the former Cooley family. She was never forgiven, was never pardoned, and was basically the pariah on this side. It’s somewhat head-scratching how they accepted me with open arms. Me, the product of the affair. Possibly, because Sarah accepted me, everyone else followed suit.

One of my 101 reasons for wanting to flee to Brazil is that I fear ending up like Mom. An outcast with no friends; less than a handful of people at my funeral when I die.

“Oh, not much. Online college. Surviving. Saving for law school.”

“College!” From the gleam in her eyes, it’s clear that’s what she’d been hoping my response would be. “Wait,
law
?”

Lifting my shoulders to my ears and dropping them, I affirm with a, “Yep.”       

Her grin is broader than Broadway now. “
You
, Charlotte, will make a wonderful lawyer. Come, help me unpack the groceries.”

She whirls in a jitter of smiles and claps and tappity-tap-taps, all but skipping off to the kitchen, expecting me to follow. I do. It’s my job, after all.

In the kitchen, there’s a fit, African American man unloading boxes of groceries from a flat-bed trolley. When he’s through, Gloriel tips him a fifty, their hands lingering a bit too long in each other’s with the money exchange. As if finally remembering I’m there, the guy gives me a polite nod and leaves.

Hmm. Well, that’s not strange at all. 

Setting her handbag on the kitchen counter, Gloriel removes her gloves—only the insanely wealthy wear gloves in Spring—and begins unpacking the boxes.

“Um, Mrs. Van Der Wells, why don’t you leave these to me, and I’ll make up a cup of—“

Head rotating to me, she gives me a no-nonsense look. “Aside from the fact that I look forward to swinging by every Saturday to help my son out in whatever way I can so I still feel needed, I do not agree with Nate hiring you as his
housemaid
. He could’ve given you something to do at the office, and if you needed a place to stay, there are four unoccupied apartments in the building, he could’ve let you live in one until you are able to stand on your feet. Suffice it to say, Nate and I will be having a little chat.”

I’ll drink to that
. Nate and
I
will be having a big chat. A
really big
chat.

Now that I know Noah is actually
Nate
Van Der Wells, all the questionable grandeur of his lifestyle, the hookups with Sienna Sullivan, the generosity and over solicitousness becomes clear. It’s because he
knows
me. We were friends once—as inappropriate as it was at the time. We were running partners, teased each other, challenged each other.

My mind catapults back to the night I drove him home from Brooklyn, the jaw-dropped expression on his face when I got out of the cab. He’d recognized me then. Played me. Is it possible that running into him at the park was no coincidence, and the “something” he was searching for was
me
?

Gloriel’s rant is warranted. See, Nate Van Der Wells is a mega-billionaire. There’s no rags-to-riches story. No difficult past and horrible childhood. VDW is an extensively successful real estate company founded by his megalomaniac grandfather, passed on to his father, and then passed on to him. Grandfather Van Der Wells had been no rags-to-riches mogul, either. He emerged from a prestigious lineage; old, pompous money. This means Nate was born rich and spoiled, and accustomed to getting whatever he wants.

Going by Gloriel’s comment that there are “four unoccupied apartments in the building,” I’m assuming this Wells Height Complex is his, too.

To stop myself from screaming, I bite down on my lip. I’m going to strangle the life out of that frustratingly hot-as-flames man!

But first, I have to have sex with him.

He’s an incomplete conquest.

Three years ago, I set out on a mission to get in Fatty Nate’s pants, but life interrupted that mission. Now…here’s to second chances. Once I’ve completed my three-year-old goal,
then
I will strangle him.

“No, no, he
did
offer me one of the apartments but I refused,” I fib on behalf my renewed conquest. “And I wasn’t qualified for any of the open positions at the office.”

Gloriel slaps a vehement palm to the counter. “He should have
insisted
. Also, that is nonsense! He’s
Nate Van Der Wells
, he can get you a position anywhere regardless of your qualifications.”

“I know but—”

“Stop finding excuses for him,” she cuts me off, disapproval strong in her voice. “He
will
be answering to me when he gets back.”

To save Nate a lashing, I’m about to offer even more excuses when my phone hollers from the living room. Jogging to pick it up, I glance at the screen. The concierge.

“Yes, Mr. Informer?” I snap into the phone.
He
has to be the one spying on me for Noah, er,
Nate
.

“I-it’s…Mr. Adams,” he corrects, sounding confused. “The concierge.”

“And I say it’s Mr. Informer,
informer.
”

Silence extends on the line for a few seconds before he clears his throat and carries on. “Miss Kiera Noel is here to see you. Should I—“

“Send her up,” I cut in and hang up. My curtness might be a smite rude, but I’m not a fan of people spying and informing on me. Let him report
that
to Nate. That is, after all, report worthy.

“Who was that?” Gloriel asks absently as she unpacks the groceries. Quinoa, tofu, pearl couscous, Weetabix, spinach, kale, grains…I cringe for Noah.

“The concierge. He spied on me for Noah.”

Gloriel lets out a laugh. “
Everyone
spies for Nate. These days they trip over themselves trying to please him.” She raises her head, a pack of flax seed in one hand, and blinks at me. “Funny, isn’t it? The difference between being overweight and being, as you young people say,
built
. He’s the same man
, the same man
, merely one hundred and plus pounds lighter, but the difference in respect between then and now is an eye-opener. It’s sad. Really sad how this world is.”

“This is the world we live in,” I say. “So, you bring groceries every other Saturday?”

She nods, resuming her task. “Clean up after him and do his laundry, too. It’s something to look forward to, as I’ve been feeling so unwanted of late. No one needs me for anything anymore. After Jim died, I felt this way for years. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Until Nate’s heart attack and subsequent divorce. He needed me then, and I felt useful again, being needed. Then you got him to start running. He kept on running, exercising, eating healthy, losing the weight…everyone wants him now, and he no longer wants me.”