Page 16 of Maid For Each Other

It wasn’t my way.

Because if I sat there in silence, I was just going to continue to rage. His fatherlydon’t get cutereally pissed me off, the way he thought he could just tell me to shut up and do what he said, but I also didn’t have much of a choice if I wanted to stay in his fancy condo until I could go back to my own place.

So it was better to change the subject.

“What?” Declan glanced at me out of the corner of his eye as he navigated us in and out of traffic. His car was black and sleek on the outside, woodgrain and leather on the inside. It felt expensive and sounded fast, but I’d yet to see any identifiable logo. “It’s a CX1290.”

“But whatmakeis it?” I prodded, because it definitely wasn’t a Kia.

He gave something like a shrug and said, “Oh, it’s custom.”

Custom?

What could that possibly mean? He’d had it custom-made? Did a car designer build him a special vehicle? Had he customized a regular car and added the CX1290 to be cool?

And wouldn’t it still be a certainmakeof a car, even if it’d been customized for Richie Rich?

It’s custom.

Insert one thousand rolling-eye emojis.

I knew it was a “me” thing, but I harbored a great deal of prejudice when it came to wealth.

I mean, I was fine with people working hard and rewarding themselves for their success; living well was A-okay in my book. Nice house, nice car, no money stress; hopefully I’d know what that felt like someday. My student loans pointed toward an eternal paycheck-to-paycheck lifestyle, but a girl can dream, right?

But I couldn’t wrap my head around things like twenty-room mansions and six-figure sports cars. I saw it as a massive character flaw, the ability to be fine with justcollectingwealth while most of the world struggled.

Not that I had any sort of an altruistic plan as to what millionairesshouldbe spending their money on, but I just couldn’t fathom being okay with things like Birkin bags and Bugattis.

And probably CX1290s.

I didn’t know Declan at all so I couldn’t technically judge him, butoh, it’s customwas setting off all the alarm bells about his character.

“What exactly does that mean?” I asked, because my curiosity needed to know more than my ego demanded I protect myignorance. “Is it a certain brand, like Tesla, but customized for you? Is that what you mean?”

“It’s custom-built by my car guy, so it’s not one specific brand,” he said. “But we should probably discuss the story of us instead of my vehicle, don’t you think? We’re going to be at the restaurant in five minutes.”

I wanted so badly to open a discussion about Taylor Swift’s song “The Story of Us,” just to irritate him, but he was actually right.

“Okay, so we’ve been dating for six-ish months,” I said, thinking it was very bold of him to believe he could keep the same girlfriend for six whole months since he seemed pretty impossible to be with. The dossier hadn’t said anything specific about Abi and Declan as a couple, so I filled in the micro-details. “You saidI love youfirst and really wanted to buy me a cat but I’m allergic so you couldn’t. I make you watch rom-coms even though you hate them, though I’m starting to suspect you love them and watch them without me now. I took you to get your wisdom teeth taken out and made a hilarious video of you bawling over broken Pop-Tarts while you were under the influence. I bring you baked goods every time we’re together—I’m an obscenely good baker, for the record—and you secretly wonder if they’re laced with something because that’s the only explanation as to how you could fall for someone like me.”

I knew without a doubt that it’d take some hardcore impairment for this billionaire to appreciate my…me-ness. Not that I didn’t like myself; it was more that my brand seemed a thousand miles away from his.

He seemed to be all refined elegance, where I was…not.

“First of all, I had my wisdom teeth removed when I was eighteen. Second,thatis your story of us?” he asked, and he almost looked like he wanted to smile.

Almost.

Wow, had I even seen him smile yet? He’d grinned when he was intimidating me at Benny’s, but that’d been more of a wolflike I’m-going-to-tear-out-your-throat expression as opposed to a genuine, heartfelt smile.

“Well, I mean—”

“Hold that thought,” he interrupted as his phone started ringing.

“Holding,” I muttered as he answered the call with a “Hi, Warren.”

I sat there in the passenger seat, questioning yet again what the hell I was doing as the man behind the wheel took a business call when we were supposed to be prepping for the cocktail party. I really wanted him to tell me what the party was going to look like, who the primary characters were that I’d be meeting, and which people mattered to him the most.

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