Page 7 of Keep Him Like Secrets

I took full advantage of it, putting not only a charcoal gray sectional in the living room, but a round cozy reading chair I’d seen going viral online and decided I had to have all to myself. Most of the time, I found myself falling asleep in it now. It was the messiest area in my house, sporting several pillows for strategic propping during long reading sessions, two soft blankets, a stack of books, and a small caddy that had all the things I needed to annotate book club books: sticky notes in pastel colors, pens, highlighters, and bookmarks.

Behind the chair was a lamp that hung over. To the side of it, a table for drinks and snacks.

On the wall that the sectional faced was a built-in unit I’d painted black, stretching from floor to ceiling with bookshelves and only a small gap for a TV I rarely ever watched.

Sucking in a deep breath, I walked over to my least-used room: the kitchen. It served mostly as the place where my coffee maker lived. And my leftovers were stored.

I went to the island, grabbing the lighter, and igniting the wick on the strawberry sweet cream candle, inhaling a deep breath before making my way into the hall bathroom.

I’d done wrote a bit of unapproved remodeling—tearing out the old, cracked little white square tiles and replacing them with big square slate tiles instead, walls and bath niche and all. The vanity was also new and floating with light under it so I could stumble in half-asleep and not have to turn on the big light.

Standing in front of the mirror, I pulled out the dye kit, set all the steps up, then reached to pull off my shirt.

“Alright, here goes nothing.”

I was no stranger to dyeing my own hair. I maintained my signature blue color without the assistance of a salon.

What can I say? Save for the random night when I chose to bring a man to bed, I didn’t like having people touch me.

Besides, I was a former foster, then street, kid. If I could save money, I usually chose to. And a ten-dollar box of dye seemed a lot smarter option than three hundred bucks at a salon.

I knew that the me I was turning myself into as I shook the bottle of thick brown liquid and streaked it through my hair was someone who wouldn’t have the same money wounds as I did. I’d have to make sure I didn’t balk at prices or suggest cheaper options.

I mean, it wasn’t even going to be my money anyway.

I set the timer but stayed in front of the mirror, practicing my rich-bitch face, talking through introductions and possible avenues of conversation until I was sure I was coming across as a believable, calm, collected businesswoman who likely came from old money. The kind of woman who took horseback riding lessons and whose dad golfed on the weekends to get away from her nag of a socialite mother.

Only then could I rinse out the dye and go to bed.

Only to wake up and need to do it all over again as I washed, dried, and straightened my wavy dark hair, applied minimal makeup, slipped in some unassuming little diamond studs, then slipped into the wide-legged gray slacks that I was told would flatter my short, thick-thighed body, and tight, white, short-sleeve sweater that Elizabeth had helped me pick out.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped back to look at my reflection.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked the reflection with her covered-up freckles over her nose, the understated mascara around her light brown eyes that took on a slightly gray hue in the bathroom lighting, and her dark brown hair.

I looked older.

Serious.

And maybe, just maybe, like I could actually pull this thing off.

CHAPTER THREE

Soren

“What’s the appointment at three?” I asked my receptionist, leaning in the doorway of my office.

The note on my calendar said simplyS.A.

“Your meeting with the owner of the Brooklyn property,” Teresa said as she rose from her desk to make her way to the coffee station. Sure, she’d just brought me a cup an hour ago. But knowing me as she did—and she did, that was why she got the salary she did—that cup was already long gone.

“Right. Why the letters?”

“Her name,” Teresa said, coming back with one of the ten identical sixteen-ounce mugs with the square handles she knew I preferred. And collected all day on my desk.

“Her?” I asked, the mug half-raised to my lips.

“Yes, Mr. Vale. Women are allowed to own property now,” Teresa said, shooting me a smirk that made her smile lines deepen. “Crazy times we live in.”

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