Page 7 of Sugar Pie
A short car ride later, Warren led me to his second-floor apartment. He opened the door to reveal a sparsely furnished living room with an open kitchen. “It’s not much, but I don’t plan to be here long.”
I was tense and unsure what to do, but as the door clinked closed and he locked it, my veins went cold. I hoped I hadn’t made a mistake, so I stood in front of him and asked, “Why are you helping me?”
He reached in the first kitchen cabinet to the top shelf then gave me a set of keys. “You were crying. Last time I saw a woman cry was when my grandma died.”
My eyes widened. A key meant I had the ability to come and go as I pleased. In an apartment that was maybe six hundred square feet, we would have no secrets.
I relaxed and fought the impulse to reach for his hand. “I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”
He opened the refrigerator then offered me a beer. I rocked on my feet but nodded.
“She was nice to me, but Maman was devastated.”
I narrowed my gaze. Warren made me pause, as I wouldn’t have pegged him for speaking another language in those jeans and work boots. “Maman?”
“My mom. She adopted me, and she’s all I know when it comes to women and tears.”
I put my small pocketbook down. “Well, I’ll cook dinner. We’ll sleep better if we’re full.”
He stood in front of the refrigerator and said, “You don’t have to, and I didn’t have time to go shopping yet. I have to get to another job. Internet password is on the fridge.”
I walked around him and opened the door. I’d spotted pasta and cheese, which was better than nothing. “It’s enough for tonight. I’ll get us better food tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to bother.”
If I was his new roommate, we needed to know each other’s strengths. And the kitchen always made me feel in control of my life. So I took out the cheese and found a pan to add some water and milk to melt it down. “I need to do something nice for you. You’re helping me.”
“I’ll help.”
I directed him to fill a big pot with water. He nodded as if it was his first time ever in the kitchen, and maybe it was. Helping out made me feel like I had some control and living there was my choice.
I hoped Warren would be exactly who he said he was. A friend was all he could ever be to me, but it would be nice to be able to trust him.
3
Norouzis and their ilk run the world. Today, it’s been revealed to me that the golden son, Warren—the single, rich, handsome one who also has a reputation for parties and ignoring common decency—has left the compound the trillionaires formed for themselves and their families. Somewhere on our streets, he roams, but don’t worry, dear readers. I’ll find him.
Gossip and burn the rich.
Yours truly,
Regina, your gossip goddess you can’t escape from.
* * *
Warren
The dawn was pretty in Greenville. I glanced out the window and saw bright pink and red over the green horizon. My mind raced to the beach home I’d spent my summers in since I could remember. As one of twelve boys, I had everything, really, except privacy. Even as an adult, my brothers were my best friends and usually in my life.
Maman would have loved the colors of the sunrise.
The bedroom door jiggled, and I turned to see Kerry walk through, wearing the same clothes she’d been in the night before. She’d arrived with no bags. She curled her lips into a smile. “Good morning.”
My muscles tensed at the sight of her, and I grew hard. I was too used to women throwing themselves at me.
I grabbed a T-shirt from my backpack and put it on the table for her in case she wanted it.
She ignored the shirt and opened the refrigerator. “Morning. I’ll make breakfast.”
