Reluctantly Yours(36)

“Thank you, Marcus. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Mr. St. Clair.” He nods in my direction. “Miss Anderson.”

I feel better knowing Marcus knows I’m here. That way if Barrett decides to strangle me with his giant hands in my sleep Marcus will alert the authorities. Unless Barrett pays him off. I’ll have to tell someone else I’m here. Unfortunately, ‘temporarily moved in with my fake boyfriend because my apartment has a mice infestation, among other issues’ isn’t the call I want to make to my parents, so I fire off a quick text to Jules.

ME: I’m moving in with Barrett. I’ll fill you in later, but in the meantime if I go missing…it was him.

JULES: WHAAAATTTTT???!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don’t have time to respond to her because Barrett is talking to me.

“Are you planning to live inside or just out here on the stoop?” Barrett unlocks the mailbox beside the door and takes out a handful of mail.

“I thought you’d have people to do that for you.”

“Check my mail?” he asks.

I shrug, then follow him inside.

“I’ve got an assistant, a driver, a housekeeper, and a chef who makes all my meals for the week. I can get my own mail.”

“Look at you doing hard things.” I toe off my tennis shoes at the door—it’s definitely a shoes off kind of home—and glance around.

I’m in shock. Natural wood floors and staircase, original crown molding.

Barrett drops the mail on the table by the door.

“Would you like a tour?” he asks.

“Um, yes, please,” I say, practically sprinting past him, deeper into the lion’s den I go.

He follows behind me, pointing out the rooms as I peek into them. Sitting room, dining room, kitchen, powder bath. It’s one surprise after another as I realize Barrett’s home isn’t a mausoleum made of stone and tile. It’s got color and warmth and oh my god…

I open the door to another room and my heart pitter patters with delight at what I find.

I don’t know where to look first. The walls of bookshelves filled from floor to ceiling. A gold chandelier that offsets the dark navy walls. Cognac leather couches arranged around a fireplace. Did I mention the bookshelves? And there’s a ladder, too. There’s an honest to God ladder so you can reach the books on the top shelf because the ceiling is at least twelve feet tall.

The wall across from the bookcases is an art collector’s dream. Various paintings are set into the wainscoting panels behind a large and very sturdy looking desk.

“This is my study,” Barrett says sternly. In contrast to his icy tone, his warm breath makes the loose hairs from my ponytail tickle my neck. “You won’t need to be in here.”

He reaches for the door to pull it closed, nearly smacking me in the nose, but my hand lifts, stopping the door’s movement.

“Chloe.” He tries to shut the door again, but I ignore his denial.

I step forward, still fascinated by what I have found in Barrett’s home.

“Okay, where’s the sixty-year-old poet who collects obscure Renaissance era art and writes sonnets of his world travels stashed?” I turn to Barrett. “Is he tied up naked in a closet? You really should be kinder to your elders.”

“This is my personal space, so if you wouldn’t mind…” he sweeps his arm toward the open door.

“I don’t mind,” I ignore him and continue my perusal. “This is not what I expected.”

I can hear Barrett let out a puff of air from ten feet away, but I think his frustration has dimmed to curiosity.

“What did you expect?” he asks.

I decide to keep the vampire coffin slash mausoleum thoughts to myself. My hand reaches out to touch the books, my fingers caressing their spines.

“Not this,” I finally answer, my eyes hungrily consuming the titles. There’s a wide array of book genres. Classics, history, non-fiction, memoirs, biographies. “I thought I had you figured out. I thought it would be cold and impersonal like,” Barrett’s brows raise in anticipation of my response, “your office.” I was going to say like him, but now the idea of who I thought he was has muddied in my brain.

“Does that work?” I motion to the fireplace.

Barrett walks over and flips a switch. It immediately roars to life and I think I spontaneously orgasm. I don’t need a bedroom; I’ll just live in here.

A collection of photos and frames sit along the back wall below the windows. I see family photos, pictures with JoAnna and his dad. A diploma from Columbia for a degree in art history.

“Did you buy this on eBay?” I ask.

He takes the frame from my hand and sets it back into place. Wanting order and control, now that is something that still rings true for Barrett.

“No, that is my undergraduate degree.”

“Then you got an MBA at Wharton?” I ask, noting the other, larger framed diploma.

“Yes, when I realized my father was sick. It was his request and I fulfilled it.”

“So, what did you want to do with your degree?”

“I don’t know. I was young and rebelling against my parents.”

“Ivy league grad. With honors,” I note. “You’re such a rebel.”

“I don’t regret it. It was the best time of my life. Visiting Paris and Milan to travel and study. I still like to collect, as you can see.”