Page 13 of Mr. North
Five
Beth
T wo classes today, both of them early. Thalia passes me slip after slip of paper like we’re back in high school. It’s hard enough to concentrate on the lecture as it is, but with her constant questioning, it’s a miracle I manage to take any notes at all. Over lunch, she asks me if I’m going home to change before I go and meet with Raphael.
“Nope,” I tell her, taking a bite of my wrap. “He said I should wear whatever makes me comfortable.”
Concern flashes across Thalia’s face. “It’s probably a test, Beth. You should still wear something smart.”
“What’s wrong with this?” I look down at myself, at the pale blue strappy shirt and the black jeans I’m wearing. When I look up, Thalia’s nose is wrinkled.
“My father says jeans are blue collar working men’s clothes. They’re not smart or professional.”
“Might I point out that you’re wearing jeans right now. And also, your father is in his seventies. Of course he thinks that. He’d probably wear a shirt and tie to go hiking, if he could still hike.”
The troubled look doesn’t leave Thalia’s face. “I don’t know, Beth…”
“He wears jeans. Why shouldn’t I?”
“North ? Raphael North was wearing jeans when you met him?”
“Yes. Ripped jeans. And a t-shirt.”
“You’re fucking with me. That man never left his apartment unless that perfect body of his was expertly packaged in a Giorgio Armani three-piece.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Thalia. He was very casual the other day. Very casual. He practically laughed at me when I said you’d forced me to wear business attire. I’m going to our meeting this afternoon wearing this, or I’m not going at all. It’s that simple.”
“You might want to wipe your chin before you get chipotle sauce all over yourself, then,” she says dryly, pointing at my face. I use my napkin just in the nick of time, barely catching the dollop of sauce that was about to land in my lap.
“You’re going to let him win this time, right?” Thalia says.
“Yeah, this time I’ll make sure I’m paying attention. So long as he doesn’t offend me the moment I walk through the door, I should be okay.” Even as I say this, I know the chances of that happening are slim to none. The man doesn’t seem to be capable of opening his mouth without saying something to upset me.
By four o’clock, I’ve worked myself into a ball of nerves again. Nate calls me from outside my building, and I go jump into the Tesla, opening my own door and climbing into the backseat before he can stop me.
“You’re trouble,” he says, laughing. “I know it when I see it, and you are trouble with a capital T. You’d have to be to come back for a second round with Raphael.”
We laugh and joke on the way over to the Osiris Building, the drive much quicker than it was on Saturday. I try not to worry about the text faux pas from last night. I try not to worry, period. Easier said than done, though. I toe off my sneakers in the elevator and hand them over to Nate. He smirks when he sees my freshly painted plum toenails, but he doesn’t say anything. I gave myself a full pedicure last night before I went to bed. My feet have never looked better.
Nate buzzes on the doorbell by the glass door again, then gives me a squeeze on the shoulder. “Give him hell, spitfire.”
I laugh under my breath. “I’ll try.”
Today, the curtain on the other side of the door doesn’t go back. The door just swings open, and there is Raphael—tall, cheeks a little red, eyes wild, hair wet again. There are damp spots on his shoulders too, making the dark, burned red of his polo shirt even darker. His eyes blaze when he looks at me. “You’re early,” he states.
“Am I?”
“Yes. Fifteen minutes early.”
“I’m sorry, would you like me to come back later then?” I’m joking, but it’s very obvious that Raphael is considering saying yes. He frowns slightly, and then steps away from the door, holding it open for me.
“No. It’s fine,” he says tightly. “Go on through. We’re playing in the lounge again, by the window.”
I go inside, walking the long length of the penthouse, aware that every single one of the doors that line the hallway toward the lounge are all closed again. No chance of seeing what lies beyond. Calling the space at the other end of the hallway a lounge simply doesn’t do it justice. It would be more appropriate to call it a loft, or even a hangar. The chess set is set up exactly where it was two days ago. I sit down in the same chair, and Raphael sits opposite me. He takes hold of the chessboard, though, spinning it around so that the black pieces are in front of me, and the copper pieces are in front of him.
“Fair’s fair,” he says.
So today, I will have the advantage of going first. How very generous of him. He seems a little tense today. More than he was on our first meeting, which is saying something. The muscles in his jaw are popping as he grinds his teeth together. A small vein stands out at his temple. I can’t stop staring at it. There’s something about him right now. Not just one thing, but a number of small things that, combined, make him thoroughly intriguing. I can tell something’s bothering him, but I can’t tell what will happen if I ask him if he’s okay. There’s a prickly energy pouring off him as he eyes the board. It’s as though he could snap and explode at any second. He’s been silent since he switched the board around, but his body language is absolutely screaming.
