The Player + The Pact = I Do (New York City Billionaires #2)

Chapter 11

ELEVEN

Jules

I know this is all for show and it’s not like I expected anything else, but moving myself into my fiancé’s apartment without my fiancé feels a little weird. Since I stepped through the front door, I’ve felt like I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be. All of a sudden, the fact that we met before I interviewed to be his assistant feels like a big deal. Maybe it’s because being in his apartment feels like he’s showing me his secrets while I’m keeping secrets of my own.

I’m already firm friends with the receptionists at Leo’s building. I’ve explained I’m moving in and that I’m his girlfriend. Thankfully, they didn’t roll their eyes and comment, “Not another one.” I don’t know if Leo has lived with someone before. Maybe he’s lived with a harem of women.

The truth is, I don’t need to know. I shouldn’t care. I just need to focus on me and the next month. The Mayfair isn’t going to know what hit it.

I tip the moving guys I hired on Leo’s dime to haul the dozen boxes I filled, then shut the door. I haven’t been in the apartment with Leo yet. He just handed me his keys, I arranged copies, and now here I am. Not exactly how moving in with a new guy would normally go, I imagine, but there’s nothing normal about our situation.

Everything of mine from New Jersey is piled in the entranceway. It’s difficult to get through to the living space, but I need to choose a bedroom before I start moving any boxes.

The first thing that comes into view is Leo’s huge TV screen. I eye-roll hard. No doubt he likes his sports and his porn big. Giant television aside, the apartment is a little more low-key than I expected. It’s big and it’s in a great location, so it must be worth a fortune, but it’s not fancy. There’s no expensive art on the walls and there’s almost not enough furniture to fill the place. What’s here doesn’t precisely fit . Some of it looks a little small, like it wasn’t purchased for this space specifically.

Which, come to think of it, is a little surprising. Leo knows every interior designer in New York City, and I’ve heard him on the phone to people talking about design concepts for his build-outs—most recently New River. He’s got very clear ideas about what he wants for the interiors of the place.

But his own home doesn’t look like it’s ever met an IKEA catalogue, let alone an interior designer. I poke my head through the door on the far side of the living space. It’s a formal dining room that doesn’t look like it’s been touched. The next door is an office, which again, doesn’t look like it’s been used.

Did I pass the bedrooms? I double back and realize there are six doors off the entrance hall currently obscured by my boxes. Leo didn’t say anything about any part of the apartment being off-limits and I don’t want to pry— scratch that, I absolutely want to pry—but I won’t go hunting for his bedroom.

The first door I open is a bedroom. This one definitely looks like it’s something a designer has done. Unlike the main living space, this room is coordinated without being matchy, in light blues, silver, and white. The sheer number of pillows on the bed tells me Leo had nothing to do with this room. I make my way over to the window and the eastern view seals the deal. I can see the whole city.

“Hello,” a male voice calls. It sounds like Leo. Shit, I’d wanted to have all my stuff in my room by the time he got back.

I race outside to find him surveying the boxes and suitcases. “Hey, sorry, I’ll have this all cleared. I was just trying to figure out which bedroom I should take.”

“It’s not a problem,” he says. “Need a hand?” His tone has changed a little from how he usually sounds in the office. It’s warmer. More open. It’s not like he’s cold at work—he’s not. He’s always friendly and nice, but it feels… different somehow. This is the voice of the man I met at the not-costume party all those years ago.

“Oh I’m good.” I’m not good. Hanging out in my boss’ apartment like we’re old friends when in reality we barely know each other is beyond weird.

“Have you decided?” he asks, nodding to the blue-and-white room. “It’s my favorite after the primary.”

“It’s really pretty.”

He chuckles. “Pretty. Okay, let’s go with that. Not the vibe I was going for.”

“You had someone do the design?”

“Of this room and all the bedrooms. Then, I just… gave up. I had too much to do and I just needed it to be functional. What I actually needed was for the designer to make al l the decisions, but I think she was too scared to execute in case she made a mistake. I guess she saw it as an audition. But I’ve lived with it like this for eighteen months now. I’m used to it, even though it pisses me off that it looks a bit like a student flat.”

I laugh, half at his accent and the way he says “student flat,” and partly because the design of the place—or lack thereof—bothers him. It’s kinda unexpected. “I’m pretty sure there aren’t many students who could afford something like this, so you can rest easy on that score.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs and picks up a box. “Shall I take it in?”

“Sure,” I reply, grabbing a suitcase. “Ever had a roommate before?”

“Not since… a while. My friend Fisher and I lived together in our twenties.” He sets the box down and I realize I didn’t even see it, but there’s a walk in closet that leads through to an attached bath.

“You’ve never lived with a girlfriend?” I ask as we both grab a box from the corridor.

He takes a couple of beats before he answers. “Not really,” he says.

That’s not exactly a no, but if he’d said yes, I’d have been more surprised. It was clear the first night I met him that he wasn’t looking for just one woman to commit to. Hell, he wasn’t even looking for just one woman to flirt with. Not that I’m still bitter about it. I’m just pissed I fell for it.

We work together to bring all my stuff into my new room. I’ve counted. Two suitcases and nine boxes. Well, I didn’t want to be going back to New Jersey all the time. I’m going to look at my stay here as a vacation. It will certainly be a break from my commute, that’s for sure .

“This is the last one,” he says, carrying the final box into the bedroom. “Where do you want it?” It’s the smallest box there is, only a little bigger than a shoebox.

“Oh, actually, I’ll take that.” It’s all the stuff from my bedside drawer—an eye mask, Tylenol, aromatherapy rollerballs, and my emergency stash of magnesium.

He hands me the box and our fingers brush.

“Ooops,” I say, and then wish I hadn’t acknowledged it. All of a sudden I can feel him everywhere. I’m acutely aware that I’m moving into the apartment of a man who’s incredibly attractive.

The corner of his mouth lifts a little, but he doesn’t say anything. He stares at me for a second, as if he wants to ask a question. “I’m going to order in some food. What do you want?”

“You don’t have any food? Your kitchen is huge.”

“I have some stuff. A housekeeper comes in to stock the basics, but I usually just order in.”

“What basics?” I ask him.

He frowns but turns. I abandon my cardboard box village and follow him out of the bedroom.

“I don’t know, like milk and coffee and stuff.”

“Your kitchen is that huge and you just have milk and coffee?”

“I should know what’s in my kitchen, I guess. But I don’t.”

“I guess there’s no need if you never cook. Can I poke around?” I ask.

He shrugs, but now he follows me as I pad into the kitchen. It’s so… atmospheric. The countertops are a busy gray marble floated on bronze cabinets. I tap one of the doors: it’s metal. Never seen that before.

“This is a proper chef’s kitchen. ”

“Well, it would be weird if a place of this size didn’t have a decent kitchen. The people who buy it after me will never cook, but the kitchen will be an important part of their purchase.”

I look up to take in his expression because I’m not sure if he’s joking. His grin travels down my body like a live wire. I look away. He’s exactly that same charming, sexy guy I should have run away from as soon as he introduced himself at the party. Here I am living with him, pretending I’m about to be his wife.

“Did you develop this place?” I ask, trying to keep things about business.

He shakes his head. “I’d never live in one of my developments. If anyone found out, which everyone would, I’d have people banging on the door in the middle of the night to fix their AC.”

I laugh. “You think?” I pull open a drawer to find a beautiful set of saucepans tucked inside like they’ve never been touched.

“Believe me. On my second Manhattan development, I had my unit picked out as soon as we finalized the architect’s plans. I couldn’t wait to get moved in. I kind of resented the fact I had to sell all the units in my first development. They were all a thousand times nicer than the place I was sharing with Fisher. And then I moved in and I didn’t get a moment’s peace. People would knock on my door if their doors squeaked when they opened. It was hell.”

I can’t help but laugh. Leo seems unflappable most of the time, but I can imagine his patience getting tested when people were knocking down his door. “Why didn’t you take a unit in your first development?”

“I didn’t want to cut into my margins. I was… my finances weren’t… I didn’t have the money, basically.”

I look up from where I’m taking in the vast array of kitchen utensils, half of which I couldn’t assign a use to. “I always assumed you came from money, like everyone else in New York real estate.”

He chuckles. “Nope.”

I like that he wasn’t born with money and had to start at the bottom. It makes him… I try to distract myself before I can mentally finish the sentence.

There are plenty of ingredients beyond milk in the fridge. I could whip something up easily. “Are you rich enough now to have a pantry?” I ask.

“If you promise not to judge me.” He waits expectantly for my reply.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m not a great liar. I don’t make a habit of making promises I can’t deliver, and I can’t promise not to judge you when I don’t know what’s in your pantry. Do you collect the panties of the women you sleep with? Are they displayed there behind glass or something?”

I stop and close my eyes. What am I doing? Leo is my boss, not actually my boyfriend or even friend. I can’t expect him to put up with hearing my inside voice.

“Sorry, I was trying to be funny.”

“It’s an interesting theory,” he says, without missing a beat. “But I save my panty collection for my office.”

I manage to meet his gaze, and he’s grinning at me. “The pantry is here.” He opens a set of kitchen doors that look like cabinets, but they reveal a walk-in pantry. Which is full.

“Jesus Christ on a bike. You have enough ingredients here to open your own deli.”

“Nah, a lot of these containers are empty, waiting to be filled. But there’s pasta, flour, tins of beans and… stuff.”

“That’s for sure. There’s plenty of stuff .” I survey the shelves, taking in the expensive ingredients, running my finger over the labels of all the different pastas and cans of tomatoes. “Would you mind if I cooked? It’s like… I’m a TV chef or something. I have everything I could want in this kitchen.”

“Knock yourself out.” He leans against the counter and watches as I ransack his kitchen. I feel his eyes on me like a tangible string, pulling my attention to him. I should be focused on this magnificent kitchen, but Leo takes up ninety-eight point seven percent of my attention.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I say.

“Are you a good cook?”

I start to laugh, because I’m bordering on giddy for his pantry, yet cooking isn’t my thing. “I wouldn’t say I’m one of those people who loves to cook. But I make a great mac and cheese from scratch if you want to taste it. If you want some fancy three-star restaurant to deliver instead, I understand.”

He shrugs. “Mac and cheese is the best. How can I turn down an offer like that? You need a hand?”

I don’t need a hand. The last thing I need is a hand. What I need is for him to go away. Far away. And leave me. I don’t want some montage of us in the kitchen being cute together playing in my head all night.

“I’ll grab the flour,” he says and heads to the pantry.

I reach for a couple of pans. We need to get this over and done with, then I can eat and go to bed.

He comes out with some pasta and flour.

“Good start. I need to know how to turn on the stove.”

I start to fill the large saucepan with water and he comes up behind me and turns off the faucet.

“What?” I ask.

“Can I?” he says, taking the pan handle from me and tipping out the inch and a half of water I have in there. Then he does something weird with the tap and refills the pan with boiling-hot water.

“Boiling water. Straight from the tap?”

“You haven’t worked in property development long. No kitchen is without one of these now.”

“Good to know,” I reply. “It might take a decade to reach Jersey.” I watch as he sets the pan on the stove and fiddles with the controls. He might order out a lot but he seems to know his way around this kitchen perfectly well. It’s cute. And I hate that it’s cute.

He pours the pasta into the bubbling water and then turns and scoops some flour into the smaller pan, then grabs some butter and milk from the refrigerator.

“Shall I grate some cheese?” he asks.

“What the actual fuck?” I ask. “This ‘comfortable in the kitchen’ thing,” I say, waving my hand in his direction. “It doesn’t fit your brand.”

“My brand?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re making a bechamel and dried pasta. This isn’t Le Bernardin.”

I grin at him, because I just can’t help it. He’s funny and knows what a bechamel is. I mean, who wouldn’t smile?

“Right,” I say, “but it’s not exactly a skill set I would have thought you were blessed with.”

“Because it’s not on-brand?” he asks, flattening out his accent to mimic mine.

“Exactly,” I say.

“What would be on-brand?” he asks, resuming his position, leaning against the kitchen counter to watch me add butter to the saucepan and pull out a whisk from the drawer beneath the stove .

“You ordering all your food from Le Bernardin. It’s not a bad thing. You can afford it.”

“You’re going to lose your mind when you see my stash of ramen noodles.”

I laugh. “Nothing wrong with ramen. Do you have them in England?”

“Oh god, no. It’s a bloody wasteland over there. We live in caves, don’t have cars, no running water.”

“Okay, okay, so you have ramen.”

He chuckles, and I have to suppress my pleasure at him poking fun at me. Talking to him is so easy. That’s how it was the first night we met, too. I was giddy from talking to him after only a few minutes. I was floating when he asked for my number. Then I came down to earth with a thump when I saw him with that other girl.

I have so many different contrasting snapshots of Leo. It’s confusing.

As I’m stirring the bechamel, he goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a block of cheese. “One thing we don’t have in England is American cheese, and the British people are grateful. It’s disgusting unless it’s on a burger.”

“You’ll get no arguments from me on that one. What have you got there?”

“Cornish cheddar.” He laughs, and I’m not sure why. “This is very on-brand, as you’d say.”

I narrow my eyes, glancing between my pan and him.

“I get it sent over from the UK.”

I start to laugh. “That’s actually hilarious and totally spoiled. But it’s not on-brand.”

He shreds the cheddar next to me where I’m stirring and it feels like we’ve known each other for ages. There’s no awkward silences or moments where I say the wrong thing—which is unusual .

“I’m afraid to ask,” he says, abandoning the pile of shredded cheese and pulling something out of an overhead cabinet. “But what exactly is my brand, according to you?”

I wince. I can’t be honest with him. I can’t say asshole . “You know, lots of money, fast car, ladies’ man.”

“That’s what you think of your boss?” He looks a little shocked, like he’s almost… hurt. It gives him a layer of vulnerability I’m not used to seeing, apart from that first night we met. I wonder if he even remembers that party. Or me. I’ve probably just melted into a thousand other encounters he’s had with random women at parties. To me, our conversation, our connection, our chemistry felt… different. He was joking around, talking about destiny, but part of me wanted to believe he was being genuine—that things could be different from how they actually are.

“We actually met before. Way back.”

“We did?” His eyes grow wide, and I can tell he’s concerned that something happened between us.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t seen you naked.”

He fixes me with a stare.

I glance at the pan. I’m starting to regret this little burst of bravery.

“When did we meet?” he asks. “At The Mayfair?”

I should fill him in. It’s not fair to tell him we’ve met and then not tell him the circumstances. It’s just embarrassing—and I don’t just mean about the costume. He was coming on to me, and then moved on to the next woman the second I was out of sight. It was a long time ago, but it still doesn’t make me feel good.

“No, not at The Mayfair,” I say. “It was a few years ago.”

I glance across at him to find him wearing his trademark smirk. “Are you going to tell me more? ”

I shrug. “It doesn’t matter. It was fleeting.”

He chokes out a laugh. “Jules. What are you hiding? Is it really that bad?”

“I’ll tell you another time,” I say. I shouldn’t have said anything. The problem is, I need to remember that we’ve met before, because At Home Leo Hart seems chill and sweet, and the fact that he can find his way around the kitchen is low-key adorable. But he’s a womanizer. A player. I need to remember that.

He doesn’t speak. When I glance away from my pan, I realize he’s pouring alcohol into two shot glasses.

“If you’re not going to talk, we should have a toast,” he says. “To our engagement.” There’s no frustration in his voice. He accepts my lack of disclosure like it’s nothing. Maybe it’s not, to him.

He offers me a shot glass and our gazes lock. Heat trickles through me, long and languid, like a sensual slow dance.

I’m in trouble.

“On a school night?” I ask, and he sets down the glass he was offering me. I sound more scandalized than I feel. But I know I shouldn’t be drinking within a two-mile radius of this man. I don’t trust him and I don’t trust myself.

“It’s a shot of tequila. I’m not suggesting we down the bottle, hop into my very expensive sports car, and take on New York City nightlife. But if you would rather not, that’s totally fine. I’ll take both.”

The sauce is done. I turn to him.

“I’ll take a shot of tequila.” It might calm the nerves that have started to bubble under my skin.

He’s holding his shot, waiting for me. I pick up the one still on the counter.

I raise my glass. “To pretending to be Mrs. Hart. ”

He groans. “Oh god, you wouldn’t change your name, would you?”

I blink, trying to process what he’s saying. “You wouldn’t want me to?”

“No! Keep your own bloody name. I don’t get the name-change thing. It’s so old-fashioned. Why should a woman change her name just because she’s getting married?”

I swear to god, I just felt a tug in my ovaries. “Oh, you’re a feminist now?”

He shrugs and clicks his glass to mine. “Why not?”

Being here in his apartment has shifted everything. He’s no longer my boss, who I roll my eyes at when he leaves the room. No, now he’s the Leo Hart who loves comic books and makes me laugh. He’s the guy who gave me his number who I was actually going to call. And here, now, standing with Leo in the kitchen, I understand why I’ve hated him so much since that night at the party.

It’s because I liked him so much. And because for the short time we spent together at the party, I had allowed myself to hope I’d found something—someone—special.

“Let’s not drink to our engagement,” he says. “Within the walls of this apartment, we should be honest. Let’s drink to being roommates.” He eyes me from under eyelashes that wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of Vogue . I take a breath, trying to give off vibes that say his intense stare doesn’t do anything to me. “And to becoming friends,” he says.

A shiver passes down my spine.

Friends? With Leo Hart?

Maybe I can drink to that.