The Reality of You (22 page)

Chapter 24

My
ass dragged like a slug Monday morning at work. The weekend had worn me out.
But I was worn out in a good way. Reese gave good worn-out. The best, actually.
So when Ray came around asking for orders for a coffee shop run, I caved and
ordered a double vanilla latte. I never joined in on the coffee run. There was
coffee in the break room. Though crap, it was free, not four bucks a pop. Extra
money was reserved for books and monthly gaming fees in my little world. Thus,
I wasn’t aware of how the coffee run worked. If I had been, I would have
happily sucked down the crude oil in the breakroom.

“Okay,” Ray said,
suddenly in my cubicle. “Your five got drawn.”

I turned around in
my chair, blinking at him. “Huh?”

He put the
five-dollar bill in my face, pointing to the corner, where a little N was
marked. “Unless you made the last run, if you’re drawn, you make the run.”

“Oh, okay,” I said
slowly until it dawned on me that I’d have to travel to the second floor, out
in the open, in our building. Highly dangerous stuff there. The chances of
Reese spotting me rose significantly the longer I hung out in any general areas
of our building. “Really?” I asked in a whine.

Ray smiled at me. “I
could do it for you.”

“Really?” I
repeated, this time hopeful.

He nodded
vigorously. “Ah-huh, if you go out with me for a drink after work sometime.”

My brows lowered and
I snatched the wad of bills and list from his hand. “Really.” Now it came out as
more of an irritated grunt. The audacity of the little hustling nerd.
This
nerd would not be bribed into going
out with him. The likelihood of Reese out and about at ten thirty on a Monday
morning was highly unlikely. “I can do the run.”

His expression soured
as I marched past him.

On my way to the
elevator, I studied the list of coffees. How the hell was I supposed to carry
eight coffees back down to the basement? I pushed the elevator button. I should
have just snatched my five and told Ray to forget it. As the elevator took me
up to the lobby, I wondered if he’d actually picked my name. Or if the little
turd had planned his bribe from the get-go.

The doors opened and
it was go time. Though running in to Reese seemed highly unlikely, being too
careful didn’t hurt.

I Ace Ventura-ed
across the lobby and to the escalator, stopping at plants or sculptures and
checking for Reese. At ten thirty, the place had less than a quarter of the
people compared to before or after work or lunch. If Reese were out here, he’d
be sure to spot me, even in my dumpy work attire of black pants and a white
polo today. The way I dressed for work drove Kara nuts. Really, why did it
matter? I sat behind a computer in a room full of computer nerds all day. But
at least, since I usually dressed to the Jules nines around Reese, I hoped he
wouldn’t notice me from the back. I stepped on the escalator behind a tall, big
man, stayed forward, and spent the ride up peeking around him.

Whew.

No sign of Reese on
the second floor.

Object: get in, get
coffee, and get out without being seen by a certain executive.

There was a small
food court up here to the left of the elevators. The coffee shop was the second
shop, so I just needed to whisk in then whisk out of there. Of course, being
morning, even late morning, the place was rocking. Damn, I had shit luck. Ray
probably
had
pulled my five-dollar
bill from the stack.

Amid the sweet scent
of fresh brew, I stepped into the line of people that made an L around the
booths and tables in the center of the shop. Clutching the wad of cash and the
list, I covertly scanned the line. It remained Reese-less. Yet each time
someone entered the line behind me, I stealthily checked them out. At least I
hope it appeared stealthily or else I looked like a real freak.

Almost to the
counter, like five people away, and beginning to feel comfortable, I rechecked
the line behind me and just about screamed like I was in a horror film.
Instead, I invaded the personal space of the person ahead of me so that I stood
behind a shelf of tea boxes. The guy glanced over his shoulder at me, but I was
dealing with more pressing matters than appearing like a freak.

Reese stood two
people from the end of the line, looking suave and delectable in a dark suit.
Inner Fangirl wanted to look, look, look and sigh, sigh, sigh.

I told her to fuck
off.

I had shit, shit,
shit luck, and it was a miracle I had actually moved, because I was in total
shock. In my devastation, while keeping my nose inches from a box of tea as if
I were enthralled with the ingredients, I imagined the fallout if he noticed
me.

Surprised, he’d come
up to me. I’d make up some lame story about working in the building as a temp.
He’d ask where. I’d mumble and stumble over the particulars. He’d question me
more. I’d race away, claiming I had to get back to work. He’d investigate and
find out the truth. Dinner on Tuesday would be canceled. All of our time left
together would be canceled. Reese would remember me as a liar. As a crazy woman
who’d pretended to be a secretary. As a woman who’d made a complete ass of
herself in Puerto Rico. End of story.
 

I wanted my time
left, and for whatever reason—be it ridiculous or not—I wanted Reese to recall
me with at least a touch of fondness when we were finished dating. Not as some
lunatic.

The line moved
forward, but I tried to stay behind the shelf of tea boxes while
hyperventilating. When the person behind me edged into
my
space, I took a step forward then crouched on the ground,
pretending to fix the sock around my ankle since my rubber clogs didn’t have
laces.

And I took a long
time fixing that sock while seriously freaking out.

I had to get out of
here.

Now.

Head down, I
mumbled, “Excuse me, just leaving. Excuse me, just leaving,” as I moved past
the people ahead of me, bumping and crashing into them, but I didn’t care. I
needed to go.

I made it past the
front of the line and basically started sprinting. Moving behind a line of
booths, I stayed half hidden. Maybe a little luck was on my side for once.

Unfortunately, in
such a ridiculous, terrified rush with my head down, I ran into a woman. Or
more specifically, her beverage. It was a good thing she enjoyed frozen coffee.
Otherwise, I’d have been a burn victim. Yet cool, icy crystals tended to be
slippery. Not good.

It went like this.
Headbutt into coffee cup. Woman letting out a strangled gasp as sticky slush
covered me. Hair, shirt, and shoulders becoming instantly wet and icy. Me
shoving a five-dollar bill at woman while mumbling, “Sorry,” but still moving.
Must escape.
Two strides later, slipping
on floor then into shelf. This time, coffee bags, which toppled all over me as
I crash-landed.
Must not stop
.
Crawling and scrambling across icy, slippery floor. Iced coffee now on hands
and pants. Coffee house worker helping me up.
Must go.
A quick, gasping, “Thank you,” before hauling ass out of
the shop without looking back.

I flew down the
escalator, pushing past people, and into the basement stairwell. I stopped for
about two seconds to catch my breath, but the need to flee had me racing down
the two flights of stairs. People in the hallway gave me startled stares as I
flew by them drenched in caramel-colored stickiness. Seriously, at this point,
I couldn’t have cared less about how I looked.

Inside our office, I
paused at Ray’s cubicle on my way to the bathroom. I slapped the cold, wet,
sticky money and list on his desk. He surveyed me with surprised eyes, taking
in the gooey mess that was me.

“Mission aborted,” I
said in a tone of vengeance. “Feel free to take my beverage off the list.”

****

Not
only did I spend the day sticky, messy, stained, and smelling like a mixture of
pumpkin and cinnamon—there’s only so much goo you can remove in an employee bathroom—more
importantly, I spent the day hovering over my phone, waiting for a text or call
from Reese, and fearing that he had witnessed the entire episode.

My phone stayed
quiet all day, which only heightened the suspense instead of calming me. Finally,
on the way home, while standing on the subway, my phone beeped in a text.

The man next to me,
who kept sniffing me, saw my face freeze in a horrified expression. He kept
watching me as I let out a stream of air then slowly lifted my phone.

Pick
you up tomorrow at 7?

It was from Reese.

The messaged seemed
good. Real good. Right? If he’d seen me in the coffee shop, wouldn’t he have
asked about it? You’d think.

I drew in a breath,
wrapped my arm around the pole I was leaning on, and typed out,
Sure.
How was work today?

My hand gripped the
pole while I waited for a response. The man sniffed at me again. I stared at
the screen of my phone. The man shifted closer. I didn’t even put out my elbow
like I usually did to keep offenders out of my space on the subway.
 

The longest two
minutes of my life later, Reese’s text came through.

Okay.
Had a few new possible client meetings. Nothing too exciting.

The ‘nothing too
exciting’ had me internally woohooing. I wanted to gyrate around the subway
pole like a stripper and shove the sniffer’s nose into my tits so he could
motorboat
and
get a full whiff of the
coffee mess. I was
that
ecstatic.

Watching the gal you
were dating crawl around a slushy floor in a coffee shop would have been exciting—and
probably a huge turn-off. And that was putting it mildly.

But Reese must have
not seen me.

Oh, happy day!

The train slowed to
my stop.

I turned to the man
who’d been sniffing me and gave him a grin. “It was a pumpkin spice
Frappuccino. Seems like you should try one,” I said and headed out the doors,
practically skipping my way home.

Chapter 25

The
door to his apartment was a shiny, black steel. I’d imagined coming here more than
once, him rushing me to his place during the lunch hour or after work or after
one of our many imaginary dates. Just this Tuesday night on a real date, my
hormones had nearly asked for an invitation. After a delicious dinner at an
out-of-the-way Italian dive—I’d been expecting him to take me to some
expensive, swanky restaurant, so I had been overdressed in a Jules dress—we’d
made out like teenagers in the back of the limo. When Paul had pulled up to my
apartment and our lips had parted while his hand was under my dress and inside
my underwear, our eyes had both glittered in the shadowy confines of the limo.

Mine had begged him
to ask me to go home with him. His had looked like they were about to demand I
go home with him. Yet neither of us spoke what our eyes were saying. I had no
idea what his reservations were. Perhaps he had to work early or even slave
away that evening, but my reservations had to do with getting to work the
following morning. To the same building as his. I couldn’t logically come up
with a way to get out of that other than being dropped off several blocks away,
which would make me late, and just the idea that he might find out I actually
did kind of work for him scared the shit out of me, especially after the coffee
incident. That one was as close as I ever wanted to get to him finding out. And
it wasn’t just about him rejecting me—which at this point would suck big time—I
had Kara’s job to consider too. The coffee shop scare had put everything back
into perspective.

So we said our goodbyes
after he reluctantly removed his hand. I went up to my apartment and ignored
Kara’s look of satisfaction at the fact that I’d come home before ten, brushed
my teeth, washed my face, carefully hung up Jules’s dress, and went to bed
horny as hell.

Now, after several
texts that included,
Bring an overnight bag
, here I was
on a Saturday afternoon, talking a deep, calming breath before I raised my hand
and knocked lightly on his door.

Less than a minute
later, the door opened to reveal Reese in jeans, an old T-shirt, and bare feet.
His hair looked slightly messy, a lovely, dark shadow of scruff covered his
jaw, and his hazel eyes shined with an anticipation that caused my breath to
hitch. Other than the tux, Casual Reese was my favorite.

“Perfect timing,” he
said in a warm tone, gesturing me to come in. “I just finished up my work for
the day.”

“Well, you did have
Paul pick me up,” I grumbled, strolling past him.

I had wanted to take
the subway so Paul didn’t have to come out—the whole chauffeur thing was weird
to me. But after arguing back and forth through texts, Reese had gotten his
way. As usual.

Reese shut the door
behind me. “It’s his job.”

I let out a pfft but
forgot about Paul as I came to the end of the short hallway. The apartment was
awesome. To the left of me lay a long galley kitchen with a huge granite island
and counter stools. Between the kitchen and living room sat an extensive sleek
table. And beyond the U-shaped form of dark brown leather couches were tall
windows that took up the entire wall and wrapped around a quarter of the room,
letting bright sun in along with a stunning view. The walls were cream, the
furniture and cupboards dark, and the ceilings high. The room was big, not
huge. The kitchen was noticeably new, but it was an older apartment, maybe
pre-war or possibly built right after.

“Wow,” I said,
moving toward the windows and taking in the view. “This is amazing.”

Reese followed me to
the windows, leaning on the glass with his shoulder and taking in the view of
me. “Most women aren’t impressed with my address.”

Ugh. Why did he have
to bring up other women?

I pulled my gaze
from the view of treetops and towering skyscrapers to his flat expression. The
‘most women’ comment and their lack of impression swam together in a muddled
mess in my mind. I wasn’t about to let him know that it bothered me though.

After several long
silent seconds, I asked, “Why wouldn’t they be impressed?”

“They’re expecting
something…grander I suppose.”

Ah, we’d skirted the
topic of his wealth thus far, but yes, models and ballerinas would expect a
billionaire to live in a five-thousand-square-foot penthouse in Tribeca—the
priciest place to live in New York—not a very, very nice eighteenth-floor
apartment in Clinton.

“Well, it beats the
apartment I share with Kara by a landslide.”

Not that our
apartment wasn’t nice. The damn ridiculous rent made it seem pretty darn nice
to me. It wasn’t this big or had this view or a doorman or an awesome
kitchen—that thing begged a person to learn how to cook.

“I wouldn’t mind
owning a brownstone in Brooklyn one day,” Reese stated, referring to my
apartment.

“Yeah, but I’m
guessing you’re talking about the entire thing.”

 
A lopsided grin curved his mouth. “Of course.”

“In DUMBO?”

He cocked his head
in question.

“One of the upscale
areas.”

“Well, I suppose, if
I want it to be an investment.”

Funny, I’d bet he
could afford to buy several brownstones right now. I scanned the view. “So
what’s with the reference to most women not liking your address?”

Reese appeared puzzled
for a moment. “Although I bought it about a year and a half ago, I’ve lived
here less than a year. Renovations took approximately eight months.”

Now it was my turn
to look puzzled.

He rubbed the scruff
on his jaw, making me jealous of his hand. “I haven’t… Well, I’ve dated, but I
haven’t brought anyone here.”

The puzzled look
didn’t leave my face.

“Getting… It just… I
got tired of being with women who wanted me for money.”

I instantly recalled
that last night in Puerto Rico, when he couldn’t believe that I didn’t think he
was rich. “Is that why you asked me out?” I blurted.

“Partly,” he
admitted quietly. “I was attracted to you and you seemed attracted to
me
, not my inheritance.”

Okay, I could live
with that. I decided to be honest about the money thing since we were on the
topic. “I find your inheritance a bit scary.”

Reese smirked. “I
know.”

My eyes grew large.
“You heard me on the phone with Kara last Friday!”

He nodded. “I did.”

I almost said something
concerning eavesdropping, but considering that I’d done the same—accidently—I
let that thought go. “It still freaks me out,” I admitted, though it didn’t
matter. This wasn’t moving toward anything long term. In fact, it was, sadly,
almost over.

He reached out,
pausing, his hand in the air between us. Then, as if he couldn’t help it, he
brushed a finger along the curve of my jaw. “I know, but in all honesty, except
for a few perks like Paul, I don’t live like a billionaire heir. Don’t want
to.”

“Why?” I asked from
a dry throat, suddenly realizing that this was the core of him, his motivation
in life and work.

His knuckles ran
along my neck, and thought left me for a moment. “I’ve learned that money buys
misery more than happiness.”

His tone, his words
took me back to when he and his grandmother had been arguing, when his words
had hinted at abuse. “How?”

“Because it’s never
brought me happiness,” he said with a shrug and dropped his hand. He took a
step back and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Twenty minutes until game
time,” he said, referring to the soccer match we were supposed to watch.

“Oh, yeah. The
soccer game,” I said slowly, my mind still caught in his earlier tone.

He gestured to the
bag on my shoulder then pointed to the hall off the kitchen. “Why don’t you
take that to my bedroom”—I couldn’t help the bubble of excitement that hit me
at the idea of being in his bedroom—“and I’ll get some refreshments out on the
table.”

A giggle almost
escaped me at the word
refreshments
—who
the heck used that word? I shook my head and proceeded toward the hallway. It
was short, with one door leading to a half bath and the other to his bedroom.
The room was Spartan, with a king-sized platform bed, a dresser, and a table
next to the bed that faced another wall of windows. After setting my bag on the
dresser, I peeked into the open doorways on each side of the bed. One led to a
long walk-in closet, the other into a bathroom.

And what a bathroom!
From the long basin sink with two faucets to the curved, tiled shower with a
glass front to the porcelain tub that sat in the middle, everything was sleek,
modern, and luxurious. Probably not to the extent of some billionaires’
bathrooms, but yeah, it made the tiny room in my apartment seem like a dump.

“I spent most of the
renovation money here and in the kitchen,” Reese said from behind me, which
nearly had me jumping. “Supposedly, those are the rooms that sell.”

“So you’re planning
on selling?” I asked calmly, pretending that his presence next to me in his
bedroom wasn’t making my pulse pick up.

“Yes, eventually. I
bought it as an investment.”

“Well, even as an
investment, it is a great apartment,” I said lamely.

I had a hard time
wrapping my head around his ‘investment.’ For the up-and-coming businessman I
had assumed he was, this apartment made sense, but for a billionaire, it
probably wasn’t much of an investment. While the apartment was quite awesome,
he wasn’t making financial sense, especially to my financially dumb ass.

“Come on.” He
gestured toward the living room. “The game is going to start soon.”

I understood soccer,
so I followed willingly, leaving the conundrum of his investments in the
bedroom.

The big-screen
TV—like about a foot bigger than the one in my apartment—over the fireplace was
already on, and the coffee table was covered with healthy snacks like
pistachios, cheese, and cut veggies. I rolled my eyes at the array and almost
made a crack about how he never eats junk food until I noticed the contents of
a bin with ice on the floor.

“Bottled Coke?” I
turned to him. “You like Coke too?”

He shrugged. “It’s
all right… It’s soda.”

“So you got it for
me?” I asked in a tone that sounded like he’d showered me with diamonds. I also
had to be beaming like a kid walking into Disney World
.
 

A ghost of a smile
touched his lips. “I remembered you drinking it at the pool hall. I had Paul
pick it up.”

Still, that he’d
considered such a small thing had me all warm inside. I shimmied my way over to
the table, grabbed the waiting opener, popped two tops, and handed him a
bottle. “To France winning,” I said, clinking our bottles together.

“France? You’re not
rooting for Brazil?” His tone was incredulous.

I gave him an ‘as
if’ expression. “England is my team, which might have to do with a certain English
player gracing my walls as a teenager, but other than them, I always root for
the underdog.”

“Beckham? Seriously?
You drooled over that douche?”

A laugh escaped me.
“You said douche!”

He fell back onto
one of the couches. I continued to giggle. “I went to prep school, not
Iceland,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “You care to make a bet?”

“A bet?”

“Let’s see… If my
team wins, you make breakfast tomorrow morning, and vice versa.”

My expression turned
dubious at the notion of either of us making breakfast, but I said, “Deal.”

We watched the game,
rooting for opposite teams. A celery fight happened at one point.
It wasn’t a foul
. The ref was biased.
And if Reese had kept yelling foul, he might have gotten a celery stick up his
nose. Reese nursed his Coke. I drank two. He demolished the bowl of pistachios.
The darn Brazilians won, and Reese flaunted the victory in my face with loud
clapping for about a minute. I glared at him for about three.

I had a great time
even though France had lost. I hadn’t watched much soccer over the last three
years. I had watched the last World Cup while my leg was in a cast, and the
memory of sitting there immobile lingered. Today’s game had helped alleviate
that memory.

Reese let me decide
on going out for dinner or ordering in. I chose Chinese takeout. We ate pot
stickers, fried rice, and spicy Szechwan chicken paired with a merlot—Reese
was
turning me in to a wino—while
watching another old movie. This time, the comedy
His Girl Friday
. Reese had a thing for old movies—and it seemed
like a thing for the starlets—like the black-and-white kind. In the Hamptons,
he had admitted that his father had turned him on to them at about the age of
ten. I usually found them to be hit or miss, but thus far, the ones Reese had
shared were good. Or maybe it was watching it with his arm around me as I
cuddled into his side that made the old movies good. Could very well be.