Chapter 22
Juniper
I don’t get home until past eight o’clock.
My apartment building has been through a world war, the hippie era, and probably the meteor that killed the dinosaurs, if the mold on the stairs is anything to go by. The stuff thrives in the muggy atmosphere.
The elevator’s out of order again, too, so I’m forced to climb the stairs to my unit on the top floor.
You might wonder how 1 make it without passing out cold. So do 1.
But I’ve signed a two year lease on this place and rent hasn’t skyrocketed as much as other places in the city the past few years, so I count my meager blessings.
Inside, I toss my keys on the counter with a sigh and open the fridge, looking for water. I’m surrounded by paperwork and bills on the counter.
Water first, then wine. Today’s definitely a wine day.
A scratching sound in the corner draws my attention. “Still at it, huh?” I smile when I see him.
Catness paws at the same hole in the wall he was working on this morning. Probably from the mouse he’s been after forever.
Get a cat, they said. They’ll deal with rodents for you, they said.
The big lazy tabby mostly uses his mouser skills for show. The last time he actually caught a mouse, he dropped it in my lap as a gift for his hunting challenged mama.
Fun times.
“Whatever you do, keep it out of the bedroom. You hear me?” I say firmly.
-Catness just gives me a yawn and a dramatic stretch, flicking his tail. It’s been a day and I’m so not interested in ending it in a mouse panic. “Let’s get
this over with. First thing’s first…” I don’t bother pouring my
wine into a glass and just chug it straight from the bottle as I grab Dexter’s envelope from my purse, rip it open, and scan the contents.
Bad move.
Before I can stop it, I’m spitting wine on the sofa. The check inside is for fifty thousand dollars.
Fifty thousand flipping For me.
For–what exactly?
That’s enough to buy monster pastry orders for an entire convention. I scrutinize the check closer.
It has my name on it. It’s inexplicably mine, and I’m apparently free to do whatever I want with it.
But wait. There’s something else in that envelope.
My hands shake as I pull out the note. God, even his paper is extra thick, textured rich guy stuff with a stylized Dexter Rory header. There’s no way I could forget who sent this to me even for one second.
His note is short, businesslike, and reads more like a contract with everything written in short, bossy lines.
The check is a deposit, I guess. I’ll receive the other half after 180 days of pretending to be his fiancée.
But it seems he doesn’t want to do this as much as me, because he’s also written that to make it ‘as painless as possible for both parties,‘ there are negotiable terms and minimal appearances together. There’s even a lawyer set up to keep this nice and legal. Rory only expects a few brief interactions to ensure his deal goes through.
I snort as I reach the end.
We
can keep this strictly professional without any improper contact, Miss Winkley. No kissing, no touching, no sharing beds,
16:43
Love Betrayed: A Journey of Separate at
24.1%
Chapter 22
Unless, of course, you’d like to negotiate that part too.
Oh my God.
Gag me.
There’s no earthly way I would ever willingly kiss Dexter Rory–much less sleep with him and I do mean sleep–so that’s going to be a requirement of any deal.
Or anti–requirement or whatever. No kissing.
No sweet caresses. No holding hands. No anything.
There are enough married couples in the world who treat their spouses like they have the plague. It’s not that weird if we always keep a few fen between us, right?
I drink another mouthful of wine and swallow too quickly, coughing in my hand.
When it’s written out like this, the arrangement sounds ever–so–slightly less insane than his first proposal.
It doesn’t excuse his little ambush at my store, though. Whatever he wants, he can leave my family the hell out of it.
I turn the note over, feeling the paper under my fingers. He’s got good handwriting, too, the bastard.
At the top of what looks like Dexter’s personal letterhead, there’s an address.
I take another gulp of wine and set the bottle down on the counter.
Dexter isn’t the only one who can spring surprises.
And wouldn’t it be fun to see where he lives when he’s not stomping around barking orders? I wonder what sort of outrageously lavish pond Big Fish
calls home.
For luck–and courage–I take a few more swigs of wine. Then I open a can of cat food and dump it in Catness‘ bowl
He comes darting over instantly, swishing his tail and singing the dinner song of his people.
“Don’t worry, boy, I’ll be back soon,” I tell him, grabbing my keys before I head out the door.
If he won’t leave me alone, it’s time to get even.
Time to pay Dexter Rory a visit and remind him what an absolute vile dick he is in person.
