A Not So Meet Cute(40)



And what do I get at the end of the night from Huxley?

Are you thinking a thank you?

Possibly a good job?

I’m not looking for a celebration of my accomplishments, but I’d appreciate a little bit of kindness.

But it seems as though kindness isn’t part of Huxley Cane’s repertoire.

That’s fine. Totally cool. Because, guess what? I know what to expect now.

Which would be nothing.

I should expect nothing from him.

Silence fills the car as we make our way through Beverly Hills. Huxley flies through the streets, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift, disregarding every speed limit stated on the side of the road. And when I glance over at him, I notice the tight grip of his hand on the finely conditioned leather, the steel of his jaw, and the pinch between his brow. What the hell is he so disconcerted about? I’m the one who has been thrown through the wringer today.

He just sat there and dictated.

Annoyed with him, I keep my eyes forward as we begin to slow down. We pull up in front of a large, wooden gate. He presses a button on the visor of his car, and the gate slowly opens to the right, into a white stone wall covered by vines. Of course.

Ahh, this must be home sweet home. In my head, he has some ostentatious house with pillars, obnoxiously large fountains, gold fixtures, and marble everywhere, even on the walls, because he can afford it, but as we turn into the driveway, I’m completely surprised by the house that comes into view. A coastal-looking white house with black-framed windows, large, southern-looking lamps flanking each side of the main door, and a simple black tin roof.

This was not what I was expecting at all.

It’s chic.

Modern.

In style.

Nothing ostentatious about it other than the size.

Huxley parks the car just as someone steps up to his car door and opens it for him. “Mr. Cane, welcome home.”

“Thank you, Andre.” Huxley hands him the keys. “Everything all set?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you for staying late. You can head home.”

“I’ll park your car in the garage and plug it in first. Have a good night.”

“You too,” Huxley says, and excuse me while I pick up my jaw because . . . how come Andre gets spoken to like a normal person and I don’t?

Huxley opens my door for me and then holds out his hand, but since we’re no longer under the eyes of Dave and Ellie, I ignore his help and attempt to shut the car door, his grip on the top of the door preventing me from doing so.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

“I can open and shut the door myself.”

Leaning in close, he says, “And I have staff around the house that will be watching us interact, so you need to act like you’re my fiancée.”

“Uh, excuse me?” I ask. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Did you read the entire contract?”

That godforsaken contract. How many times is it going to come back and bite me in the ass?

“Of course I did.”

I didn’t.

Who really reads contracts these days? Lawyers, that’s who. I read the important parts—at least, I thought I did. There was a section about staff, but I breezed over it. I thought it was just about how he has staff that works for him, so, I don’t know . . . be kind. Something like that.

“Then you’d have noticed that section. Andre is my trusted right-hand man, he knows of our arrangement, but he’s the only one.”

“Doesn’t your staff have NDAs?” I ask.

“Yes, but things always seem to slip. We’ve fired a few staff members for tipping off the media, so I still don’t fully trust everyone in my house.”

“Seems stupid to me.” I reluctantly take his hand. “Allowing these strangers to come into your house and take care of you, but you don’t trust them. Yeah, really intelligent.”

“There are very few people I trust.”

“Do you trust me?” I ask as we walk toward his grand entrance. The black door feels incredibly intimidating despite the potted flowers welcoming you.

“No,” he answers without thought.

“Wow, that’s . . . that’s fucked up.”

“I barely know you. Why would I trust you?” He opens the front door and I’m greeted by an expansive entryway, light blond floors, white walls, and a straight shot all the way to the back of the house, where the largest sliding glass doors I’ve ever seen open to a beautifully lit-up pool and dreamy backyard with enough foliage to block out the neighboring properties. He places his hand on my back and says, “You need to earn my trust.”

I glance up at him and say, “You’re not the only one who needs trust to be earned.”

“You’d be a terrible businesswoman if you offered up your trust right away. I respect you more for making me earn it.”

“Oh, yay, I earned your respect,” I say sarcastically as I walk into the house. I take in the impersonal décor and the calculated placement of each item. Large vases, sleek-looking bowls, and foliage offer the lack of personalization I’m talking about. He probably doesn’t even know half of these decorations exist.

Past the entryway, the house opens up into a great room with vaulted ceilings covered in white shiplap and lightly stained wooden beams. The house is devoid of any color, only decorated in variations of white, with pops of black and green here and there from a plant I’m sure he doesn’t bother watering himself. The kitchen is massive. The island traverses the entire length of the kitchen, with marble countertops and black cabinets, but the uppers and lowers around the kitchen walls are white with modern, black hardware. It’s an absolute dream kitchen, and I’m pretty sure if Kelsey saw this house, she’d be drooling.

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