Despite myself, I’ve been unable to resist cataloguing every behavior of his I notice. The differences in how he speaks to Catherine as opposed to Rachel as opposed to me. How he relaxes with Eli, Kyan, and Liam, but tenses up at the mere mention of Frank. It’s a fascinating phenomenon. No one riles Cullen like Frank Peterson does.
In short, the mystery surrounding Cullen calls to me like a siren—which is perhaps a hazard of my profession. I long to learn more about his childhood, his military service, his life. I want to know what makes Cullen tick. But most of all—though I know it’s none of my business—I want to smooth Cullen’s nightmares away.
And yes, the chance to work in Catherine’s office may be a window into the man’s life. I’ve no intention of abusing the position, but anything in plain sight is fair game.
As with the last time I was here, the CEO’s suite is much emptier than I expect—though given Cullen’s addiction to privacy, I’m not surprised that he prefers his staff to stay behind their own doors. Following Catherine’s directions, I go to her door and enter a code into the outside keypad to let myself inside.
Settling behind the computer desk, I pull out my notes and spend a lot more effort than is fair on not thinking about what Cullen might be doing in his office just now. Whether he might pop in to say hello. Whether the hello will be anything like the shower—
Shit. I shake my head to cut off that thought before the heat low in my body manages to soak through my panties. So not going there. Especially not now. Firmly taking myself in hand, I take in the clean lines of Catherine’s office. The mauve walls are so different from the rest of the building, and so are the myriad plants lining one window. Though her desk is walnut and extremely tidy, there’s a row of silver picture frames, all showcasing an auburn-haired woman and her two children. These must be Catherine’s daughter and grandkids. It’s a unique behind-the-scenes foray into the life of Cullen’s number one assistant.
If only I could have the same sort of foray into Cullen’s life.
Picking up the next set of bills from Catherine’s inbox, I frown at the note in Cullen’s writing instructing they not be paid from corporate funds, and marking an alternative account instead. Flipping through the invoices, which cover everything from flower delivery to sizable mortgage payments all to the benefit of Adrianna Peterson, I feel my stomach churn. Having paid at least a dozen different charities on Cullen’s behalf this morning, I know the man gives generously, but these bills seem…personal. As does the bank account I’m to pay them from.
All for Adrianna Peterson.
He came back here because of Addie. Bar’s Addie. Jaz’s words from our climbing day float back to my mind. They all go way back.
My stomach twists again, though I know full well it’s got no right to. So Cullen came back to where Addie Peterson, his best friend’s widow and probably his own longtime friend, was left behind. And he wants to take care of her. What’s so wrong about that? It doesn’t mean there’s anything more to it. And even if it did…Cullen and I aren’t a couple. A few hookups give me no claim over the man. Cullen has a full right to see whichever women he wants. Maybe that’s what he and Frank are at each other’s throats about.
Except why didn’t Addie come to Eli’s barbeque, then? a small voice inside my mind insists. Is he hiding her from you, or you from her?
Stupid. I’m being stupid.
Firing up the computer, I log in to the account and pay the invoices as instructed, the checks for roses and gift cards to Bloomingdales and even utility bills flying off to their recipients in cyberspace. I even get into the rhythm of it—all until I come to a receipt for a special-order engraved heart locket from Tiffany’s Forever Love collection and feel bile touch my throat all over again. No matter how I twist it, Forever Love isn’t the kind of thing a guy gives to “just a friend.” And yes, it’s also just too close to the kind of thing my mom likes to brag about.
After living through my teenage years with a mother who fastened herself to well-to-do men as a means of income, I despise the whole setup with a primal hatred that goes well beyond rational thought. My mom might imagine herself a star in her own Pretty Woman fantasy, but I see her for what she is: little better than a prostitute hanging on a sugar daddy’s elbow.
No, scratch that. My mom has nothing on prostitutes. Prostitutes don’t lie to themselves about what they’re selling.
Is that what Addie Peterson is? Cullen’s kept woman? Or is she just one of a bunch he keeps around, primed with trinkets from Tiffany’s, for when the need strikes him?
Unable to help myself, I scroll down Cullen’s account history, not even sure what I’m looking for. What smoking gun. And then my heart stops, my fingers clicking the mouse dumbly as I stare at the six-hundred-thousand-dollar check written out to Pine Towers, my apartment number right in the memo. No. No, no, no.
Clicking out of the bank account, I rest my forehead on my hands, my mind racing to work out what I’ve just seen. What to do about it. Jaden had been right, my apartment is no more rent controlled than my expensive furniture or the designer clothes Cullen’s handed me. All because I’m…what? The most indispensable temp he’s ever had?
I straighten my back, forcing myself to take deep breaths despite the heat now filling my blood and rushing to my face. Whatever else, I owe it to Cullen and myself both to have a conversation instead of burying myself under a heap of circumstantial demons. Standing, I straighten my blouse as if it were some kind of armor and march myself down the hall.
My pulse thins for a moment as I lift my hand to knock on Cullen’s heavy door and stutters again as he opens it, his pressed white shirt and fitted suit making his muscular silhouette into something that belongs on a GQ cover. I swallow. I’ve seen the man naked, for God’s sake. Have done a great deal more than look when he accosted me in the shower. And yet, walking into his office, with him fully dressed, the scent of starch from his French-cuffed shirt mixing with his spicy male musk, it feels more intrusive. More intimidating.
“Skylar.” Cullen’s green eyes are cool. Unreadable. “What can I do for you?”
Well, no better time than the present. “You told me my apartment was rent controlled,” I blurt.
“It is.” Nothing changes about Cullen’s face, not even a flick of a brow.
My gut tightens. “You paid six hundred thousand for it. I saw the check, Cullen.”
“Correct. I’m the owner, and I rent control it.” He straightens his cuff, paying too great attention to the gold square. “Why were you looking through my personal account?”
I swallow, the air between us vibrating with the same quiet tension that lines Cullen’s beautiful face. Despite his seeming to focus on his task, the fabric of his suit shifts over coiling muscles. Though he’s made no sudden moves, a shiver runs down my spine.
“Several of the invoices in Catherine’s inbox had a note with the name of the account they should be paid out of.” I raise my chin. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Adrianna’s invoices.”
His face darkens. It’s the kind of reddish hue I’ve seen before, the kind that says I’d hit on something he was hoping I wouldn’t. He shifts his weight. An off-balance Cullen—now there’s a sight I don’t remember ever seeing before.