Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (25 page)

I
FEEL HIM
before he’s there.

To get my morning run in, I got up an hour earlier than usual. Yet, half-an-hour later, amid my panting and sweating, he jogs up beside me. I don’t know what his deal is. Yesterday morning he was so hot and cold, I was convinced he’s bipolar or something. Then, later in the evening, he just spills it all about his relationship with Sienna, like an overflowing jug of milk. Something I did
not
ask for.

He confuses me to the point of frustration. He’s hot and moody and wealthy and sexy, and I truly want to start dealing with him only on a professional level, but he doesn’t make it easy.

“Morning,” he rags out.

Not wanting a repeat of yesterday, I reply with as much politeness as I can muster, “Good morning, Mr. Van Der Wells.”

He chuckles. It’s a nice chuckle. He’s in a good mood, and for some reason that irks me. “Do you continue to address me like that because you know I hate it?”

“Oh, my generous boss, you know me too well.”

He gives me a full laugh this time, irking me further. What on earth has him so chipper?

“Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Van Der Wells?” My eyes are fixed ahead of me as I ask this. “Need me to pause my workout time and tie your shoelaces?”

“Goddammit,” he swears quietly. “Now I wish I wasn’t wearing lace-less sneakers. Totally missing out on a chance to ask you to go down on me.”

Oh. So, he’s in a good mood
and
he’s flirting?

Reckless Lotty jackknifes from her slumber and rips off her sleep mask. Sexual innuendos are like a pronged vibrator to her.

In reply, I make a “tsk tsk” sound.

Amusement hugs his tone as he tells me, “Just want to run with you. For old times’ sake.”

“We tried that yesterday morning, remember?” I remind him. “It didn’t turn out so well.”

“That’s because you know how to get under my skin,” he instantly shoots back. “In order to avoid that this morning, how about we run without words?”

Get under his skin? How did I manage to get that done?

“Fine by me.” And with that I sprint off.

We kill the next hour in silent jogs and interval sprinting. Save for the lack of words between us—seeing as I used to be a chatty sixteen-year-old—it’s the first time since coming back to UES that anything feels familiar. Although in those days, his weight restricted him from keeping up with me. Now, however, all he does is compete with me. Tries to sprint faster, hold out longer.

We’re as wet as our water bottles when we decide to head home, Muscles keeping ahead of us.

Guzzling from my water bottle, the cool water sliding down my parched throat, I check out Muscles’ fine ass encased in close-fitted black denims, a flash of red handkerchief peeking out from his back pocket.

“Mmmm,” I moan, and it’s for more than a quenched thirst.

My peripheral vision shows Noah glancing at me when the moan slips out and then following the direction of my gaze.

“Oh,” I say, snapping the cap closed on my water bottle, “I’ve arranged to take self-defense training with Muscles in the afternoons. I promise it won’t interfere with my duties.”

After a long moment of non-acknowledgment from Noah, I swivel my head to him. His eyes are narrowed ahead. On Muscles.

“When did you ask him?” he finally asks.

“Last night.”

“And he agreed to train you?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you offer him?”

This has me braking up and whipping to face him, attitude in full effect. “
Excuse
me?”

He, too, stops and faces me, belligerence in his scowl. He opens his mouth to say something, then stops himself and scrubs both hands down his face. “I’ll train you.”

“What?”

He stares me in the eyes. “I pay him to protect you. Not give you classes. If he wants to do that, he needs my permission, and I won’t give it to him.”

What is wrong with this man
? “Why not?”

“Because I’d like to be the one to train you.”

“
Why?
”

“Because I don’t like that you opened up and asked him for help instead of asking
me,
” he clenches out.

Am I missing something? “You’re a businessman, you’re gone from sunup till sundown. He’s assigned to me, he’s literally just a floor down when I need him. Obviously, he’s more available than you are to—”

“I’m available.”

For a minute I pause, shifting on my feet, weighing those two words. “I’m available” could mean so much more than just—

“I do weight training and bodybuilding around one in the afternoons at my office gym. I can use that time to train you. Have Muscles bring you by the office at noon.”

Trying to decipher what’s happening here, I stare up at him without words for a beat. Is he jealous of Muscles? Is that it? Was my confession about liking Muscles the reason behind his erratic mood yesterday?

Nah.
I shoot down the thought. No way. If he’s jealous of Muscles, he could simply reassign him. And he hasn’t. So it has to be something else. Some other reason why he wants to run with me and is volunteering to train me, when usually he’s doing his best to avoid me.

One corner of my lip lifts. “What do you know about self-defense?”

A wry smile plays with the corners of his mouth. “Trust me, I’ve been mentally self-defending myself against you since the morning you first challenged me to run with you.”

Speechlessness numbs my tongue, and before brain function can return, he challenges me like a ten-year-old, “Race you back to the apartment.” And sprints off.

For one befuddling moment, I just stand there, stupidly, staring after him.

Even with that head start, he knows he can’t beat me. I’m faster than him. Always been faster than him.

Muscles jumps out of the way, watching his boss tear through the park. His head whips to me with a “what the eff?” expression.

With a grin, I shrug, then I pick up the gauntlet, and shoot off.

Muscles is disappointed but won’t admit it. I read it, in the single pop of his jaw, when I told him Noah offered to train me instead.

He just nodded and motioned for me to go ahead of him.

Now, on our way to Noah’s office, he won’t speak to me no matter how much I poke and mess with him.

He’s being petty, to be honest. I mean, what does it matter who trains me? Shouldn’t the most important thing be that I will be able to defend myself if push comes to shove?

“Are you never going to talk to me again?” I ask as he pulls up outside VDW. “Like ever? At all? Never under the sun? The moon? The stars? Never, ever, ever?”

Muscles rubs under his nose, and I wonder if it’s to hide a smile. “Lotty?”

“Yes, my yummilicious, sex-dripping bodyguard?”

“Get out of the car.”

I undo my seatbelt. “Aren’t you going to make sure I get in safely? Give me diamond tracker earrings?”

“No.” He keeps his stare straight ahead. “Mike is waiting just inside the revolving doors to take you up.”

“Oh. Okay.” Opening the door, I make to step out, then at the last minute, before he can see it coming, I lean across the console and pressed glossy lips to his clean-shaven cheek. 

At that, his head whips to me. “What did I say—”

But I’m already out the car and slamming the door in his face. Grinning victoriously to myself as I jog to the building and slip through the revolving doors. I’m such a kid sometimes. But I know without a doubt, as I glance over my shoulders and see through the glass windows the Jaguar idling on the curb, that he’s smiling. Mission accomplished. 

“Miss Cooley?” 

My head jerks around to find a burly, hard-faced man with a blond buzz cut and all-black outfit studying me through pale blue eyes. When I arch a brow at him, he clears his throat, as if unnerved by me.

“I’m Mike. Please, come with me. Mr. Van Der Wells is expecting you.” 

Usually, when I meet new people, I like to say inappropriate things to make them uncomfortable. It’s just who I am. But with Mike here, I just nod and follow. His energy feels whacked, off. He’s fairly good-looking, but in a blah kind of way.

My body welcomes the chill of air-conditioning circulating the clean, contemporary lobby. An enormous chandelier designed in the shape of a roof hangs from the center of the lobby, and from it, between drippings of crystals, hangs massive—albeit well-balanced initials—VDW.

Talk about making a statement.  

Crisp three-piece suits, pencil skirts, and shiny shoes mill in and out in pairs, or groups. Phones are pressed to ears with rapid-fire chattering, index fingers sliding across tablets, nervous knees bouncing up and down as they wait in sumptuous armchairs, over-confident fresh-out-of-college bodies in ill-fitted suits pace up and down in excitement, while somber faces step out of elevators and plod out the revolving doors.

VDW is a huge enterprise, with thousands of employees. I’m familiar with the pompous skyscraper, stretching tall above most, reaching for God’s throne. Who isn’t?

The building is known by the massive iron fist at the summit of it, punching through the clouds. VDW’s slogan:
With an Iron Fist
.

Built from the ground by Alexander Van Der Wells, now it’s Noah’s. This is what he comes to every day. His own kingdom. Ruling with an iron fist.

There are four different elevators circling the grandiose lobby, and Mikey Boy leads me to elevator number two. Not sure he realizes he’s spoken to my boobs instead of my face when he steps aside and tells me to go ahead of him.

Hmm. Here’s someone who’s not afraid to leer. Can’t blame him, though. I do have a nice pair.

Soothing classical music serenades my eardrums as the elevator whips us up to Noah’s floor.

Mike remains on the elevators. “His assistant will show you to his office.”

On this floor sits a smaller lobby, less ostentatious than downstairs, and two doors. One to the left, one to the right. A whole floor with only two doors. Yep, this is the CEO’s floor alright.

Smack right in the center is a black-marble reception center with a handsome guy who seems no older than twenty-five, tops. Hair the color of sand slicked neatly back and a perfectly fitted gray suit complimenting a lean body.

Lazy gray eyes flick to mine as he stands. His lips curve and I’m given a flawless smile as he gestures a hand to the right. “Miss Cooley?”

Approaching his desk, I nod.

“Go right on in,” he says. “Mr. Van Der Wells is expecting you.”

I don’t go right on in and instead rest my hand on top of the marble counter.

He sits back down and resumes typing at breakneck speed on the desktop computer until he notices I’m still standing there, watching him like a freak.

Slowly, and no doubt weirded out, he turns his head to me. “Is…there something else I can help you with, Miss?”

“You’ve been working here long?”

“I know nothing about the bloody head in my freezer, I swear,” he deadpans.

Huh?
“What?”

He blinks. “Oh, you’re not a detective? Uh, forget what I just said. I know nothing about denying that I know nothing about a bloody head in my freezer.”

I laugh. Totally digging him. “So?”

He looks me up and down, assessing me, then deciding I’m innocuous, offers, “Just under a year. Straight out of college.”

“Are you gay?”

Instead of taking umbrage, he bursts out laughing. “I get that one a lot. But no. I can show you how
not
gay I am later if you like.”

“Oh, I’d
definitely
like,” I tell him, as I start walking backward from the station. “But I’ve got plans. So…rain check?”

His gray gaze rakes me up and down again. “Get my digits before you leave?”

“Promise.”

Then I turn and skip to the glass door on the right. The mirror-facade windows reflect the entire lobby, me skipping toward it, and the
foine
-as-hell receptionist ogling my backside.

Just as I reach the door and am about to grasp the stainless steel handle, it automatically swings open.

Dad’s office door had been like this, too. Remote controlled. Could open the door right from his desk.

Loping through, I’m attacked by Noah’s scent floating on the air, the scent that oozes through the walls in his closet, the scent that can’t be named or described. Oh, this is his office alright.

“What were you two talking about for so long?” his voice comes at me.

He’s perched at the edge of a massive glass desk, arms across his chest, feet stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Behind him stretches the most spectacular vista of the city.

An impressed whistle passes through my teeth as I comment, “Wicked view, Mr. Van Der Wells.”

“Right?” a deep British accent startles me. “I actually envy the sod.”

My attention goes in the direction of the voice, and that’s when I realize how ridiculously stupendous the office is.

Qwesie James is
way
to the left, sprawled supine on a red L-shaped couch, tossing a stress ball up and down.

There’s a kitchenette, a bar, two flat-screen televisions, a freaking pool table, and a partition with a queen
bed
.