Authors: Emily Snow
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
More than you’ll ever know.
6:45.
†
The cab driver seems skeptical about taking me to an address that’s in Green Hills, the ritzy part of Nashville, especially since Gram tells me to have a safe flight right in front of him. I tell him I’ve got to make a stop to visit a friend, and that they’ll take me to the airport, though I don’t know why I feel the need to explain myself to him. The long driveway to the palatial corner lot mansion is gated, but Lucas quickly answers the intercom.
“It’s me,” I say, blushing when the cab driver gives me a knowing look in the rearview mirror. A second later, the gate buzzes and the driver pulls forward.
The home itself is stunning—three stories and all brick, with a long, high fence encompassing the back yard. Over the years, I’ve retained very little information from the days I spent helping my grandfather in the office of his construction business, but I know enough to definitively say this house is Euro style.
And probably worth more than I’ll make in my entire life, save for the house Lucas has promised me, but then again that’s not really mine.
I’m almost reluctant to let go of the $40 the cab driver collects from me—my bank account is just that pathetic—but I take a deep breath, reassure myself again that it’s only money. For some reason, when words like that come from me, they don’t have nearly the same effect as when Lucas says them so flippantly.
It’s 8:04 when I ring the doorbell. To my surprise, Lucas’s attorney opens the door—the male lawyer. I wonder if Boobs McBeal is inside the house, too, but I hope like crazy she’s not. I’m not in the mood to witness her jutting her breasts out toward Lucas first thing this morning.
“I’m Court Holder and you must be Ms. Jensen,” he says pleasantly, taking my hand into his as soon as he closes and locks the door behind us. As he activates the security system on the wall behind him, I decide that his name has got to be the most kickass lawyer’s name I’ve ever heard in my life. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
My body freezes in place. What exactly has Court Holder heard about me? The idea of Lucas revealing details about me to his attorney is enough to make me sweat. I mutter my mantra over and over again in my head to keep from turning around and saying screw this.
It has to all be worth this.
“Nice to know Lucas—I mean,
Mr. Wolfe
—talks up all his help,” I reply through a clenched smile.
Court chuckles, reaching out his hands to take my suitcase. My fingertips brush across his palms as we make the exchange. His hands are smooth and his fingers are neatly manicured, the opposite of Lucas’s calloused hands. Placing my Coach suitcase with its worn, brown leather piping at the foot of the stairs, Court tells me that the couple who comes to clean every afternoon will take it in the room Lucas designates to me. Then, motioning me to follow him, he ushers me through the house.
“This contract is ready for your signature,” he explains, and I bob my head in understanding. “You will, of course, agree to take over Ms. Wolfe-Martin’s duties until she returns and then I’ll assist Mr. Wolfe in initiating the transaction to return Mrs. Previn’s home. The contract is extremely . . . simple.” But another word hangs in the air, and silently, I mutter it.
Generous.
Does the contract mention anything specific from the instruction list I received yesterday evening? My agreement to obey, to listen, to Mr. Wolfe in exchange for the house? Our mutual agreement about emotions and sex?
Unless I ask for it, I’m safe from his affections, and I’ve already decided that I’ll fight the temptation with all my might.
As Court and I navigate our way towards the very back of the house, I take in the place I’ll be living in over the next couple days at least. There are photos and awards lining the walls of several of the rooms, and when we pass through the living room, I notice a giant image of a short man in a suit along with the members of Your Toxic Sequel and the lead singer of Wicked Lambs, Cilla Craig. She and Lucas have their arms around each other, and my stomach hardens.
“Their record producer?” I ask Court, pausing in front of the photo. I choose to ignore the sliver of jealousy I felt a second ago.
Jutting his square chin out, Court corrects me. “The
executive
. It’s his house, and I’m his personal attorney, of course.” He sounds incredibly proud of himself for being able to handle everything from carrying out eviction proceedings to acting as an entertainment attorney.
I consider patting him on the back, but I stop myself, locking my fingers in an uncomfortable angle by my side. This attorney will be handling the transfer of property once I’ve fulfilled my agreement with Lucas. The last thing I want to do is piss him off thanks to some sudden burst of rebellion and cause a delay in the whole freaking process.
Smiling sweetly, I say, “It’s a beautiful house.”
“I live right up the block,” he tells me in an almost superior tone. “In the Tudor.”
Lucas is waiting for me in an office with bamboo flooring and a high ceiling. He looks every bit the kickass rockstar with his shaggy dark hair tousled about, distressed jeans, and a vintage Pink Floyd t-shirt, but he’s so much more that.
Seated behind the L-shaped desk with his hands clasped together, he’s all business. All in control.
Suddenly, I’m tingling all over.
“It’s 8:10,” Lucas points out, standing up. “You agreed to be here at 8am.”
I take a tentative step forward. Then another until I’m on the other side of the desk with my thighs pressed against the hardwood. I stare up into Lucas’s eyes and say, “Sorry, Lu—Mr. Wolfe—my taxi was late picking me up from my grandmother’s place.”
His hazel eyes seem to go from green to toxic brown in a matter of seconds. “Do you make excuses like this to Tomas Costa?” he asks me, his voice dark. Oh God, he knows my bosses full name? Has he contacted Tomas? What else has he discovered about me? “I play music but I’ve got the same expectations as any other employer you’ve had. Probably more. Do you understand?”
I nod. “Yes,” I whisper, and when his eyebrow shoots up, I quietly add, “Mr. Wolfe.”
He gives me a smile as if he wants to eat me, and then motions Court—who’s lagged cautiously behind and is staring between the two of us with the blankest face he can manage—forward. “We’re ready to sign the contracts,” he says.
Court produces three copies of the document from the expensive leather briefcase that’s sitting beside of the plush, black leather couch across from the desk. Hobbling over to us, he hands one copy to Lucas and another to me. Then, he goes over the terms of the agreement, explaining all the technical terms in detail. Lucas pays close attention to everything Court says, even though he’s probably already read over this a hundred times.
Thankfully, the contract is only a couple pages long, and there’s very little reference to the instructions I’ve received except for a one line blurb. I heave a sigh of relief, pleased that Court Holder has very little—if any knowledge—about just how significant the words like “rules” and “obey” are to this agreement.
I start to scribble my name across the section for my signature on my copy of the contract but I stop after I’ve written the “A” in my first name. I glance up at Court and Lucas. Lucas gazes down at me expectantly, but Court’s face creases into a frown.
“Is there something wrong with the language in the—”
Shaking my head fiercely to each side, I wave my hand in protest. “No, no, nothing like that, it’s just that . . .” I roll my tongue back and forth in my mouth to get rid of the sudden case of dry mouth and drop my eyes back down to the papers on the desk. “I want to make sure none of this will be mentioned to my grandmother.”
“Maybe it would help if you looked up when you’re talking,” Lucas says in a voice that’s sympathetic and strong. Commanding
Slowly, I drag my eyes back up. Lucas is leaning back, his body at ease, his smile satisfied. “I want your word that nothing about this agreement will get back to my grandma or her attorney, Richard Nielson.”
Court begins stuttering, so Lucas confidently takes the reigns to answer my question. “Although Court is bound by attorney and client privilege, I’ve went ahead and had him sign another agreement. Trust me, if he wants to keep his practice and all his cash cows, he knows better.”
Court laughs—a nervous, cough-ridden sound—as I finish scrawling my name. I complete the other two copies and afterward, he and Lucas do the same. Then Court claims he’s got to go—client meeting in an hour—and Lucas smiles at him dismissively.
Feeling a little overwhelmed, a little wary, and utterly confused, I turn my attention away from the door and to Lucas when he clears his throat. “And now they are official,” he says, his voice and eyes far away.
That they are.
The downstairs bedroom that I’m given—conveniently located a few rooms over from the office—is nearly twice the size of my bedroom across town. Just like most of the rest of the house, it has wall to wall bamboo flooring and smells like lemon cleaner. Unlike the remainder of the house, there’s a high, cathedral ceiling with skylights. Lucas explains that this is the record executive’s college-aged daughter’s room as he slides my bags in the closet. He’d insisted on going to the front of the house and grabbing them for me, telling me how he prefers to bother the housekeepers with as little as possible. When I argued with him that I was capable of carrying my own shit, he gave me a frigid, piercing look.
I’d lunged for the suitcase anyway.
“You’re not even halfway into our agreement, Sienna,” he said, plucking the bag from my hands and stalking toward my bedroom. If I hadn’t followed closely behind him, I wouldn’t have heard him add, “And I already want to punish you for not showing up on time, so don’t fucking push me.”
Drawing my mind away from how the authority in his voice had made my face tingle, how I wasn’t sure if it was from nervousness or irritation, I clear my throat and say, “If you’re staying in their house, where are they?” Whoever
they
are.
He sits down on the sofa at the food of the bed. “Artie Morgan, the owner, and his new wife are vacationing in Ireland and his daughter’s at school. Vanderbilt student,” he says. I’m not sure I like the fact that I’m holing up in a room that belongs to someone who may potentially know my little brother. I make a move to sit down, but Lucas shakes his head slowly to each side. “Not a chance. You’ve got work to do, Sienna. No sitting on your ass.”
Seething, I return with him to the plush office a few doors over. “Stand there,” he orders, pointing to an area in front of the desk. Lucas seems pleased that I comply without as much as a whimper. “You read the instructions, right?” he asks, digging in one of the desk drawers in search of something. His unkempt hair flops over his face. It gives him an almost vulnerable look, and my fingers tingle to touch the part of his forehead and cheeks it brushes.
I’ll save wants like this, ideas like wanting him, for when I go to sleep and keep them far away from my reality.
“From cover to cover,” I answer.
“Good, these are yours,” Lucas says. He hands me a small Best Buy bag, and I reach out and take it. Our fingertips skim, causing the hair on my arms and nape to stand on end.
I focus all my attention on the contents of the bag—a cell phone and a Samsung tablet—so I don’t spend too much time dwelling on his easy effect on my body. “Mine to keep?”
He deadpans. “I’m giving you a house. Don’t push your luck, Sienna.”
“What do you want me to do now?” I ask.
His mouth draws up into a grin. Oh, he’s got me right where he wants me and he’s abso-fucking-lutely loving it. I curse at myself for ever showing my timid nature around him two years ago, yell at myself for showing balls for long enough to go on his radar. When I return his look—an expression that makes my face hurt—his smile fades. He gestures his head toward the leather couch.
“Sit down, Si, and take those god-awful chopsticks out of your hair.”
I slam my bottom down on the couch and drag the pretty silver hair accessories from my red locks, letting the tangled strands fall in a mess around my shoulders. Lucas is by my side, standing over me, in a matter of seconds. His hand hovers by my face, as if he wants to run his fingers through my long hair, to tug on it, but then he clenches his fingers.
“I’m not going to touch you,” he promises. “I’m not going to have any physical contact until you fucking ask me to.”
“Maybe I won’t,” I say. And, though I know it’s cruel, I find myself swishing my hair over my shoulders, and running my fingers through it in an effort to comb out the tangles. I sense when his body goes stiff. He mutters something to his self. I make out a few words like ass and red. “You said that I’m submissive to everyone but you, so maybe—”
“There’s no maybe to it,” he growls between bared teeth. “By time you leave me—if I send you away—you’ll grow a damn backbone and the only person you’ll ever answer to will be me.”
What does he mean by if he sends me away? I want to ask him, but he begins talking, taking long strides back and forth while he explains in detail everything we’re going to do over the course of the next ten days. There’s a photo shoot tomorrow for a magazine spread. Then a film crew is coming in from Los Angeles the day after tomorrow. They’ll be filming him, outside of his personal space, for a documentary that’s being released for a movie about the future of rock and roll. That’s on day four, Sunday—
Wait—day four?
When I stop him to ask if he has his days mixed up he shakes his head to each side. “Don’t interrupt. But to answer your question, since you accepted my offer early on yesterday, I’ve decided to be nice and give you credit for it.”
Well this is unexpected. I clack my teeth together, side to side, so I don’t show how surprised I am that he’s taken time off my . . . work schedule. I’m ridiculously grateful, because what he’s decided to do will give me an extra day with Gram once I’m able to return to her cabin.
“I’m not a total douchebag, Sienna. I do give a shit what happens to you and just so you know, I’ll never, ever humiliate you. That’s never my game.”