This experience will be good for Mari. I think she’s really going to hit her stride under my wing, and when it’s over, she’ll find herself a little more refined, a little more patient, and she’ll find the world is a little more within her reach than it was before.
“I hope you’re not too hungry. I moved our reservations so we could make a little stop on the way,” I say, checking my watch.
“Where are we going?”
“Your apartment. Then the restaurant.”
“And why are we stopping at my apartment?” Her nose wrinkles.
“You’ll see soon enough.”
Mari crosses her long legs and slides back into the seat as we merge into the busy mid-day traffic. Within a half hour, we’re sitting outside her building, parked behind a moving truck.
Leaning forward, she squints toward the uniformed men lugging furniture pieces up a ramp.
“That looks like my …” her voice trails off. “That’s … is that my dresser?”
Reaching for the door handle, she scurries to climb out of the limo. I follow, placing my hand on her shoulder as she stares wide-eyed as her things are loaded.
“What are you doing with my things?” She turns to me. “And how did you get access to my apartment?”
“You’re moving in with me.”
“And why wasn’t this communicated with me?” She whips her gaze in my direction, her hands landing on her hips.
“It was. Didn’t you read the contract you signed over the weekend?”
“Of course I read it.”
“Then surely you read the fine print?” I ask.
Her expression wilts as she glances over my shoulder and into the distance.
“Pretty sure I would’ve noticed a cohabitation clause,” she says, chewing on the inside of her lip. Mari exhales, and I watch in real time as her frustration seems to be redirected at herself.
“Either way, it’s a done deal. It’s happening. You’re living with me—in the guest suite of course,” I say. “It’s important that we get to know each other’s habits—our idiosyncrasies, if you will. We need to have some kind of authentic semblance of a relationship. It can’t all be acting. Now, go upstairs and collect your personal belongings. Everything else will go into storage. I’ll wait here in the car.”
Mari exhales, saying nothing before she turns on her heels and shimmies between two movers carrying oversized crates of her pre-Rutherford life.
Smirking, I climb back into the car.
I knew I chose well.
Five
Mari
* * *
“If you need anything, dial seven on your phone. Marta will be able to assist you. I’ll be in my study. You’re welcome to join me once you’re settled in.”
Hudson disappears, closing my bedroom door behind him, and I bask in the surrealness of this moment. One minute I’m quitting my job, the next minute I’m plucked from my world, given a Pretty Woman-esque makeover and a lavish bedroom suite easily twice the size of my shoebox apartment.
Circling the room, I pass by the east window, taking in the view of the city from what feels like the top of the world. It’s raining now, little drops beading against the crystal clear glass. Two bedside lamps flank a king-sized bed fit for a spread in Metropolitan Home magazine, and I run to the foot, sinking down in the middle. The bedding is cashmere soft and smells faintly of lavender linen spray.
A knock at my door pulls me from this magical moment, and I scramble to my feet.
“Yes, come in,” I call.
The door swings open and Hudson’s driver stands there, Henri Bendel bags in his arms.
“Your things, Miss Collins,” he says.
I step out of the way, ushering him in. For a moment, I’d forgotten all about today’s shopping excursion. I’ve never been a materialistic person, and I never want to be. But nothing beats having a personal stylist pulling pieces shaped for my body type in colors meant to flatter my hair and skin. If it weren’t for Elle, I never would have known that fuchsia was my color. And if it weren’t for Manuel at the Fekkai salon, I never would’ve thought lopping a couple of inches off my hair and changing up my part would alter my entire look for the better.
On this ordinary Monday, this modest Midwestern girl was queen for the day, and I’ll never forget it as long as I live.
“Thank you, Rocco,” I say when he returns with another armful of bags, placing them near the dresser.
A few minutes later, dozens of paper shopping bags cover the hardwood floor, and I hum softly to myself as I hang my new wardrobe in the walk-in closet and organize about a dozen shoeboxes along wooden shelves.
When I’m finished, I pass the dresser, catching my reflection in the mirror. At first pass, it doesn’t immediately register that the girl staring back … is me. I stop, giving myself a curious glance. Twisting a tendril of hair and tucking it behind my ear, my gaze falls on my faded red lips. The day is already starting to wear off, and the second I strip out of this Dior pencil skirt and Chanel blouse and wash the rest of this makeup off my face, my Cinderella moment will be over.
But that’s okay.
I don’t want this experience to change me.
I’m fine the way I am. I like myself, unlike most women I know who are my age. And besides, when I move back to Nebraska and have my baby, no one’s going to care which labels fill my closet or whether or not my shoes have red bottoms.
Turning to leave, I hit the light switch on my way out and stride down the hall toward Hudson’s study.
He’s right. We have to spend time together and get to know each other’s annoying little habits. One erroneous statement and this entire thing could come skidding to a halt, and then all of this will have been for nothing.
I pass a portrait gallery, one I’ve never noticed before. I’ve roamed these halls dozens of times before, always dropping off his dry cleaning or signing for packages when Marta’s out running errands. Never once did I envision myself living here. The faces staring back in the photographs must be his family. And soon they’ll be my family—at least on paper.
Weird.
Everything feels brand new, like I’m seeing this place for the first time all over again: the view of the city from his living room windows, the glossy marble kitchen, the floor-to-ceiling fireplace, the custom chandelier in his foyer. Every square inch of this place was planned with purpose and intention, which isn’t surprising considering Hudson’s eye for detail.
Making my way to his study, I linger in the doorway and watch him work. He doesn’t notice me. He’s far too concerned with the sketch he’s working on, placing the pencil between his full lips at times and dragging his hands through his hair.
I’ve never taken the time to watch him work—at least not like this.
He’s actually kind of sexy when he’s in the zone, all serious and contemplative.
“Don’t they make software that does that for you?” I interrupt his focus with a playful question.
He drops his drafting pencil. “My computer’s at the office. Besides, even the best CAD program is no substitute for some good, old-fashioned hand-sketching.”