Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (21 page)

The word he’s leaving off that sentence is ‘now.’ What kind of music do I like
now
? Because we, a sixteen-year-old me and a twenty-seven-year-old him, have done this whole likes-and-dislikes conversation before—during one of our morning runs.

Nonetheless, I’m not the girl I used to be back then. And maybe he figured that.
Or
he’s still playing his stupid game.

Just then, the realization hits me: He’s not playing a game. He’s being real about the situation. In truth, we don’t know each other anymore. We’re strangers. When we last saw each other, I was a pushy, overtly-sexual trust fund brat, and he was a melancholic, heart-broken, overweight man.

A vast amount has changed in that short stretch of years. We have new personalities and new perspectives. New bodies, new minds, new goals, and new fears. We are wholly new people.

I get it now. I get what he’s doing: He’s leaving the past in the dust, instead of moving forward with it like toilet paper on the heel of his shoe.

I get it now
. I totally completely get it.

Imitating him, I settle deeper into the couch, make myself comfortable, and together, we
talk
. We talk about the new us. We talk of our favorite songs, bands, food, colors, and pastimes. We talk about everything there is to talk about. And as deep as I dig for it, the familiarity of the Nate I used to know, I find nothing. Nate is gone. Dead. And in his place is Noah. A whole new man.

I’m stretching and yawning with sleep-tears when Noah mumbles, “Hell, what time is it?”

Reaching my hand over my head for the phone on the side table, I hit a button to light up the screen and check the time. “Holy crap.” I giggle. “It’s quarter to three.”

“Alright, time for you to go bed.” He lovingly pats my feet just before shoving them to the ground. “Shouldn’t have kept you up this late.”

As I stand and stretch, I laugh. “You make it sound like I’m a five-year-old who’s stayed up way past her bedtime.”

“No,” he drags out, his eyes lingering on the area of my stomach that’s being exposed as I stretch and yawn. “But you
do
have to get up in a few hours and make me breakfast. You’re living here as an employee, don’t forget it.”

His last sentence is said with a twinge of annoyance, his gaze still transfixed on the slip of bare skin between the edge of my tank and the waistband of my shorts.

Is he annoyed at himself for not being able to stop staring or is he annoyed at
me
?

Letting my hands fall to my sides, I bend forward, knowing he’ll get a clean shot of my cleavage, and snatch up my pillow. “I understand, Mr. Van Der Wells.”

At my formality, he raises his eyes to mine, and I straighten, hugging the pillow to me. “Do you have any special request…for breakfast?”

Swallowing hard, he shakes his head.

“Alrighty! Well, see you in a few.” I turn and head for my room, later singing over my shoulder, “Goodnight, Mr. Van Der Wells.”

He doesn’t give a reply, but right before I close my bedroom door, I’m 99.9% sure I hear him mutter, “
Shit
.”   

E
LEVEN

I
’M AN ACTIVE GIRL
. I’m used to my morning runs. Used to being outdoors. Used to being up and about. 

Yet the thought of Andrew or one of his lackeys spotting me and snatching me terrifies me, and has turned me into a house rat.

Kiera has updated me that Andrew’s been calling her every day, twice a day, wanting to know if she’s heard from me. He’s graduated from downtrodden and tears to seriously-pissed-off. And I know what that means: He’s starting to realize that I might be gone for good this time, seeing as I’ve never before succeeded in hiding from him for this long before. Usually I’d be located in a matter of days, sometimes hours.

This time, though, is different. This time he’s stumped. This time, if I stick to my original plan and never leave this apartment, he might never find me.

Unfortunately, I can’t do it anymore. And not because of the amended contract. I just can’t. I can’t stay cooped up in this place. I need fresh air in my lungs. I need to scratch my palm against the bark of a tree. I need to feel my muscles working as my legs sprint, as my arms pump through the air. I need to feel that sweet cardio burn in my chest. I need to
live
.

Why must I be a prisoner?

The inertia is killing me. So, I decided to start running again.

The following Monday, I get up a bit earlier and prep breakfast, leaving out the eggs and waffles for closer to breakfast hour.

After that, I go online and check my bank account for last week’s deposit payment. It’s there, the number growing each week. Pleased with my current balance, I close down the laptop, fetch the iPhone given to me by my super-big-and-strong-and-sexy bodyguard, and phone him to let him know I’m going out for a run. Then I don my shrunken gray sports shorts, red sports bra, and running sneakers that desperately need to be replaced, and head out.

Considering it sounded like I woke him from a deep sleep when I phoned him less than seven minutes ago, I’m surprised to find Muscles awaiting me in the lobby, a cup of java in one hand, and not a hint of drowsiness on his stony face.

In all-black sweatpants and a muscle shirt, his alert hazel eyes dart around the room as he lifts his coffee to his lips and sips. Seriously, though, Muscles is hot. Would totally spread wide for him. I bet sex with a man like him is both wild and controlled at once. 

Jogging up to him, I’m about to poke him in his side when his low warning, “Don’t even think about it,” stops me, eyes still darting around the lobby, mouth a breadth from the coffee cup.

“Boo,” I mumble with a pout, then walk ahead of him. “So, how’s this gonna work? How are you going to ‘protect’ me while I run?”

“You’ll have to run a route in the park. I’ll pick a spot where I can see you from all angles. If you deviate, I can’t protect you. However…” He pauses, dips into his sweats, and comes up with a fitness watch. “Put this on. It has a tracker. The third button down on the left side is a panic button. You sense any kind of danger, you hit it immediately. Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter, swiping the watch from his hand and latching it around my wrist. “No need to be so Men-in-Black-ey.”

As I start to push through the front door, Muscles curls his strong fingers tightly around my arm to stop me. When I twist and look up, I find his face like granite. “Listen, Miss Cooley, I don’t know what you are to him, but he’s all-out serious about your safety. I’m
head of his security, I
own
the company, which means
I
assign people; no one assigns me. Yet he offered me double to be on you. Trust me. He’s convinced you’re in trouble, and from my own assessment, I’m
positive
you are in trouble. Your reasons for keeping that to yourself are yours, but I need you to take the precautions I give seriously so I can do my job properly. Understand?”

For a moment, I just blink. Noah offered the owner of the security company
double
to be my bodyguard?
Why
? I mean, yeah, I
am
in danger, but any bodyguard would’ve sufficed. A bodyguard is a bodyguard. What am I to him that he would assign me his number one man?

Swallowing, I nod my understanding.

Satisfied, he releases me.

At the park, Muscles jogs a lap with me, marking out a route for me to take. We realize after a while that no matter the route, it’ll be impossible for him to see me from all angles. Plus, I’m not a jogger, I’m a sprinter.

We eventually decide on making use of the sports watch if necessary, while he tracks me in real time on his smartphone.

Within the first fifteen minutes of my run, I feel a huge difference in my body. My lungs are wide open, my blood is pumping, my heart is racing, my chest is burning, and for the first time in a long time, I feel…free. This is just what I needed. It’s as if three-thirds of me had been dead. Numb. Finally waking up for its torpor. 

I sprint faster, harder, almost laughing at one point, feeling like I’m soaring through the clouds. Oh, how I miss this feeling. Early morning air oxygenating my blood. I can breathe. I can
breathe
.

As I’m passing Muscles’ post for about the eighth time, I slow and do a double-take. A sweaty, shirtless Noah is there, jogging in place as he talks to Muscles. About me, no doubt.

Muscles says something, jerking his chin in my direction, but as I see Noah’s head start to turn, I pick up speed and sprint off.

Ever since that night we opened up and chatted for hours on his couch, I hardly see him; as ludicrous as that sounds considering we live in the same house. I get the feeling he’s avoiding me. On purpose.

Sometimes he eats breakfast, and sometimes he skips it. And every evening for the past week, he’s messaged me that he would be eating out.

Whenever I
do
see him, being my flirty and overtly sexual self, he gets this irritated expression and makes every effort and excuse to be out of my presence ASAP.

Now that I’m running again, drinking fresh air, brain is functioning as it’s supposed to, I think I can guess the reason behind his avoidance. In addition to having
nothing at all
going on for me, I’m young, I have no filter, and I have nothing to offer. Nothing to add to his life but wants and needs and possible danger.

But it’s not like I’m looking for a husband out of the guy. Just wanted to open my legs for him. At least once.

After what I went through, and am
still
going through with Andrew, I’m not sure I even want to get serious with another man ever again. Relationships have scarred me for life. Unattached sex, on the other hand…

My thoughts get sidetracked when a familiar presence appears running beside me. Yep, I’ve gotten to the point where I can tell his presence apart from anyone else’s. He does something to the air. He sucks it all up. Even in the outdoors, he emanates heat. Strong, sexual heat that makes my clitoris throb. And his sweat, his sweat has its own distinct smell; not yucky like sweat should be, but like a fragrance you want to bottle and hide in your “stalker-stash.”

“Morning,” he pants out.

Even though I should, what with him being my boss and all, I don’t reply.

I, instead, sprint faster.

Doesn’t matter though; he keeps up.

Once my heart starts feeling as if it’s about to explode out of my chest, I slow down.

He does, too.

“I’ll stop,” I hustle out.

“Stop what?” His stare burns into the side of my face.

“Stop flirting with you. Stop making you uncomfortable in your own house.”

He’s silent, just the sounds of panting breaths blended with the early-morning life of the park—scatters of joggers, workout groups, power-walkers, dog-walkers, stroller pushers.

We slow to a jog.

“I’d appreciate that,” he replies at last.

My heart sags in defeat. I’m right. That
is
the reason behind him eschewing me. Damn the Reckless Lotty in me.

‘
Hey now!
’ Reckless Lotty stomps indignantly.

“I just…” he trails off with a sigh that irritates the crap out of me. “I know I started it, and I’m sorry if I led you on…but it’s never going to happen. Those times, I was just messing with you. I didn’t know you would take it so seriously and think—”

“Oh jeez,
stop
,” I blurt, and I’m actually laughing now. “I just wanted to screw you, alright? That’s it. I don’t have an undying crush on you or anything like that. I
did
have a crush on Nate. And even then, it wasn’t that serious. Sure, you give me a lady-boner because you’re hot, but I’m not dying and crying in love with you or writing about you in my little pink diary, drawing hearts around your name.
Jeesh
! All I wanted to do was spread eagle for you and let you pound me fifty shades of October orange.”

Decelerating from jogging to walking, I fix my hands on my hips and focus on breathing.

Risking a glance at him, I find him staring down at me, not even watching where he’s going, and I’m more than a little thrown off guard by the
something
in eyes, the flare of his nostrils, the way he’s staring at me like he wants to devour me right there in the middle of the park. 

Confused beyond cognition, I quickly avert my gaze, clear my throat, and continue, “If it makes you feel any better, I feel the same way about Muscles. I would spread wide for him, too. See? I’m just a pervert. No morals.”

Noah abruptly stops moving altogether, rubs his hand down his face, and turns in the opposite direction. “We should head back.”

Turning, I stare at his retreating back. “No,
you
should head back. I’m doing my morning run.”

The expression on his face when he stops and turns scares me. Lips flattened in an austere line, eyes like an ice-blast. “Is breakfast ready?”

“Not completely—”

“Then
we
need to head back. Because I’ll be ready for my breakfast the second I step through that door.”

“You drink protein smoothies after your run, and that’s already blended up for you.”

“Well, this morning I feel like eating breakfast first. I’m the boss. I do whatever I want.”

Wow. Be a dickhead, won’t you
? “You’re the one who’s been pushing me to get out of the house and—”

“Yeah, I have been. But you’re the
maid,
” he snaps. “Figure out a way to get in your runs without disrupting your
work
. I pay you to feed me, so you’re going to get your ass back to the apartment before I do, and you’re going to
feed me
.”

Then he’s gone. And I’m left dumbfounded. What the hell has gotten into him? One minute he’s looking at me like he wants to tackle me to the grass and ravish me, and the next minute he’s glaring at me like he wants to throttle me.