I blink at him. “Um. Yes, please. I appreciate it. But I’m not Mrs. St. Clair. Please call me Cecilia.”
He gives a hesitant nod that makes it clear he’ll do no such thing.
I spend the rest of the afternoon unpacking in my bedroom. Putting my toothbrush in the marble en-suite and hanging up my clothes in the giant closet. My eyes keep flickering to the view of Central Park from this angle, the forest of trees with their leaves ablaze in color. I can’t believe this is my view now. From my bedroom. In my boss’s apartment.
It’s late when I venture downstairs. Bonnie is cooking, a black apron around her waist. She smiles when she sees me. “Is it feeling more like a home up there?”
I nod, sitting down at the kitchen counter. “Yes. This smells amazing. What are you making?”
“Lobster ravioli.”
“Lobsterravioli?”
“Yes. It’s one of St. Clair’s favorites.”
I take another deep breath of the intoxicating scent and glance at my watch. He never leaves the office before seven. “I can’t wait.”
In truth, I have no idea how I’ll react when he comes home.
Home. My husband. Victor St. Clair.
I rest my head in my hands, the full weight of the day crashing down on me like a tidal wave. I’ve signed a contract. I’ve gotten married. And I’ve moved, sitting in an apartment that is nothing like me, so far removed from everything I’ve ever known.
And the man I’m waiting for to come home is the man I despised just two weeks ago. The man who is now single-handedly bankrolling my new start-up and launching my best friend’s art career.
“I imagine it’s a lot,” Bonnie says softly.
I nod, unable to speak.
“I’ll make sure you get pepperoni pizza for lunch tomorrow.”
I give a weak laugh. “Thank you.”
“Of course. For what it’s worth, I’ve known St. Clair for years. He’ll stay true to his word. And if he doesn’t,” she says, raising her spatula in warning, “he can kiss his homemade lobster ravioli goodbye. I’m not opposed to burning them if he upsets you in any way.”
I laugh. “You know, I sometimes gave him decaf coffee when he annoyed me at work. He didn’t notice. It was my small act of rebellion.”
Bonnie’s eyes widen, and then she laughs too. “Decaf?”
“Yes. Tiny, perhaps, but I know he’d have hated it if he knew.”
She laughs again and my own laughter grows, half-hysterical and half-sane.
The front door slams shut.
I try to stop giggling, but I’m still wheezing when footsteps sound in the hall. They’re familiar. I should know, having spent a year ruled by their comings and goings down the office corridor.
Victor St. Clair stops in the vaulted doorframe of his kitchen. He looks between me, still giggling, to where Bonnie is smiling by the stove. Suspicion blooms in his eyes.
“Welcome home!” I say. It’s over the top, but what’s the worst thing he can do? Fire me?
He steps into the kitchen and puts his briefcase on the counter. “Hello, Cecilia.”
He’s still in the fitted, navy suit from our ceremony, but his dark blond hair isn’t in its usual neat waves. It’s tousled, like he’s run his hand through it repeatedly. It’s been a stressful afternoon for him, then.
I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse, that marrying me wasn’t stress inducing for him but work was.
“I moved into the guest room upstairs,” I say.