Taking Turns (Turning #1)(33)

I smile.

She swallows.

“One of these days, Marcella Walcott, I’m gonna get your story.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath for that,” she mumbles, turning away just as the driver gets back in.

“Why not? It’s a secret?”

A long, deep inhalation of air.

The car moves forward and I settle in. The drive over to her place is short, practically over by the time her shoulders relax. But maybe it’s the thought of home that relaxes her?

We pull up right in front of her townhouse and I’m out of the car, extending my hand. She takes it and I help her step out of that world and into this one.

More silence as we walk up her front steps, She starts digging into the decorative clutch she’s using as a purse for her keys, but I’m already unlocking the door.

“You have a key to my house?” she snaps.

“What did you think I was doing on Monday?” I practically laugh the words out.

“You left the gallery to break into my house?” She is angry now.

But I don’t care. Better to get things out in the open as soon as possible. “Why are you surprised?”

“I shouldn’t be,” she says. Her jaw is clenching and her lips are pressed tightly together.

“Get inside, Chella. I’m f*cking cold.”

She looks at the car as it pulls away and she understands. She knows what’s happening. What she’s got herself into. Or at least, she’s telling herself that. She’s busy rationalizing this as some sex experiment. Something she’ll walk away from in a few weeks, probably? Something dirty, yes. But very, very temporary. She will have her fun, we will have our fun, and then she will get out.

So she thinks.

I grab her arm when she refuses to move and push her across the threshold, dropping my new set of keys into a tray on the side table and locking the door behind us. I turn to the alarm panel on the wall and arm it.

“You have the code to my alarm? How?”

I just smile as I take off my coat and hang it in the coat closet. “Did you really think I wouldn’t?” Small chuckle from me. “Fool me once, Marcella. You locked me in that first night. I wasn’t expecting it. My research shows you almost never use the alarm. Which is stupid,” I add. “This neighborhood looks nice. It’s got streets lined with multimillion-dollar houses. But it’s f*cking downtown Denver, Chella. I thought you were smart.”

I leave her standing there in the foyer as I make my way through the front room, past the coffer-paneled fireplace that separates the front room from the dining room, and then into the large kitchen that shares a space with a nicely appointed family room.

The small, slow clicking of high heels follows me as I reach into the fridge and take out a bottle of 1995 Clos d’Ambonnay. “We should celebrate,” I say, taking the champagne to the island where I have two tall-fluted glasses ready. “Why are you still wearing your coat?”

“What’s happening?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” I ask, popping the cork on the champagne. “You just signed a contract.”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice a little louder as she recovers from her shock. “But you didn’t know that. You got my key five days ago. So why the f*ck—”

“Don’t,” I say in a loud, firm voice as I put up a hand. “You do not talk to me that way. Understand?”

She exhales, like she was holding her breath for a few seconds. “You didn’t know I was going to sign.”

“I knew. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“And if I didn’t sign? Then what? You’d still have my key? My alarm code? What if I wanted to—”

“Oh, for f*ck’s sake, shut up, Marcella. You’re ruining my night.”

She blinks at me. Twice.

“OK, look,” I say. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll help you tonight. It’s an adjustment. I get it.” I step around the island and start unbuttoning her coat. But when I try to slip it off, it gets stuck because she’s still holding her little clutch purse. I take it from her hand, place it on the counter, and take the coat to the front closet by the door. When I come back to the kitchen, she’s sitting in a stool at the island, head in her hands.

“Why are you so moody?” I ask. I’m starting to get annoyed with her.

She lifts her head up and stares at me while I pour our drinks.

“What?” I ask.

“Answer my questions. If I didn’t sign, then what? You’d keep that key, wouldn’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter, Chella. You did sign. Do you want out already? Because you can tell me to f*ck off and I’ll be happy to f*ck off.”

We stare at each other for a few seconds. Maybe ten or more. She is silent.

I hand her a glass and she takes it.

“See,” I say. “It’s not so hard. What should we drink to?”

She looks at her champagne, just staring at the bubbles in the light amber liquid. She takes a deep breath and says, “I’m going to give it a week.”

“Why?” I ask.

“So I can see if this is something—”

“No.” I laugh. “Why not get out now? And be honest, for once, Chella. You’re such a bad liar.” I come around the island to her again. Place my hand flat on her knee. Slip it under her dress and press my fingers against her *.