5. Ignacia

Chapter five

Ignacia

I truly don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m not the devil. I don’t even have devilish tendencies. Something about this man and his inexplicable extra nights and the contract he got me to sign has turned me into a woman I don’t recognize.

Oh, and the whole I’m-not-usually-a-devil thing needs some clarification. Technically, I’ve always been sweet as pie. But the people who got scammed by supposedly me? They didn’t think so. They wished bad karma on me, no doubt, and karma decided to stop taking days off for once and fucked me over a million times worse than Aiden did.

I’m out here in the middle of nowhere. Missing my old life, my friends, my family, my career. I’m trying like freaking fuck to rebuild and get on with it and be okay, and then bam! Karma kicks me in the face by providing Mr. Toes. Alright, fine. Mr. Taves.

I know that is his legit name as he insisted because it was on the contract he made me sign. The contract he has endlessly referred to as if it rules his life. And mine.

I’ve spent the past week getting to know the man, at least as much as the internet will allow me to, and a few things have become apparent. He’s richer than I thought. Richer than god, although, doesn’t god—however that might exist—own the entire universe? That’s pretty darn rich. I’m not sure Beau has that kind of reach.

His parent company owns multiple companies. So many that it’s hard to keep track of what exactly the man does, or did, or what he might be doing that he doesn’t have people to do for him. It’s probably not much. Rich people always have people to do anything and everything, short of wiping their bum, though I’m pretty sure they could afford it if they wanted. With twenty-two-karat gold toilet paper.

Does Beau poop into a gold toilet?

Anyway.

I’ve sewn up a real hecking storm this week, pouring my frustrations into my dresses. No, not literally. I’m not going to send them out with my bad karma attached. It’s just the most apt expression to describe it.

I was joking about the sex. The website I use has a contract that both parties sign, and it keeps names anonymous. If there’s ever a problem, I suppose they’d be divulged, but it’s up to the people involved how much they want to share, including personal details, once they meet. It’s hard for me because anyone can find out my name, given that they know where I live. They just have to run the title. It’s a relief I’m using a fake identity. Kind of. It’s still the identity I’m stuck with for the moment.

Whatever it is, I never had a problem.

And then, along came Beau.

Beau, whom I haven’t been able to stop thinking about all week.

His snappy intelligence and the way he’s all hard and cold to almost deadness, proper and ruled by contracts, regulations, and doing things the right way, and so insanely stacked and beautiful that I’d let him do pretty much anything to me if I didn’t maul him to death like a horny panther first.

That’s a saying I never thought I’d use, but alas, here we are.

Yes, it’s a real mental image, and yes, it’s a real problem. It starts out with us lying all innocent and proper in bed, spirals into me climbing him like a tree and him doing all the dirty things to me, and ends with me taking his…umm…like finish juices in places I also never thought I’d like them to be. Outside my body, I mean. Jesus. This is only X-rated, not triple X.

I’m sorry that I have a problem with being too honest. I’m sorry that all week, I’ve worked myself raw in the hopes I could be less raw in other spots. I didn’t plant a garden this year because I could not get a tiller from anywhere, and now I realize it was a sad oversight. I didn’t even plant flowers. I was more concerned with existing structures on the property not falling down around me.

All this time, I’ve been saying I don’t have the devil in me, but when Beau’s car pulls up for our second night—which is still entirely inexplicable to me, and it’s maddening that a man like him is never going to surrender his reasoning—I’m kind of extremely pissed off that all week, his cut figure and cold eyes and the way he turned away from me in my bed like I was about as attractive as a week old garbage dumpster have gone un-extricated from my brain.

Still, I greet him with a smile. I’m wearing my prettiest prairie dress with yellow flowers and white lace trim at the neckline and sleeves. It goes all the way to my ankles, and it’s not a shapeless bag since it tucks in very neatly at my waist. I might have sat down and done a little bit of extra work on it yesterday in anticipation of his arrival. I may or may not have taken it in a little at the bust, making it strain uncomfortably across my breasts, I may or may not be wearing a bra because there was no room for one under the tight fabric, and, finally, I may or may not have done a little work on the hips and butt, so it also showcases me there.

I can tell by the way his eyes immediately sweep over me that he notices. However, he does have this charming habit, I notice, of changing his expression to one so unamused and flat that I might as well be a flaming bag of poo freshly dumped on his doorstep.

“Hello, Beau.” I wave him into the house, all eager smiles. “I’ve been thinking about what you asked me last week. Well, I changed my mind about it, mostly because I’m soooo far behind on orders.” I’ve taken the sewing machine out of the main room and set it up at my kitchen table. There are piles of fabric and half-finished dresses all over the place. It’s only four in the afternoon, so there are still lots of hours before bed. “You can watch me sew if you like.”

He enters like he’s walking into a den of starving hippos. Hippos might be cute, but I heard they’re one of the most deadly animals in the world. Have you ever seen videos of them eating pumpkins and just obliterating those things with a single chomp?

He eyes my sewing machine like it might come to life and start committing wild and atrocious acts against humanity, starting with him. Then, his cold eyes sweep to me like I might be plotting something along the same lines, and his left eye twitches. I was right about him not liking clutter. I got the neat freak vibe from him last week.

How is it possible that I forgot how arresting, captivating, and extremely gorgeous this man is? Is he frosty? Sure, but even cold, hard, and dead inside, this man makes my whole body feel very much alive, especially when he slips out of his black suit jacket, flips it over a free chair at the table, and starts rolling up his shirt sleeves.

Yeah, it’s hot in here in the summer, with the only AC being in the bedroom, the tube stuck out a hole in the window screen.

I look at his muscular, sleek, and tanned forearms, noting the smallest scar on one. I know if I ask how it happened, he won’t answer me.

I also know if I look up forearm porn, this right here…this is it to the extreme. My god, do they have to be so lush, tanned, and veiny?

“I’m not interested in watching you sew.” But his eyes rake over the table in a way that says he’s very much interested, so I don’t get it. Unless he’s trying to get unaddicted to his extreme kinks, and this happens to be on the top of the list, then what? He asked for this, and I said no. I shut him down. Why is he returning the favor now?

“No? You could just make business calls then.” It’s a snippy, prim response, and I want to wince, but I won’t give him the pleasure.

I don’t know how it started or when it happened, but all week, I’ve been preparing for battle. For a war. This man isn’t the enemy, so I don’t know what I’m actually fighting. Maybe indifference or whatever has him laced so hard and tight that he can’t allow himself to unwind just a little. His surprising life story from last week in the barn feels like it never happened. He probably filed that under extreme mistakes and won’t be repeating it.

It’s a lot for just having met him once. I also sense there’s something more, something I should guard myself against, but I see nothing other than his ridiculous sexiness and the primal way my body responds. That’s all I have to go on. Goading him doesn’t seem wise, but that’s the way I’m choosing this battle.

“I have no business calls to make.” His voice is smooth, dark chocolate wrapping all around me. “This is my time. I’ve cleared my schedule.”

I sweep my hand to the table that’s overflowing with piles of fabric and half-finished dresses. “Oh, shoot. I’m so sorry.” I bat my eyelashes at him. I even applied extra mascara to make them long and full. I’m never going to have soft, soupy, cartoon-character eyes, but I did the best I could. “Some of these dresses are for a wedding. If I don’t get them out, the poor bride is going to have nothing for her wedding party. Her special day will be ruined because of me.” Well, it is true, but the wedding is still six months away. It’s a winter wedding for a lovely woman who lives in California and doesn’t have to be worried about things like snow in January.

Harder, colder, deadlier, and frostier eyes stare me down.

More liquid heat swirls in my belly, along with a heartbeat that’s insistent in making itself known in the most miraculous spot of…between my legs. I don’t know what happened to my body or why it turned traitor, but it has something to do with this man’s chemistry.

Duh, obviously. He’s basically sex encased in an expensive suit, and my body recognizes that his body is delicious and glorious, and he smells divine, and it wants . Even if that want goes against the rules and laws of my brain.

“Erm, well, if you could just give me two uninterrupted hours, I could whip them up and do the final touches in the morning. But I’d really like these two hours. Would you like a book to read? I have handheld electronic games. Video games? You could play online poker.”

He looks like he’d rather be at a piercing place—ready to offer up his genitals—than do any of those options. Which begs the question…why is he even here at all? Is he regretting that contract? If he were, he’d just pay it out. He has oodles and oodles of money. It wouldn’t even matter to him. Maybe it’s the principle. Maybe he’s a finish-what-he-started kind of person.

Postscript: why did my traitor brain have to come up with that analogy? Imagining this man’s hmmm pierced is nothing short of obscene. In a very clit and leg-liquifying kind of way.

This is about going into battle to shield myself, not about getting closer to him by breaking through his icy exterior, even if I think he does need to open up. He’s lonely. He’s hurting. I don’t want to press on that and break him. Instead, I want to press on it and help him. He might be hotter than sin, and the worst things are always the most tempting, but this doesn’t have to end in sex. It can just end in something as soft and powerful as a hug. I think he needs one of those.

I think I need one, too.

But my gut is telling me it won’t end in just a hug. There’s something about him that needs guarding against, and it’s not the potent chemistry lab of his body that keeps screaming at mine to spontaneously start with experiments percolating in my lady bits.

“A book would be fine,” he finally growls out. His jaw looks so tight that it’s a miracle his face doesn’t split in half.

“And a cup of tea?” I offer.

He practically gags. “I’ll pass.”

“A glass of water then. Oh, and I went out and bought you some diabetic candy.”

“I don’t usually eat candy.”

Ooh, but he does look tempted. “Yes, I know you’re all spinach and white meat chicken, which I am planning on making for dinner, but you could have a gummy bear if you want.”

He very much looks like he’d enjoy one damn gummy bear, but then he closes himself off and denies himself. He shuts down on those few seconds of sweet, utter heaven. “Where are the books?”

I walk to the living room, and he follows me. His eyes bulge when he views the bookcase. This week, I went to the thrift store in the small town half an hour away. I’ve been there before. They happen to sell their books at ten for a dollar. As luck would have it, someone donated their whole collection of pure smut, which is very exciting for me since I enjoy reading a good romance and can take down one or two in a day. It’s about the only action I see out here, and also? Some of those love stories are pretty sweet. I should be a complete and utter cynic after what happened to me, but I can’t seem to wipe out the gross, romantic streak within me. Doesn’t everyone hope for a happily ever after, even if it’s only a secret hope?

“The online poker then,” he chokes out with a cough.

I grab my tablet off the coffee table and try to turn it on. “Oh, shoot. I forgot to charge it. It’s dead.” There are two handheld games on the table, but when I try them, they’re both dead as well. “Double shoot. I forgot to buy batteries. Looks like you’ll just have to watch me sew, after all.”

All this man has to do is breathe, and I burst into spontaneous goosebumps, but now that he’s breathing heavily? Oh, my holy rumpuses. He’s got his facial shit down to a science, while I have the poker face of a grinning chihuahua. Never mind. Those things can take a handoff if they’re inclined, grinning or not. His eyes give nothing away. They’re still just as hard and flinty.

Does he have to be so different from everyone else? That’s the problem. His edge is my new edginess .

“Did you have a good week?” I’m not trying to goad him, I swear.

“No. It was the same week I have every week.”

“The week you deserve?” I probe.

“No.” His eyes track to the books, then to the window. He looks like he’s going to tell me this was all a mistake, pull out his wallet, and pay up. Sudden panic flares inside me. I want to laugh all this off, clear the table, and be normal, regular Ignacia. No, not me, but my persona. The one I gave him last week. Mostly me. Happy, sweet, somewhat guarded, cautious, genuine me.

When those cold blues slam back to my face, all the breath leaves my body. Note to self: exiting oxygen just leaves room for more fiery blood. “It’s getting late. You do the sewing, and I’ll make dinner.”

“Uh—what?”

“You said you were planning to cook chicken and a salad, so I’ll make that.”

“But you…you’re rich. You have people to do all that. You can’t…you can’t actually…have you ever cooked anything?”

He quirks a brow. “I wasn’t rich for the first half of my life, or did you forget what I shouldn’t have told you?”

Ouch. That might be toneless, and his face is still perfectly arranged into nothingness, but I see something in his eyes. It’s not flames, and it’s not more ice. It’s more like a shadow. I get it. Memories hurt. I miss my family, but they’re all still there, still alive. This man’s birth parents didn’t want him at any point in his life or theirs, and the people who raised him and loved him like their own are both dead. He has no siblings, at least not ones he can reach out to.

Even if he’s dealt with it through expensive therapy, I don’t know whether any amount of talking can fix grief like that. Time doesn’t fix everything, and maybe it shouldn’t. Beau could have been a different person if he hadn’t been given away. He would be a different person if he were given away and his adoptive parents weren’t dead. I mean that in a purely emotional sense and not a financial one, but maybe it’s connected, too. I think Beau is a cold, unfeeling asshole covering up a wounded heart by choice. But he probably wasn’t always like this.

Maybe that’s the irony. He’s so good at it. I, on the other hand, have a legit fake identity. I’ve made myself a secondary life. But, on the inside, I’m always going to be who I am. Nothing is going to change that.

Whatever. Dinner is dinner. It’s not crimes against humanity. I don’t have to be on my guard against that.

“I do have chicken in the fridge. I bought it because I thought you’d like it. And I was kidding about the spinach. I’m more of a spring mix kind of girl. But there are cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, and other delicious offerings in the crisper.”

He pretends to be utterly disinterested, as though he’d eat cardboard for dinner if it’s what I had on hand.

“Alright. I’ll get everything out then and find the pans and stuff for you. If you’re serious about making dinner.”

“I’m very rarely not serious,” he says without smiling, his face passive.

“Okay.” Ugh, asshole.

I might have prepped this house childishly for his arrival, but he’s the one who insisted on coming even though he looks like he’d rather take a can opener to his balls than be here. Yeah, that’s a better image than the piercing studio. But if it were me, I’d choose that option and not the can opener because those things have serrated wheels that pinch together.

Whatever. I’m not going to abandon Project Show-this-dude-I’m-a tough-nut-to-bust-and-also-he’s-not-cold-and-dead-on-the-inside-and-that’s-okay. I might have taken the five-year-old child route to get here today, but I’m going to do better starting now, now that I realize it’s truly what was burning behind my breastbone all week.

The other side effects and body burn, we won’t talk about. I won’t think about that. They’re immaterial because those needs are never going to be met.

“You’re clearly not in the mood for conversation,” I add.

One eyebrow arches sarcastically while the rest of him gives me a full-body eye roll as he stands there as stoically as possible. Looks for sure like I’m filing this whole first hour into the little blue folder in my mental filing cabinet titled: Still not sure why you’re here if this is so damn against your will.

Maybe it’s hard being lonely and feeling that. Maybe that’s the hardest thing of all to admit to feeling when you’re supposed to have put all of it behind you. When you’re supposed to be rock-hard super stone—super because nothing about this man could be regular.

“I have an aloe plant on the windowsill,” I tell him.

“I noticed,” he responds dryly.

I treat him to my most sugary smile, then tone it down a few notches to half radiance when I remember he’s not supposed to have sugar. “If you’re so inclined, you can carry on a conversation with it.”

“I’ll take a pass,” he replies.

“You’ll hurt its feelings.”

“Plants don’t have feelings.”

I snort. “I beg to differ.”

“I don’t.”

“Ugh, talk to my crawfish then. It’ll be good.”

He shoots me a very pointed look. “I think I’d rather enjoy the silence.” Hint. Fucking. Hint.

I’m the one who gives him the full-body eye roll this time before saying, “I meant I think it would be good for you .”