“Oh, stop with the niceties, Cal. We both know that you’re docile in the day, naughty at night.” She leans into me, her hand taking the opportunity to run behind my back and squeezing my ass.
I step sideways, forcing her hand to drop along with her friendship façade. I take my seat again and watch with puzzled amusement as Grant looks up at our visitor with devious fascination.
“Jodi, I didn’t realize you knew my business partner,” he says.
“Oh yes, you could say I’ve made his acquaintance a few times.” She giggles and snorts unattractively, the copious amount of alcohol coursing through her making her seemingly uncouth and very unlike the well put-together woman I’d taken to bed when I needed release.
Thankfully I saw her for what she was a long time ago—an emotionally stunted woman raised in an affluent environment not lacking in luxury, but lacking in love and attention. Fortunately for me, women like Jodi float from one rich, powerful man to the next like a bee hovering from flower to flower.
She turns her attention to Grant, placing her hip against the table and resting her hand close to his. “I don’t care if you work with him. My offer from inside still stands.”
If this wasn’t such an entertaining train wreck to watch, I’d be tempted to step in and stop the woman from embarrassing herself further. But after the day I’ve had, anything where the attention is not directed at me, my design practices, or has my integrity being called into question, has free rein. Although with Jodi lurking around, I feel the need to protect Grant.
He looks over at me and gives me a sly smirk before returning his amused attention to his willing bedmate. Placing one hand over the top of hers, and running the other up and down her exposed forearm, he leans in closer. “That man over there may be my business partner, but he’s also my best friend, and a long time ago we made ourselves a deal—a gentleman’s agreement, we’ll say.”
“And what was that?” she asks softly, her drunken attempt at sounding seductive almost laughable.
“That I’ll never stick my dick in anyone who’s stupid, sly, money hungry, or a fame whore . . . and sweetheart, you’re ticking all those boxes, and I’ve only spent a few minutes with you.”
She stands up straight, almost knocking the table over. “Go fuck yourself!” she yells before storming off in her six inch heels
“Harsh, but nice,” I muse.
“And to think I was thinking of giving her one for the road,” he adds.
I laugh out loud, Grant joining me as I raise my glass up to meet his outstretched one.
“To one hell of a ride thus far, and the afternoon from hell.”
“And hopefully an evening that will erase it all.”
Leaving Grant at Cisco, I make my way home, and when I walk into the kitchen, I’m more than thankful to my housekeeper Maureen, who has not only cleaned the house but also left a note on the countertop with directions for reheating the dinner she has made for tonight.
I’m not the clichéd bachelor who can’t cook and take care of himself. My mother is a firm believer in equal rights, and ensured that her sons were taught to prepare meals before we left home. But knowing that I had the board meeting this afternoon, and after all of the work Grant and I have completed this week to check then recheck our design and processes, I knew that it would’ve been impossible for me to prepare the kind of meal I wanted to in the short amount of time I’d have.
Glancing at my watch, I realize that I’ve barely got time for a shower. I turn the oven on to the instructed temperature, and walk up the circular staircase to the first floor where the master bedroom and en suite are.
When I designed my house, I went for functionality and ease of use, all the while making sure that I capitalized on the expansive and very much sought-after view of San Francisco Bay. I did this with two-story high glass walls and a large sweeping balcony lining the full width of the building. On the ground floor is the large living area and kitchen, with a short corridor leading off the room down to two guest bedrooms, the main bathroom and my home office. Up the staircase, which rises from the side of the living room, is a mezzanine landing which looks over the ground floor and out toward the water. There are two doors coming off the back wall. These lead to another guest bedroom and the master bath.
Finally there is one of the best features of the house—the master suite, which comprises of half the second story. Wall-to-ceiling windows with a smaller, more private balcony comes off the side, and a large walk-in closet is flanked by a door leading to the bathroom. My mahogany California king bed sits in the middle of the room against the far wall, and apart from two antique black suede chairs and a small wooden table I inherited from my father’s parents, I’ve purposefully left the room sparse to give an exaggerated impression of its size.
I’d designed my house ten years ago when Grant and I were still establishing ourselves, hoping that one day I would be in the position to make the design a reality. Two years ago, when we were awarded the contract for Spera House, I was able to fulfill that dream.
It’s not to say that I haven’t owned houses before, and to this day, I have an extensive investment property portfolio spanning the west coast. Being in the position to secure the land and build this property was an achievement that has not yet been superseded in my life, and I cannot foresee anything in the future that would even come close.
Since my profile has become rather public, I have had to increase security to ensure that my private life remains precisely that—private. I wanted to have a sanctuary that was entirely my own space. In this house, I have succeeded in doing that.
Entering my bedroom, I drop my wallet and keys on the small table beside the bed and make my way into the bathroom. Stripping my clothes off, I turn the shower on and step inside, the glass room filling with steam as I let the hot water wash the day away.
My shoulders are tense from the events of the afternoon, my muscles rigid and taut. I turn around in hope that the water will ease the discomfort but as I stand there, my thoughts travel to the night ahead.
I’m the one who invited Lucia to my house.
My home.
The one place I don’t bring women. For their sake and especially mine. It’s a self-protection mechanism that has served me well. I felt I needed to have Lucia in my space, my territory. The uncertainty I feel in regards to this woman has me thinking too much, overanalyzing situations that any other man would be comfortable in.
But I’m not any other man, and knowing that there is a latent darkness beneath my surface, one I find myself at war with on an all too frequent basis
My deepest fear is that my attempt at normalcy with Lucia will put both of us at risk. There is something about her that makes me want to get to know her, be close with her, something beyond the physical connection we have, the intensity of which still has me unsettled and uncertain.
I can’t seem to stay away; I don’t think I want to anymore.
There’s something about her that has me conflicted in the worst possible way. The fantasy of being inside her again, of making her scream in pleasure by my hands always seems to morph into darker thoughts—more sordid depraved contemplations that I have no place in imagining.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and walk to my closet. I’ve come to the realization that although I want her close, I have to tread lightly.
It’s the best way for the both of us.
