The moment Rourke got up to take the trash away I felt lost without him. I’m pretty sure Cheryl saw it, as she told me she would love for me to be her live-in companion. I nodded, unable to find the words to answer.
I thought I was being smart leaving, not realizing I would find myself alone with Rourke. Hell, I’m such a liar. I fooled myself into thinking I could come in close contact with him and not get burned. Oh lord, my body floods in wet heat in memory of what he told me. He wanted me on my knees for him, and I wanted to go down on them for him. When he told me to leave, warned me he didn’t trust himself to get close to me and not break his own rules, I wanted to make him break his rules. The idea of the carefully concise Rourke Vega out of control was achingly appealing.
Oh, Olivia, you are a moron if you think you’re getting out of this unscathed. Was sixty thousand dollars enough to allow Rourke to tear my soul to shreds?
6
Olivia
The call comes at eight o’clock on the dot to set up a time to come move me. I ask them what opening times they have, and they respond any time Mr. Vega wants them available, they are. Rolling my eyes, I tell them four o’clock. Forcing myself out of bed, I undress as I walk into the shower. Since I need help to get moving, I start with cold water that has me yelping like a kicked dog, then I turn on the hot water until it’s the way I like it.
After a very, very long shower I’m finally drying off as I walk back into my bedroom. It’s pretty pathetic that I’m already packed up. All of my stuff could fit in my car; well, it would take two trips just like Rourke knew it would. Rourke Vega is going to take over every tiny aspect of my life for the next six months. Resistance is futile, only I refuse to give in without some sort of fight.
***
Olivia
I’m such a weirdo, apparently I’m a low-key masochist. It’s been five days since I saw Rourke Vega and I’m getting withdrawal symptoms. I’ve read absolutely everything I could find out about him on the internet, of which there was more than I thought. I’m reminded of Patricia’s remarks about the women using Rourke: for those videos and pictures of him with women on a yacht and the balcony of one of his hotels, it was later proven the paparazzi was tipped off by the women. I wasn’t expecting something like that, that women were using him as much as he used them. I came close to watching the videos but the pictures were bad enough, making my stomach twist and knot up. I had no idea I had stalker tendencies; you learn something new every day.
It hasn’t helped that Cheryl talks about Rourke daily. I would be less annoyed if Patricia didn’t agree with absolutely everything Cheryl said. I’m also sure Cheryl has whispered her crazy ideas about me and Rourke to Patricia, because Patricia manages to bring him up in almost every lull in the conversation if I happen to be hanging out nearby while they are doing their therapy. I’ve taken to disappearing when Patricia comes.
I finally introduced the idea of updating the living room to avoid hanging on her every word about Rourke. We started in the living room, now we’re doing my room, then going to the kitchen. I have said about a dozen times I can paint my own room, and every time Cheryl gets offended as if I said I was going to plaster it with doll heads. Apparently, I’m weak and puny and unable to paint on my own.
With a sigh, I give in because I’m not allowed to yell at my patients. I’m allowed to put different swatches of paint we got from the paint store because that isn’t too taxing. An actual paint store with a brand name, not a big box store because those things were hideous, according to Cheryl. I go with a pale gray
that will match the wallpaper—that I’m also not allowed to put up myself—of lotus flowers with silver leaves and vines and dark red flowers.
All of my stuff has been moved out of the bedroom, and there are two men in the room painting it. They say they’ll be done in a few hours and while they are using the non-cancer inducing paint, they advise against me sleeping in the room tonight. Cheryl offers up Rourke’s room without hesitation.
“It’s fine, dear. He only uses it a few times a year. He’ll actually be using it in a few weeks, but he won’t mind you using it for tonight.”
My throat closes at the idea of sleeping in his bed, whether he’s in it or not. Then she just casually mentions he’ll be in it in a few weeks. Not just in the bed, but in the house. Rourke Vega, sleeping in a bed twenty feet away from me? A word manages to escape me in a wheeze. “What?”
Cheryl looks up from the wallpaper book she has become fascinated with since she liked my idea of just doing one wall as a focal point. “Oh yes, dear. Did I forget to mention Rourke will be staying here? During the two weeks of the festival. The house is closer to everything. His house is off 360 and high up in the hills, not a great drive late at night when he’s half-asleep. It’s lovely having him home if even for a few hours, I’m lucky if I can get him to sit down for breakfast. He usually comes in while I’m asleep. Then there are times he’s been gone before I even woke up.”
I’m not sure, but I think my body is about to spontaneously combust at the idea of Rourke sleeping just down the hall from me for two weeks. I wonder if he sleeps nude. Oh god, Olivia Charlotte Casey, what the hell is the matter with you?
“Ma’am.”
From the annoyed expression on his face it’s clear the guy has been trying to get my attention, my stupid dirty attention, for a while. “Yes, sorry. What?”
This guy seems to be the boss: he’s a dick with a ton of muscles he likes to show off by wearing wife beaters even though it’s not hot in here. He did the whole stay-away-from-fatty, don’t-fall-in-love-with-me thing when he first came in. Ever since I ignored him in favor of the nicer guy who was much cuter and not terrified I’d take one look at him and fall in love, wife beater shirt guy has been trying to be nicer.
Yesterday they came in and painted the living room a pretty slate blue. It took two coats and a few hours. Cheryl and I spent yesterday out seeing a movie then having dinner, so we were barely around the guys. I couldn’t care less about either of them. Once burned so badly you’re fried to a crisp forever not interested. Going it alone isn’t just safer, it’s cheaper, and it’s less stressful. All the studies scream it’s the men who get all the benefits in relationships, while it’s the women who get the negatives. I haven’t been on a date since I divorced. I had one forgettable one-night stand almost five years ago to prove something to myself I couldn’t remember the next day. Not once have I thought I missed a thing, until Rourke.
I follow wife beater guy into the room. It’s a huge room, I thought so even with the furniture, a queen bed, standing dresser, pretty antique writing desk, and a soft cloth wingback chair in a blue I can’t stand. “We’ve taped everything and done the color twice. I wasn’t sure if you wanted us to let it dry and do a third. What do you think?”
“Wow, it looks almost dry already. I love it. It’s exactly what I was wanting. The two coats work for me.”
“Olivia, I’d like to speak with you.” Rourke is filling the doorway. His suit is black, and at a glance it screams expensive, Italian—I’m thinking Armani—then I’m not thinking at all. Because he’s dressed deceptively simply in the black suit, a snow-white shirt and silk black tie. It’s a look a thousand men would wear, but on Rourke it’s so sexy I can only imagine tearing it off him.
I’m instantly weak, everywhere, but slightly scared at the anger vibrating from him. He said my name, but he’s looking at wife beater guy like he’s trying to figure out how to break every bone in the guy’s body with one blow. Wife beater guy takes a huge step back from me. I nod, because speaking takes too many brain cells.
With a last scary look at wife beater guy, Rourke turns and leaves and now light comes back in from the hallway. I follow without a word. Where is Cheryl? I’m not sure if I want to know where she is for protection or so she can’t see me make an ass of myself. Rourke is standing at the edge of the hallway leading to the rest of the house. His eyes run over me, setting off bees buzzing in my tummy, searching for the hot, sticky honey flowing through my veins at the heat in his eyes. I give in to leaning on the wall, because my stupid freaking legs aren’t working. Maybe five feet separate us; it feels like too long and not long enough all at the same time. “Did you not read over the contract in depth?”
I flinch from his anger, the volcano is rumbling. “I did. I don’t understand.”
“You are not allowed to have men in your room or have them to the house. It’s disrespectful to my mother.” Oh damn, his eyes are on my breasts, my stupid swelling breasts with nipples tightening under his gaze.