Page 9 of Riot Reunion
Celia inclines her head. “Of course. Seven it is.”
“You can leave the keys on the kitchen counter on your way out.”
“Oh, I'm sorry.” In direct contradiction to her words, Celia looks pleased as punch. “It's against the law for me to officially hand over keys to a prospective owner until all of the associated paperwork has been si—”
“We’re notprospective. We’re the new owners of this apartment. Bryant assured me we’d walk away with the keys after this viewing. Bryantisyour boss, right?”
“Mr. Coleridgeis my boss’s boss,” Celia says in a frosty tone.
“Great. I think he said he was playing golf this afternoon, but if you need to interrupt his game to confirm—”
Celia's cheeks almost match the vibrant hue of purple painted on her nails; it's not a very healthy look. If I were a betting girl, I'd lay down good money that Celia’s going to scream at the top of her lungs the moment she walks through her front door this evening. She smiles brightly, as if all of this is no big deal, but I can tell by the way her nostrils flare that she's putting up a front. She’s fuckinghatingthis.
“No, no. Not a problem at all. Again, as you wish, Mr. Jacobi.” Celia flees, darting back into the hallway, headed back toward the kitchen. Wren’s frigid expression cracks and melts the moment she’s out of sight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this happy. It’s a subtle change in his very serious demeanor. Most people wouldn’t even notice the shift in him, but I sure do. “You're not lying? You really do love it?”
“I really do. I swear it on my mother's grave. It's going to be so, so perfect. But...you went ahead and bought the place before you even knew if I'd like it?”
Wren trails his fingers over my cheek, humming softly under his breath. “You’re not my prisoner, Elodie Stillwater. I wouldn't have made you live here if you hated it.”
“If I'd hated it—”
“We would’ve found something else. Something you loved. I had a feeling you’d fall for it, though. I hoped that I was right. Mostly because I've already ordered the most important piece of furniture we're ever going to own, and it should be arriving in about an hour or so.”
“Our bed?” I guess.
Nodding, he leans into me, inhaling deeply as he buries his face into my hair. “I’m gonna fuck you raw in it all weekend. You’re gonna have to clear your schedule for the next three days, Little E. I’ve gotbigplans for you.”
3
WREN
It was a gamble for sure,but it was a risk I was willing to take. I could have rented the place out if Elodie hadn’t been obsessed with it. Sure, it would have sat vacant for a while before I found tenants; the rent on the property would have been so high, it would have taken months for someone looking to spend that kind of money to come along. I wouldn’t have felt the loss, though.
The inheritance my grandfather left me has made me a millionaire. And not just a couple of million. Sometimes, it feels like I could purchase a small nation with the amount of money the old boy bequeathed me; It just keeps rolling in from so many different angles that it's hard to keep track of. Stocks; Bonds; commercial investments; residential portfolios that continue to crop up all over the world—thirty or forty houses and apartments in cities I've never even visited, all filled with tenants, managed by property groups I've never even heard of. When they say property investment is a smart way to invest your money, they are not fucking wrong. I could easily have eaten the cost of the apartment I just purchased without blinking, but making the decision without her? That could have been averycostly mistake.
I wanted it to be a surprise, but I didn’t want her to think I was leaving her out of important decisions. Luckily for me, she seems more excited than annoyed. Hopping from foot to foot, she fires questions at me about decorating as we emerge from our new building’s ancient elevator and cross the building’s understated, quietly classic foyer. “Can we have a feature wall?” she asks.
I laugh. “Yes.”
“And a mango wood dining table?” She looks at me hopefully, as if there is any realm or reality in which I might turn around and say no to her.
“If that's what you want.”
“And when we go grocery shopping, we can use the dumb waiter?”
I've never seen someone get so excited about a dumb waiter before. She'd squealed like a five-year-old when she saw it there at the entrance to the apartment.
“We could just bring them up in the elevator like normal people.” I nudge her with my elbow as we exit through the buildings revolving doors, out into the delightfully brisk afternoon. The smell of woodsmoke and sugar hangs thick in the air—it takes a second to locate the source of this sweet scent, but then I spot the bodega on the corner of the street selling fresh, hot donuts.
“Youaren’t normal,” she accuses. “I can't even imagine you grocery shopping in the first place.”
I steer her in the direction of the donut stand. “Rude. I've grocery shopped more than anyone you’ve ever met in your entire life.”
“Oh, yeah? Name one grocery store.”
“What do you mean, one grocery store?”
“One grocery store chain. Tell me the name of one if you've shopped at so many.” She beams with satisfaction, fully aware that I won’t be able to answer her question. The truth is, she's right. I don't know the first thing about fucking grocery shopping. I wouldn't even know where to go—an embarrassing fact that Iwon'tbe admitting out loud.
