The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,358

hand over a loose tendril. “Thanks. Got a bit of a makeover today. You were right about Elle. She’s got a great eye. And thank you for the clothes. I agree … my wardrobe was in dire need of an upgrade.”

There’s a gleam in Mari’s blue eyes that I didn’t expect. A veiled smile too. Already I can see she’s carrying herself differently. A little more charm? A little more grace? A little more confidence than before? Not that she was lacking. I’d always thought of Mari as somewhat of a quiet storm; assertive, beautiful, and potentially destructive if not properly handled.

It isn’t her fault though. It’s her age—her generation. They want the world at the snap of their entitled little fingertips. They want it all and they want it yesterday.

But they’re not ready.

One minute they’re giving world-class presentations in boardrooms and the next minute they’re hurling tantrums like a teething toddler when something doesn’t go their way.

This experience will be good for Mari. I think she’s really going to hit her stride under my wing, and when it’s over, she’ll find herself a little more refined, a little more patient, and she’ll find the world is a little more within her reach than it was before.

“I hope you’re not too hungry. I moved our reservations so we could make a little stop on the way,” I say, checking my watch.

“Where are we going?”

“Your apartment. Then the restaurant.”

“And why are we stopping at my apartment?” Her nose wrinkles.

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Mari crosses her long legs and slides back into the seat as we merge into the busy mid-day traffic. Within a half hour, we’re sitting outside her building, parked behind a moving truck.

Leaning forward, she squints toward the uniformed men lugging furniture pieces up a ramp.

“That looks like my …” her voice trails off. “That’s … is that my dresser?”

Reaching for the door handle, she scurries to climb out of the limo. I follow, placing my hand on her shoulder as she stares wide-eyed as her things are loaded.

“What are you doing with my things?” She turns to me. “And how did you get access to my apartment?”

“You’re moving in with me.”

“And why wasn’t this communicated with me?” She whips her gaze in my direction, her hands landing on her hips.

“It was. Didn’t you read the contract you signed over the weekend?”

“Of course I read it.”

“Then surely you read the fine print?” I ask.

Her expression wilts as she glances over my shoulder and into the distance.

“Pretty sure I would’ve noticed a cohabitation clause,” she says, chewing on the inside of her lip. Mari exhales, and I watch in real time as her frustration seems to be redirected at herself.

“Either way, it’s a done deal. It’s happening. You’re living with me—in the guest suite of course,” I say. “It’s important that we get to know each other’s habits—our idiosyncrasies, if you will. We need to have some kind of authentic semblance of a relationship. It can’t all be acting. Now, go upstairs and collect your personal belongings. Everything else will go into storage. I’ll wait here in the car.”

Mari exhales, saying nothing before she turns on her heels and shimmies between two movers carrying oversized crates of her pre-Rutherford life.

Smirking, I climb back into the car.

I knew I chose well.

Five

Mari

* * *

“If you need anything, dial seven on your phone. Marta will be able to assist you. I’ll be in my study. You’re welcome to join me once you’re settled in.”

Hudson disappears, closing my bedroom door behind him, and I bask in the surrealness of this moment. One minute I’m quitting my job, the next minute I’m plucked from my world, given a Pretty Woman-esque makeover and a lavish bedroom suite easily twice the size of my shoebox apartment.

Circling the room, I pass by the east window, taking in the view of the city from what feels like the top of the world. It’s raining now, little drops beading against the crystal clear glass. Two bedside lamps flank a king-sized bed fit for a spread in Metropolitan Home magazine, and I run to the foot, sinking down in the middle. The bedding is cashmere soft and smells faintly of lavender linen spray.

A knock at my door pulls me from this magical moment, and I scramble to my feet.

“Yes, come in,” I call.

The door swings open and Hudson’s driver stands there, Henri Bendel bags in his arms.

“Your things, Miss Collins,” he says.

I step out of the way, ushering him in. For a