Page 84 of The Renter
“Adam, I really appreciate that; I do. But I need to do this on my own terms,” I say, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.
There’s a moment of silence before he softly kisses me.
“I need to be in Chicago for a couple of meetings. Join me for a few days?”
“There’s this thing called Zoom,” I sass, not understanding why he always has to go into the city for meetings.
“The meetings I’m having …” He hesitates. “There needs to be no record of them. We’re very cautious about our paper trail.”
“Sounds nefarious.”
“It’s business.”
“The kind of business you don’t want a record of?”
“The probability of my email getting a subpoena or FOIA request is so high. I don’t put anything in writing that doesn’t absolutely need to be.”
“FOIA?” I ask, never hearing this acronym before.
“Freedom of Information Act. Basically, if I ever get sued which, trust me, people love to sue rich people, they could request to have all my texts, phone call history, emails, and everything like that.” He pauses. “Imagine if all your text messages were read aloud in court. You’d probably have some things you didn’t think were regrettable but then realize are.”
“So, I should not send nudes.”
He laughs. “That would be wise.”
67
Tuesday, July 26th
As we leave Wisconsin, I can’t shake the feeling that Dani hasn’t fully grasped the perks of life as my girlfriend and as my love. Or is she resisting my life—my real life outside the cottage? I pay to eliminate inconveniences, and Dani being in Wisconsin longer than me would be a terrible inconvenience.
Our car ride is filled with great music and conversation. My hand is always on her, whether it’s set on her knee or playing with her fingers. I have to be touching her. I’m so in love with Dani.
After seeing the completed renovations, I hope she might reconsider moving in with me. Or perhaps a tour of the new luxury apartment building near my office might be an alternative route. I’m growing more and more aware that my time at the cottage is drawing to a close, and the end of summer is nearing. More than anything, I want her in Chicago with me when I return full time in a few weeks.
I can barely contain my excitement about the renovations as we pull into my garage. “Should I blindfold you?” I joke.
She giggles—a sound that never fails to warm my heart. “No need. I’m too excited to see.”
Hand in hand, we walk upstairs. I haven’t had a stupid grin on my face like the one I have right now in a long time. I’ve made these changes for her to make my house feel like our home, a place where she can see herself thriving.
“I had a small library remodeled into your office,” I say, opening the door. The workspace is for her, with a large desk, a bookshelf, and an oversized chair.
“It adjusts,” I say, pointing to the standing desk.
“I love the natural light in here.” She smiles, and I’m happy she likes the office. “I hate angry lighting.”
“Angry lighting?” I ask, amused by her description.
“You know, fluorescent yellow. It’s just so … angry.”
She’s too cute.
“Now, let’s see the closet,” I say, leading her down the hall toward the primary suite.
“I knocked down a couple of walls,” I say as we enter through the hall. “You said you wanted a celebrity-worthy closet, and the contractors assured me this is better than any they’ve seen from theArchitectural Digestcelebrity home tours.”
“Oh my God.” She gasps as she steps inside.
