She’s going to fit in just fine as the newest member of the Rutherford family.
Not a doubt in my mind.
Placing my hand across the table, I bring it over hers. Our eyes meet once more.
“You look beautiful tonight, Mari,” I say. “I meant to tell you that earlier when I picked you up.”
“Thank you.” Her full lips press together, stifling a humbled smile.
Suddenly and without warning, I find myself desperately curious to know what they taste like, what they feel like. And when Mari readjusts her posture, bending forward, the pillow-soft tops of her breasts nearly spill out of her dress, sending my cock straining against the inside of my slacks.
Thank God for table cloths.
“Anyway, how was your day?” she asks, head tilted to the side.
But I can’t think about my day, and mind-numbing small talk doesn’t interest me. All I can do is stare at the sexy little thing in front of me. And knowing sex is completely off the table and that I’m literally the last person on earth Mari would ever want to fuck only makes me want her more.
Nine
Mari
* * *
“My mom hugs,” I say as he stretches next to the kitchen island early Saturday morning. Last night we shared a candlelit dinner uptown, and in the car on the way home, he reached for my hand, taking it in his. I didn’t even have to remind him to touch me, he just did it on his own. “Like, a lot. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I think I can handle her.”
“Her name is Margo,” I say. “My dad is Abel. That’s why they named me Maribel.”
“Adorable,” he chuffs.
“They’ve been together since they were fourteen.”
He kicks a leg behind him, grabbing his ankle and stretching out his quad before repeating it on the other side. When Hudson eyes the clock and grabs a bottle of Smart water from the fridge, I feel guilty for not joining him.
I ate like a heifer last night—a pregnant heifer, that is. I ate three-fourths of the Italian bread loaf on the table plus my kale salad before polishing off an entire dish of chicken marsala and suggesting to Hudson that we split a piece of chocolate raspberry cake.
He didn’t say a word though, bless his cold little heart.
“My dad will probably want to talk to you about college football. Or tools. Or cars,” I say as he makes his way to the door. “So … study up.”
“Will do.” He smirks. I don’t believe him. “Going for a quick run. Be back in a half hour.”
“Okay … I’ll … be here.”
Marta scurries into the kitchen the second he’s gone, fishing a small kit of cleaning supplies from under the sink. With a focused fury, she begins polishing the already-pristine counters and wiping off the already mirror-like stainless appliances.
“Want some help?” I offer. It feels weird just sitting here at the island doing nothing while she cleans like her life depends on it. I haven’t lifted a finger since I got here a few days ago, and it seems wrong.
“No, no.” Marta waves her hand, scrubbing the immaculate counters with a blue rag. “You relax, Miss Collins. I’m just doing my job.”
Ever since Hudson let her in on the plan and informed her I was moving in, she’s been acting different around me.
“You don’t have to call me Miss Collins,” I say. “Just a week ago, I was his assistant and you were calling me Mari.”
“Yes,” she says. “And now you live here. I work for Mr. Rutherford and I work for you. Formalities are expected in this home.”
“You don’t work for me.” I laugh. The idea of me with a servant is ridiculous. “You don’t even have to clean my room if you don’t want.”
“Yes, I do,” she snaps. And I realize that perhaps it was offensive for me to suggest she isn’t needed or for me to come in here and undermine the man who cuts her paychecks. “I have a system, Miss Collins. I clean the bathrooms on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The bedrooms every other day, all floors once a day, and—”
“It’s fine.” I place a hand up. “Totally understand that you have a routine. I was just trying to lighten your load.”
Marta stops scrubbing and glances up at me. “I love my job, Miss Collins. Mr. Rutherford is good to me, and I try my best to be good to him in return. You won’t find a speck of dust in this place or an ounce of spoiled food in the fridge, I can promise you that.”
Hudson is good to her? Never would’ve guessed that.
I watch Marta move from the marble to the stainless to the interior of the microwave and beyond before sliding off the bar stool and tiptoeing back to my suite. I’ve never known Marta to be so distant to me before.
It’s almost as if she doesn’t like me now.
Just weeks ago, we were joking about how particular Hudson is about which dry cleaner he uses right down to the brand of starch they keep on hand, and now she’s acting like we’re strangers.
My stomach rolls when I get back to my room, and I collapse onto the squishy, cashmere-soft bed I’ve come to love these last few nights. I’m either hungry or I have to throw up—maybe both, but I’m too exhausted to move.
Reaching for my phone on the nightstand, I check my usual apps out of boredom before mindlessly pulling up Safari and heading over to a baby name blog. I’ve been doing that lately … thinking about what I’m going to name this little babe.
My plan is to wait until I meet it, see what it looks like, and go from there. But I’d like to have a few options or a short list or something to pull from.
Pulling up my messages, I shoot Isabelle a text.
* * *
Me: Adelia?
Her: Nope.
Me: Nuriel?
Her: Pass!!
Me: Cammelia?
Her: Idk... maybe.
Me: Zasarn?
Her: Are you naming a baby or an alien? Seriously, Mar.
* * *
Chuckling, I go back to the blog and scan for some new names to pester her with. I like to mix it up and make her think I’m going to name this thing something way out of the left field. Keep her on her toes a bit.
Rolling to my back, I brush my messy hair from my face. I need to shower. I need to get cleaned up and find something productive to do today. I hate not working, but I guess, in a way, this is my job for a while. And it’s pointless to get back out there and search for something when I’m going to be moving back to Nebraska at the end of summer anyway.
There’s a slight rap on the door, which sends a quick shock through my middle.
“Yeah?” I call out.
“Miss Collins?” It’s Marta. Maybe she’s coming to apologize? Or empty my bathroom trash. It could really go either way at this point. “We have a visitor.”
My stomach sinks. I don’t know what to do with a visitor. Should I have her start some tea? Set out some macaroons? Do I greet them in the study or the living room?
Shuffling out of bed and across the room, I pull the door open.
“Is Hudson back from his run yet?” I ask.
Marta shakes her head.
“Who is it?” I ask.