He respectfully stood and shook her hand, and I felt bad for being short with him. We’d have to learn to play nice.
After he ate his way through three breakfast sandwiches and drank all of his coffee and half of mine, he sat back in his chair and gave me an assessing look. “I’m sorry for being a dick to you. I’m the boss of my own business, I’m over forty, I’m used to knowing what the fuck is going on, and right now, I am drifting.”
That, I could understand. I was a mess by my family’s standards. I didn’t have a background in business. I’d made up for that by becoming a pro at manipulating the media. Appearances made a difference to investors. Maybe my skill at getting the public to think what I wanted would help get us through this mess.
Chapter 3
Derek
Day two of the hostage situation, and I was bored as shit. I’d learned that my new wife, Rosalind—who doesn’t like to be called Ros—spent ninety percent of her day on the phone, didn’t seem to own clothes that were not pink, and had no sympathy for me while I paced the hallways of her mansion, slowly slipping into madness.
She gave me a to-do list yesterday that included putting all my social media accounts to private, telling everyone I knew not to talk to the press, and allowing the stylist who showed up at the house to cut my hair.
That took all of two hours. After a good night’s sleep, I felt like that guy from the Shawshank Redemption, willing to tunnel through a wall with a spoon just to see the sun.
That may be a little dramatic, but I wasn’t used to sitting still.
The bathroom door squeaked as I opened it after my shower. Rosalind was busy on the phone. I could hear conversations about photo shoots and talk show appearances. She didn’t seem to need me for anything.
I asked Meredith to pick me up a few things from the hardware store. If I were going to be stuck in the house, I might as well make myself useful.
The first thing I did after she got back was grease the hinges on the bathroom door. How someone could live with that annoying squeak was beyond me.
I’d been accused of being too meticulous in the past by my crew guys. Actually, I thinkgiant pain in the asswas the phrase they used. Still, my clients appreciated my attention to detail, even if the guys I made work late on Friday afternoons didn’t.
“What are you doing?”
I startled and turned to see Rosalind coming down the hallway in my direction. She was wearing a loose-fitting pink t-shirt that hung off one shoulder and a pair of tight black leggings. Her hair was pulled into a clip on the back of her head, and she looked more casual than she had the day before. My mind flashed briefly to what it would be like to run my lips over the smooth, exposed skin of her shoulder, but I tucked that thought away.
This was a fake marriage only.
“Oh God, you didn’t damage my picture, did you?” There had been a framed print of a close-up of a woman’s collarbone with a pearl necklace draped across it. A little risque for a hallway art piece, but hell, this was Vegas.
“I’m spackling. Your picture is in the other room; I was careful when I took it down.” I turned back to the wall and continued smoothing the spackle with my putty knife. I’d noticed a crack in the wall in the hallway yesterday morning, and it had been driving me nuts. I tucked the knife into my tool belt and wiped my hands on my pants before coming down from the ladder.
I secured the lid on the jar of putty and put it on the ground with the rest of my newly acquired tools.
When I stood, I found her eyes glued to my ass. When they shot up to meet mine, I gave her a lazy smile. The idea that I had caught the attention of a drunk Rosalind was one thing. The ideathat a sober Ms. Rosalind Huxley, heiress and bad girl of Vegas, was looking at me like I was a snack was almost laughable.
She cleared her throat. “Where did you even find a ladder, and where did this come from?” She gestured at the various tools I had spread out on the hallway floor.
I shrugged. “Meredith said she’d get me anything I needed, and I needed something to do before I lost my mind.”
She rubbed her temples. “I’m putting out fires here, and you’re playing.”
“House maintenance isn’t a game. What’s mine is yours, honey. I want to make sure it’s in good shape and not about to fall over.”
“Don’t call mehoney; that’s worse than Ros.” Her cheeks turned a little pink under what I assumed was a fake tan. If she was like any other woman I’d spent time with, I’d piss her off a lot, so it was a good thing her angry face was cute. “We need to get to know each other quickly. Meet me in the kitchen when you’re done with whatever this is.” She gestured towards the floor.
I needed to wait for the putty to dry anyway, so I headed to the kitchen and sank down into a chair. I knew she had a plan, but I had a few questions of my own. Whether she came to Charlotte’s wedding or not, I still thought I was doing her a favor. We had to be on the same page.
Rosalind settled into a chair across the table from me with a notebook in her hand.
“I need to understand the plan a little better before we move forward here.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Okay, spill.”
“If you knew your parents would cut you off if you went out partying and you didn’t want that to happen, why were you at the club that night?”
