Padgett. I remember Ms. Peters coming into the conference room during the meeting and mentioning that name.
Without warning, Jamie slams on the brakes and I lurch forward against my seat belt. “What the hell?”
“Sorry. I think I saw something on that street we just passed.” She thrusts the car into reverse and careens backward on the winding canyon road.
I swivel in my seat, terrified that I’ll see headlights approaching. But the road is dark, and we make the turn safely. By the time I’m facing forward again and ready to chew Jamie out for being so damn reckless, my anger is forgotten, pushed out of my mind by the sight of the incredible structure rising in front of me.
“Wow. Do you think that’s his?”
“I don’t know. It’s not as big as I thought it would be,” Jamie says. She pulls the car over to the side of the road, and we both get out and walk to the temporary chain-link fence that has been put up around the structure. A small metal plate identifies Nathan Dean as the architect. “It’s his,” Jamie says. “I remember that name from one of the articles. But shit, Stark is rolling in money. Shouldn’t this be a mansion?”
“No,” I say. “It’s perfect.”
As bazillionaire houses go, it probably is small. I’m guessing it’s about ten thousand square feet. But it seems to rise from the hills as opposed to being plunked down on them. Any larger and it would overwhelm. Smaller, and it would be lost. Though still unpainted and raw, the stonework only half-finished, the overall essence of the home is clear. It suggests power and control, but there’s also warmth and comfort. It’s inviting. It’s Damien.
And I think it’s spectacular.
From our spot on the road, we stand slightly above the building. Guests will enter by a driveway that slopes down, giving the illusion of entering a private valley. There are other houses nearby, but none will be visible from the property itself.
All that is visible, in fact, is the ocean. The house is finished enough that I can tell there are no windows on the side facing inland. I can’t see the side facing the ocean, but after seeing Damien’s apartment and his office—and after hearing his description of the portrait he wants painted—I have no doubt that the west wall is made entirely of windows.
“A million dollars,” Jamie says, and then whistles. “It’s like winning the lottery.”
She’s right. A million dollars is everything to me. A million dollars is start-up capital. A million dollars changes my entire life.
Yeah, but there’s that little problem.…
I slide my hand down the inner seam of the jeans I’d pulled on for our night on the town. Through the denim, I can barely feel them, but if I close my eyes I can easily picture the thick, brutal scars that mar both my inner thighs and my hips. “He wouldn’t be getting what he thinks he’s getting.”
Her grin is wicked. “Caveat emptor, baby. Buyer beware.”
And that’s why I love Jamie.
I turn back to the house and try to imagine myself standing in front of those windows. The curtains. The bed. Everything as he described it—and Damien Stark with his eyes on me.
My whole body quickens at the thought, and I can no longer deny how much I want this. Damien Stark has thrown me off-kilter, and part of me wants to punish him for it. At the very least, I want to regain the upper hand. Although perhaps “regain” is the wrong word. Where Damien is concerned, I’m not sure I ever had it.
“Caveat emptor,” I repeat. And then I squeeze Jamie’s hand and smile.
15
On Sunday, I am forced to face the most basic truth of my life: If I don’t spend a few hours washing clothes, I’ll be going to work naked.
“Carl would like it,” Jamie says, when I tell her why laundry is my plan for the day.
“I’d rather not test that theory. You coming?” I have a laundry basket tucked under my arm and am leaning against her bedroom door. She looks around at the mishmash of clothing strewn across her floor and says cautiously, “I think most of this stuff is actually clean.”
I shudder. “How is it that we’re friends?”
“Yin and yang.”
“Do you have any auditions next week?”
“Two, actually.”
“Then rewash all that stuff, and I’ll help you fold and iron. Because you are not going to an audition covered in cat fur.” As if she can tell that I’m talking about her, Lady Meow-Meow lifts her head. She’s curled up on a pile of black material that looks suspiciously familiar. “Is that my dress?”
Jamie flashes a guilty smile. “One of the auditions is for Sexy Girl in Bar and there’s three lines of dialogue. I was going to have it dry-cleaned.”
“Yang,” I say wryly. “Come on. Let’s go see if the machines are free.”
The laundry room is connected to the pool deck, and once both our loads are going, we snag two lounge chairs. As I’m settling in, Jamie runs back upstairs without explanation. A few minutes later she returns with a tote bag slung over her shoulder and a bottle of champagne in her hand.
“We have champagne?”
She shrugs. “Got some at the store yesterday.” She lifts her shoulder and glances down at the tote. “And orange juice.” She untangles the metal cage, then places her thumbs and deftly wiggles the cork. A moment later, I’m jumping at the sound of the pop and then the twang of the cork slamming into the metal sign prohibiting glass in the pool area.
“Awesome,” I say. “Did you think about cups?”