Arranged(64)

“The sweatshirt. Where’d you get it, Duchess?”

We had a minor stare down before she answered. “It was a birthday present.”

“From whom?” I shot back calmly and instantly. But I knew the answer. Oh yes I knew, and I was livid.

“Why?” she hedged.

“Answer the question,” I gritted out, calm gone.

“Chester.”

I knew it!

“It’s no big deal. You know he calls me Duchess. I don’t know why. It’s silly.” She paused. Shrugged. “I guess it’s an inside joke between us.”

From her face I could tell that she didn’t realize she’d made it ten times worse.

I made myself take deep breaths. I made myself wait until I could at least appear calm before I spoke again. “Are you having some sort of birthday party in there?” I asked. It was quiet now, but I’d heard some definite sounds of revelry when the door had first opened.

She shrugged. “Not a party. They just got me gifts and cake.” With the oversized sweatshirt and her sullen attitude, she looked more like teenager than she ever had to me before. It didn’t help.

“That sounds a lot like a birthday party, Duchess,” I pointed out.

“Please don’t call me that,” she shot back with automatic speed.

“He calls you Duchess,” I said quietly.

She started. “When he says it, he’s being . . . affectionate. You’re just making fun.”

“Affectionate? You want his affection?”

“That came out wrong. It’s just a harmless nickname. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“See that it doesn’t,” I gritted out through clenched teeth. “You know, when I assigned a man more than twice your age to be your security, I did so assuming there wouldn’t be a problem. I should have known better. No man could be immune to you.”

She looked like she wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or horrified, and immediately she went on the defensive. “That’s ridiculous. We’re friends, which is nice since I spend ninety percent of my waking hours with him.”

I felt a tick start up in my temple.

“You like him,” I observed.

She studied me like I was deranged. “Of course I like him.” Her mouth gaped open. “You can’t possibly be jealous!”

I didn’t bother to deny it. I glared at her, holding up a finger. “If he steps so much as one inch out of line with you, I will know about it, he will be fired, and I’ll make sure that you never see him again.”

“He would never step out of line,” she defended.

“See that he doesn’t, or you lose him. Understood?”

“Understood. It’s just a stupid nickname.”

“You like it,” I accused. “I saw the way you smile at him when he says it.”

She didn’t bother to deny it. Instead she crossed her arms in front of her chest and stared me down.

“Am I invited to this non-birthday party you’re having?” I tried to smile engagingly as I asked the question. I was pretty certain by the widening of her eyes that it came out as more of a grimace.

She sighed, stepped to the side, and waved me in. “Why not? I’m warning you, though, you’ll probably be bored.”

She was wrong. I didn’t find it boring at all. Watching her with her close group of friends—because that’s what they were (regardless of the fact that my family paid half of them)—her friends, was unsettling to me, and far from boring.

It was a small group that consisted of Jovie, Chester, Vincent, and one new addition.

It was a rail thin boy who looked all of sixteen, with silver hair, up-tilted eyes, and an impish smile.

“This is Santi,” Noura introduced him.

The boy beamed at me. “Nice to meet you,” he said in a soft, musical voice. “I’m your wife’s new roommate.”

I blinked at him stupidly. “Excuse me? I think you’re going to have to repeat that last bit.”

Noura tried her best to do damage control. “He’s staying in Chester and Vincent’s apartment while he’s between places,” she said quietly, moving close so only I could hear. “Your father approved it, and Chester did a thorough background check. He’s a really nice guy. Please don’t be mean to him.” She said it all in a furious rush, her eyes on mine beseeching.

I didn’t begin to know how to say no to her when she looked at me like that. And that worried me. A lot.

“Can you give us a minute?” I asked the room, but I didn’t wait for an answer, pulling her into our bedroom and shutting the door.

I studied her intently. She fidgeted, looking anywhere but at me. I felt something move through me, a new and intense tenderness I was quite afraid I’d never felt anything close to before. It was worrisome. And addictive. “When did this new development occur?” I asked her quietly.

She stopped fidgeting and looked at me. Really looked, like she was trying to find answers as much as I was. “Two days ago.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Well enough to know he’s a sweet boy who just needs a little help.”

I sighed. I couldn’t turn the poor kid away, not when she looked at me like that, with a glimmer of hope in her eyes like she’d beg me if I pushed her too hard. “Do you have to adopt every misfit you meet?”