Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (7 page)

I have no intention whatsoever of binding myself to this man, but, doing the safest thing for the moment, I smile and squeak, “Yes.”

T
HREE

M
Y LUNGS ARE BURNING
. Calves sore from overexertion.

Arms pumping through the air in time with my breathing. I know I should stop. I’ve gone over two hours, still I keep going, the burn and soreness a welcome distraction.

It’s not long before I break, run clean out of steam, almost collapsing by a maple tree in the park. Palms pressed to my knees, I double over and hustle for air, throat parched.

This is the first time running since Mom died. With the stress being laid on thick, fitness had been the last thing on my mind. But ever since Andrew’s proposal two weeks ago, my anxiety attacks have returned with a vengeance.

Last night he asked me—translate
demanded
me—to move in with him. Arguing that now that Mom’s “out of the picture,” he doesn’t see the need for us to be living apart and my struggling to pay rent.

I had an intense panic attack after that conversation.

Less than two weeks
. I have less than two weeks left in my apartment before I have to move in with him, and at the rate my heart and mind has been going since that conversation, I just might end up in a mental institution before the week is over.

I need to get out. I need to get out. I need to get out
.
Out of my head. Out of my body. Out of my life.

I can’t move in with him. There’ll be no going back from that. I’ll be stuck. There’s no time to save up cash for an escape to Brazil. If I’m going to run, I have to do it now. Until I get enough squirreled away for that big escape to my mother’s homeland, I need somewhere to hide.

Before, I couldn’t run because of Mom. Now it’s just me. Maybe I could hide in a shelter for abused women or something.

‘
Or, Graham!
’ Rational Lotty inputs. 

I think about this. Graham is probably back from his trip by now. Would he let me hide out at his pad until I’m able to make a better move? Or maybe swallow my pride and borrow some cash from Sarah to start me off in Brazil. Sarah, being from a prestigious family of old,
old
money, had her own greens when she met Dad. She’s actually the one who loaned him half of his very first investment. So although Dad divorced her, she’s
much
better off now than before. Even remarried to George Weston, a wine tycoon in San Francisco, and now she and Graham are living it up in ever-sunny California. It would be a great hideout from Andrew. Sarah’s kind and forgiving and she’s always liked me regardless of me being the “affair child.” She’ll help me. Of course, she will.

‘She will,’
Rational Lotty assures me
.

Just as it has been since last night, rendering me sleepless and restless, my mind is
racing
with a million thoughts at once. I’m literally on the verge of tipping over. I’m freaking out. I’m desperate. So desperate right now. I’ve been up running since 5am, thinking it would help me ease the tension, but instead my thoughts are wilder, heavier than before. I just want to grab someone,
anyone
, and beg them to take me home with them. To hide me. To protect me.

Irrational, I know, but I can’t help how helpless I feel.

Straightening, I lean back against the coarse bark of the tree, focusing on every inhale and exhale, as I watch early morning fitness junkies jog by me, earphones in, breaths labored, sweat dripping from their skins.

Joggers are content. Never in a haste. No worries. No pain. We jog when life is good. Because jogging gives us that time to appreciate the world around us. We see, know, and even love our fellow joggers; smiling and nodding as we jog along our gay paths.

But when life gets stressful, haunting, tragic, we sprint. We bolt. We race. We endeavor to outrun those problems. We try to make it all a blur, wanting that phase to be gone, over, done. We don’t care to see, know, or love our fellow sprinters. Perhaps they’re the ones we’re running from. We attempt to sprint from our nightmares. Our difficulties. The things that haunt or hurt us. Clinging tight to the hope that we’ll again be joggers one day.

I push off from the tree, turning to leave the park, when an unexpected sight gives me pause. A man running in my direction. He’s not sprinting, not jogging, but moving at his own custom pace. A pace I decided, in that split second, to call the “holy hot pace.” Because, well, he’s
hot
.

Well over six feet tall, shirtless, in just black running shorts and sneakers.

I’ve only ever seen a body that mind-numbingly perfect
once
. Ever. The sweat-coated ‘holy hot pace’ runner is Sexy Demon. The penthouse-living Upper East Sider who’d dived into the back of my cab a few weeks ago.

He’s running a straight path, yet his eyes are everywhere, unfocused, a light frown between his brows. Like he’s searching for something and frustrated at the same time.

As he runs by the maple tree, his gaze flicks over me, pauses on me for a beat, and I hold my breath, wondering if he’ll remember me, but those unfocused eyes skip to something else, and he keeps on running, right past me.

Shrugging, I make to leave the park again, but then an image of his bare throat, arched back, the same image that’s been taunting me for weeks, flashes before my eyes and my heart skips a beat.

‘
Oh Lord, we’re in trouble
,’ Rational Lotty sighs.

Indeed.
Sucking in a deep breath, I make a U-turn and run after him.

“Hey, Abercrombie,” I greet as I catch up, running by his side, trying to match his holy hot pace. “Don’t tell me that ninja’s knife-throwing skills didn’t instill enough fear in you to stay out of his wife’s ass.”

Head swiveling to the side, his gaze falls, finds me by his side. He squints at me. A beat after, as if bored, he sweeps his gaze off me and directs it straight ahead. “For your information, I had no idea she was married.”

“But you do now, don’t you?” I rally back. “So what’s your excuse?”

“What does that mean?”

“Your penthouse practically overlooks Central Park. Why would you come all the way to Brooklyn to run?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Lotty—” He frowns. “It’s Lotty, right?” 

“The fake name,” I confirm.

He nods. “Right. No business of yours, but I haven’t seen that woman since. I don’t do married women. And I
never
encourage infidelity.” With that, he sprints off.

For some reason that totally eludes me, I sprint after him.

“Well,” I start when I catch up again, “what’s your reason for getting your sweat on all the way across the bridge, then?”

“Why do you think I owe you an answer?”

“You don’t,” I huff out, as my breathing grows ragged. “It’s just a question. You can choose to answer, or not. I’ll just ask you another one. And if you sprint, I’ll chase you…and ask you another.”

He keeps his attention straight ahead, and if I don’t get a handle on things and stop ogling his side profile, I just might crash into a post. Or maybe I can
pretend
to crash into a post just to get him to crouch down close to me, pick me up with those brawny, sweaty arms, brush wisps of hair from my face, and bring his mouth so close I can feel his breath as he asks me if I’m alright.

I’m hauled from my daydream when Sexy Demon shoots off even faster this time. I shoot off, chasing him. He makes a quick, sharp turn around a wrought iron bench, going the opposite direction. I follow. Keeping up with ease.

A few paces out, he slows and brings his gaze to me, breathing heavily. Something I can’t identify flits across his eyes before he turns them from me again. “I’ve been running here for the past couple of weeks.”

“Still doesn’t say
why
,” I press.

He huffs, irritated. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Nosy. Pushy.”

Only when I’m insanely attracted to someone.
“Only when it pleases.”

“And it pleases you to annoy me?”

“Your nostrils, they do this cute little thing when you’re exasperated.”

Head turning to me, his pace slows. “What…
thing
?”

Using my index fingers, I poke my nostrils up and out in a fashion that I’m quite positive makes me resemble Miss Piggy. “This thing.”

He blinks at me. And then he barks out a laugh.

I drop my hands, smiling. “Just kidding. You’re hot, but when your nostrils flare, damn, takes it to a whole ‘nother level.”

His lips twitch. “You think I’m hot?”

“Abercrombieeeeeee,” I drag out, “we went over this already. And I see you’ve got an aversion to clothes.”

He glances down at himself. “I like to feel free when I run.”

“I can see that,” I mumble, gazing at his trail that disappears down the waistband of his shorts. “So, you were telling me why you’ve begun running in Brooklyn?”

“I wasn’t,” he replies through a laugh. “But if you
must
know, I was searching for…something.”

That explains his scanning, unfocused eyes earlier. “Good luck with that. Things lost across the bridge are lost forever.”

Abruptly, he stops running altogether, grabbing my upper arms to stop me, and then instantly let’s go.

Liquid heat shoots through me from that brief, simple touch. I ignore it. I have to.

Shoving a hand through his jet-black hair, his stare fixed intensely on me, his chest expands as he takes a breath to say something. But then an inconveniently sudden return of my desperation from earlier crashes into me with a haze shattering force, reminding me of my dire situation, and thus, before he can get his word out, I beat him to it, blurting, “I need help.”

Brows furrowing, he appears taken aback, but with his stare remaining fixed on me, he motions for me to continue.

“Sorry, t-that didn’t c-come out right,” I stutter. “What I mean to say is…I need a job.”

His stoicism to this is the perfect reaction for me. Not pity, no softening of the eyes, thus making me braver in asking for what I want, instead of feeling the urge to shoot myself in the face. “What kind of skills do you have?”

“None,” I return. “I was thinking along the lines of housekeeping? Maybe your live-in maid? I mean, I’ve seen your place and you could
definitely
use a housemaid. I remember you saying things get messy with your maids, but I promise to make myself so insufferable you’ll feel revulsion rather than a compulsion to sleep with me.”

“That would assume I’m even attracted to you in the first place.”

Well, that doesn’t hurt at all
. “Even better! You’re not attracted to me, I’m not attracted to—”

“Lie to me and the job isn’t yours.” He crosses his arms over his bare chest, daring me.

Sighing dramatically, I admit, “Okay, fine, I’m attracted to you. But I really,
really
need this job, so I won’t cross any lines. Besides, just like you don’t do married women, I don’t do married men, either.”

When a puzzled expression takes form on his face, I remind him, “Your valet? You said he had an ongoing affair with your wife?”

He blinks. “Oh, yes, my
wife
.” He scratches his jaw.

“You’re on a break or separated, I deduced that much. How else would you be screwing maids and getting Japanese ass-play?” I shift from one foot to the other, feeling a little anxious under his penetrating gaze. “But you’re still married. That’s a boundary I’d never cross.”

After staring me down for a few unnerving moments, he asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be in college or something? Why do you need a job as a live-in maid?”

Again, I shift on my feet, refusing to lower my head in shame. I have his attention, and there’s no pity behind it. I don’t want to lose it. “I
am
in college. Online. But right now, I’m flat broke, and I have those expenses. This is where the desperation for a job comes in.”

By my elbow, he moves me out of the way and to the side as a couple jogs by us. “What are you studying?”

“Law.”

His eyebrows kick up. “Surprising. You don’t look like a law girl.”

“I wasn’t. But some things have happened to me that—” I break off, forcing a smile. “Get this, growing up, I wanted to be a—”

“Spy?” he finishes with a grin, then promptly snaps his mouth shut.

I frown. “H-how do you know?”

Nonchalantly, he shrugs. “Lucky guess. You just look like you’d make a better spy than a lawyer.” He looks off and rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of you being my live-in maid, but if you really need the cash, the job is yours.”

Jumping at this, I squeal and throw my hands around his neck, hugging him tight; his sweat soaking through my tank top.

My excitement is short-lived, however, when over his shoulder, I spot one of Andrew’s follow-arounds loitering in the distance, supposedly warming up for a run. As his eyes connect with mine, he gives me a small shake of his head.

My grin dies. Andrew has eyes everywhere. And if he hears about me hugging some shirtless man in the park, I’m dead. D-E-A-D.

Pulling away from Sexy Demon, I curl my hands into fists to hide the shaking.

Sexy Demon is frowning at me, his hands moving to rest lightly on my waist as he asks, “Hey, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” I whisper. “Just dehydrated.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, unconvinced. “Well, let me walk you to the cafe and get you a—”

“No,” I almost shout, panic pricking me with the intensified stings of a million needles. “Just…I kinda have to go now. When can I start? Tomorrow?”

Now his expression is one of sincere concern, his hands falling from my waist. I feel bereft at the regretted loss of his touch, but still somewhat relieved, knowing Andrew’s friend is watching.

“I’ll be leaving the island this evening for two days, so tomorrow won’t work. Tuesday. You know where I live. Be there at 7 PM sharp.”