Rich Little Poor Girl: An Interracial Second Chance Romance Page 7

  But that was an obscenely dangerous can of worms. The reason why she still had to stay out of his way all these years. But the look in his eye was anything but nostalgic, and that was almost worse.

  Damn these Dvoraks, Cynthia thinks, taking another sip. Slinging their money around and sending their unwitting victims into emotional turmoil. She reflects on her same crumbling composure that fateful day she was fired, the six-figure check growing damp in the grasp of her tight fist on the train. She didn’t want to think about the implications of what she had done. She didn’t want to think about leaving Ben behind like that, about whether or not Ben would make it without her when he told her time and again that he couldn’t. She only wanted to see the look on her mother’s face as she told her that for the first time since dad died, since the day they up and lost everything, that it was all about to fucking be okay.

  5

  Present Day

  Two nights later, Cynthia lays in bed, staring at her phone with Ben’s number in it, preparing to hit the Call button. She sighs.

  She’s already told Gabe that she’d accepted the job when she hadn’t yet. She couldn’t look into his excited, number crunching face and tell him anything else. Any day he would be expecting an update. She could always put it off until tomorrow…

  It’s inevitable that she will have to get used to this, so she may as well get it over with. If she waits any longer, Ben will follow up first and blow her flimsy cover. Cynthia presses the green button. On the second ring, she relaxes a little, realizing all prominent men are in bed by 9:30, and rarely answer their own calls. Especially from unknown numbers.

  “Benjamin Dvorak.”

  Shit.

  “Ben,” she accidentally says, instead of his professional title. She gives her head a smack. Hoping he ignores it and keeps them off familiar terms. He doesn’t.

  “Cynth,” he says. She hears the smile in his voice as the nickname washes over her for the first time in ten years.

  “You answer your phone this late?”

  “I do, lucky for me.”

  Cynthia doesn’t breathe. She makes an exaggerated series of facial expressions while plowing through her rehearsed pitch.

  “So, Mr. Dvorak, I spoke to Gabe, and… even though we were adamant about not accepting any new business he’s agreed to make an exception, considering your generous offer. It looks Indigo Properties has a new client.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Great…” Cynthia replies awkwardly. Her mind blanks. Thankfully, Ben fills the silence.

  “So, Miss Gordon. Now that I’m your client, what happens next?”

  “Next, we walk the property, I tell you my vision, you tell me what you like and what you don’t, I’ll make rudimentary sketches throughout the process, show you my design choices—”

  “There’s no need to involve me that much. Like I said, Miss Gordon. I trust your instincts.”

  “The process will go much smoother if you participate in it, Mr. Dvorak. You only think you don’t care about fixtures. Wait until I order the ‘wrong’ ones.”

  “Fine. As long as it entails seeing you, and I can fit it in my schedule, I’ll meet you wherever you want.”

  Hmm….

  Cynthia ignored whatever he could possibly mean by that.

  “Right now the timeline is eight weeks, but that’s, of course, if everything goes smoothly.”

  “Of course. And there’s no need to rush.”

  “It would be better for you to get this done and back on the market sooner than later.”

  “You assume I will be selling it.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, your decision will affect my design decisions. Whether I’m tailoring this for a buyer or for your own personal taste.”

  “Either way, I trust your judgment.”

  “Mr. Dvorak…”

  “Cynthia. You’re calling me at home and it’s after 9 pm. If you call me Mr. Dvorak again, I’ll have to insist you tell me where you are so that we can have sex.”

  What… the fuck.

  Arousal floods her body. She’s turned on, but she’s also stunned.

  Everyone knows Esmee Ngozi is his fiancée. She could give him a stern reprimand, but… he’ll see right through her. That he’s affecting her. And she needs to keep that under wraps until she can figure out what the hell his deal is.

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Ben,” she stoically replies. “It’s Miss Gordon to you, by the way,” she adds, keeping it light.

  Ben only laughs. “I really like that.”

  “You used to hate it when I called you that,” Cynthia offers.

  “Because the only ‘Mr. Dvorak’ was my father, at the time.”

  “Grew into the title, did you?”

  “Would you like to find out?”

  Okay. Oh..kay.

  This isn’t the Ben she remembered. He’s clearly joking, but still. It’s been a hell of a long time for her, so there isn’t shit funny about it. How can he joke about a thing like that?

  “Aren’t you engaged? Perpetually?”

  “I am. How did you know?”

  “You’re not exactly a private figure,” Cynthia insisted, downplaying her internet stalking.

  “Anyway, she’s not here,” he conspicuously informs her.

  “Where is she?”

  “Havana.”

  “Cuba?”

  “The very one.”

  Maybe she really doesn’t know this guy anymore. She smiles, however, remembering how he used to always start a sentence “Anyway…” He’s still doing it, apparently.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well… she’s a model. Her mother’s English, her father’s Nigerian.”

  “You sound like her Wikipedia page.”

  “It feels a little too weird talking to you about her, for some reason.”

  “Maybe because you know she wouldn’t take too kindly to this conversation.”

  “Are you kidding? She’s a big fan. She practically begged me for an introduction.”

  “Don’t think she has the same one in mind that you do.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Okay… Mr…. Ben. We’ve strayed far off professional territory in a matter of minutes.”

  “You’ve lost your sense of humor over the years, I see. You started it, by the way, Miss Gordon.”

  “Hardly. Perhaps we should limit our correspondence to daylight. And only in person.”

  “You figure we’re safer in person?”

  “The phone emboldens you, I think,” she says.

  “Did you miss me?”

  “Case in point.”

  “It seems like you did. I missed you. You look great. I meant to tell you.”

  “You too. You got the surgery.”

  “I did.”

  “At who’s recommendation?”

  “My own.”

  “You said anyone who can’t accept you the way you are can take a long walk off a short pier.”

  “Well. I changed my mind.”

  “You said you’d never have another surgery.”

  “I can have shower sex now.”

  “Oh, well. I suppose that’s a good enough reason to have surgery.”

  “Remember how we used to shower together?”

  “Of course.”

  “I always found it interesting, our dynamic. That we never really tried to arouse each other, not on purpose, anyway. Just… made sure the other was clean, you know? And we hardly ever made a sound, why is that? Honestly, I thought it was out of guilt. On my part, at least. But then, I kinda liked it. I started looking forward to it. Like a ritual. Every other woman I’ve tried it with couldn’t wait to turn it into sex. It’s just not the same.”

  “…Where is this going, Ben?”

  “Nowhere, apparently. What are you wearing?”

  “…Ben.”


  “Miss Gordon.”

  He smiles, feeling like his old self again, not where or how he’d lost him. Even over the phone, the sound of Cynthia’s disapproval was enough to arouse him. If he’s sensible, he should be worried about how reckless she’s making him already. But he’s tired of being sensible.

  “What are you doing?” she mutters, mimicking the sound of his own inner voice.

  “Making you uncomfortable. I don’t remember it being this easy. It’s fun.”

  “Well, it’s not fun for me. None of this is. I take my work very seriously, and if I knew you were going to do this, I would’ve kept the damn money.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Miss Gordon. Surely you can afford lace these days,” he prompts her again. He’s met with her sigh, and for a moment he thinks he’ll get lucky and get her to cave. He stops breathing.

  “I’m getting a bizarre feeling of deja vu,” she reprimands.

  “How so?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Fiancées that I’ve never met, and your naive assurances that they would like me. And then you… doing this. And then my life blows up.”

  “That was a different situation.”

  “You, talking to me the way you should be talking to them. You were bad news from the start.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s hurtful.”

  “You can’t have me, and so you want me. Just admit it”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it? I don’t remember getting any phone calls from you between fiancées.”

  “I meant the part where you said I can’t have you.”

  Cynthia is silent and he knows she’s probably seconds away from hanging up on him and never speaking to him again. If this is his best effort at making her forget that dig from yesterday, then he should just “abort.”

  “Anyway, I was avoiding you out of prudence, not fear,” he defends. “For all I knew, you were genuinely trying to use me to extort the company.”

  “…That’s the story your father came up with?” Cynthia gives him a shocked giggle.

  “Essentially. Get close to the gimp, keep him happy. Blow his mind.”

  Cynthia laughs heartily at the premise, a poor consolation prize for ten lost years, he thinks, but somehow the most fitting. She makes him feel like even more of an idiot for ever entertaining a picture of dad’s words coming out of Cynthia’s mouth. But he can’t help smiling.

  “Just which part of that do you find funny?”

  “Are you about to tell me that you actually believed that?”

  “Not at first, but your actions didn’t help. Your silence was your guilt. You disappeared. And then when you reappeared, you avoided me at every turn.”

  “I wasn’t avoiding you I was…” Cynthia’s voice trails off. The words are like ash in her mouth. She can’t do this. How was she going to survive the next eight weeks? Or more?

  “Look, either we discuss the past, or I work for you. We can’t do both.”

  “You don’t have much of a choice.”

  “Speak for yourself. I always have a choice, Ben.”

  “How is it that my father can force you to do things, but I can’t?”

  Jesus, is he stuck up the past’s ass. His father was right. Ben was spoiled.

  “Your father didn’t force me to do anything, he was a strategist. And he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve like you, Benjamin.”

  “I’m just as shrewd as he ever was, Miss Gordon. You don’t know everything about me.”

  “I don’t have to. I’ve seen enough.”

  Ben stops. It’s obviously too early to try and be anything more than civil. There are ten years of unspoken… whatever between them. Definitely too early to be flirting. And also, not appropriate. But he’s not sorry. After all this time, he can’t help but feel entitled to it.

  “It’s late, Miss Gordon. If there’s nothing else.”

  “Of course,” Cynthia rolls her eyes. She’s already replaying her behavior over in her mind. Some professional, she thinks.

  “We’ll discuss this tomorrow. My office knows my schedule. Find a time that works for you.”

  “Very well. I’ll be in touch with your assistant, Mr… Ben. We should walk the property as soon as possible.”

  Ay yay yay, Cynthia blows a breath out of her cheeks once the phone call is over, her body tense, sweat forming in unseen places. She’s both angry and completely turned on by Ben’s habitual penchant for boundary crossing when it comes to her. But she makes it through. One down, about fifty more to go for the next eight weeks.

  She’s been bracing herself for how thoroughly he’s moved on, and she doesn’t know if tonight’s phone call is proof that he has or that he hasn’t. He’s always been attracted to her, she was prepared for that. She doesn’t remember him being so aggressive about it. He was always this sweet, kind boy in a room full of sharks. Between his voice flooding her with memories and this more edgy iteration of him, she was one wrong word away from her hand going underneath the covers.

  Why should she recognize him at all? Ten years is a long time. And she basically ghosted him. Hard. Was this descent into debauchery somehow her doing? She puts it out of her mind for the time being. How he makes her feel is of no consequence. It’s just another job, she thinks to herself. And that’s how it’s going to stay, even if it kills her.

  * * *

  It only takes about twenty-four hours to perceive his behavior with Cynthia over the phone as cringe. He can barely re-live it more than a few seconds at a time, knowing that the next time they see each other he’s going to have to address it. There’s got to be a way for them to make their relationship like it once was.

  He doesn’t even know what he wants from her, or why. He honestly hadn’t thought any farther than the meeting, doing his best to show her that he was not the same spineless, naive boy she was probably only with out of pity, since he constantly insisted on those being the terms. He’s a man now, and not so afraid to lose, having lost her in the nightmarish way that he did. But he got in that room, and it all came back with a vengeance. Nor could he perceive what she was after, if anything. Especially during their phone call. She was friendly, somewhat guarded but seemed to only be humoring him. Like she always had.

  The day he’s to walk the property, he’s rehearsing his apology in the twenty-minute cab ride across the bridge into New Jersey. Ben pulls up to a dilapidated house on Moss Lane, his brand new home. It looks like a 19th-century nightmare. The wood is rotting, the windows are broken. The gutters are full of birds’ nests. It’s an ugly green color with white trim and if that isn’t bad enough, it shows signs of actually having been lived in. For a long time. He can see by the light of the cracked kitchen window a towering stack of what looks to be newspapers or magazines. It is a strangely large monstrosity on an even strangely smaller lot. When his cab drives off he has to hope he’s in the right place. It certainly doesn’t feel like it.

  Cynthia arrives on the property pulling up in a mid-sized, non-luxury brand car and looking construction chic, as though ready to work. With a gray checkered flannel shirt, form-fitting jeans and work boots. Her hair is pulled back in a fine, lengthy ponytail.

  “You’re early. Again.”

  “I didn’t know if I was in the right place.”

  “You are. This is it. Like it?”

  Ben wrinkles his nose. “It’s… pungent.”

  “The previous owners had a few pets. And they were old. It’s been in the same family for 70 years. They made quadruple on the deal, thanks to you.”

  His brow wrinkled worriedly. “They didn’t die in there, did they?”

  “Let’s find out. Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  “You’re not exactly dressed to walk a property.”

  Ben looks down at his standard issue dress shirt and navy slacks.

  “I didn’t think we were going to a haunted farm.”

  “Well… you are in Jersey,” Cynthia jokes as they
make their way up the walk.

  “You’re right when you said I overpaid. What a paltry piece of land.”

  “Looks can be deceiving. There’s a reason I offered what I did.”

  They go inside the creaking structure, creaking floors, intimidating architectural features with board and batten everywhere.

  “I feel like an old-timey butcher standing in here.”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Practically everything on the house is original.” Cynthia beams with her back to him as she looks around, dreamy-eyed. Finally, it’s all hers to re-imagine.

  Ben wasn’t seeing the vision. “It’s a museum. The city’s going to give you a hard time.”

  “It’s just outside the historical district. But I wouldn’t care if they did, I’m not touching a thing. Nothing except the kitchen. Follow me.”

  They walked through the living and dining rooms to a room that was a narrow rectangle, as if standing on its head.

  “This kitchen defies logic.”

  “I think it may have been converted. Several times.”

  “Is that a butler’s pantry?”

  “You know your stuff,” Cynthia compliments him.

  “I may have spent some time in an expensive house or two upstate,” Ben chuckles.

  When they get to the backyard he is greeted with a leafy expanse that seems to go on endlessly. The yard of each neighbor is plainly visible and does the same.

  “See that? Half an acre.”

  “How are you able to find all this green in the city?”

  “You just gotta know where to look.”

  Cynthia slowly walks a few paces ahead, and he shamelessly eyes the shape of her legs, her waist. Her bottom, in those jeans. She hardly notices. Her girly shape is still there, but a little more… fluffiness. He gulps. He’s never been with a woman over 29. His mind gets caught up, thinking of a way he could somehow sleep with her with the jeans still on.

  Meanwhile, Cynthia is looking at the ground, and yet she isn’t. She is seeing something else. Something that will be there that is not yet there. She stops at around ten feet, drawing a line with her foot.

  “There’ll be an outdoor space here. And another. Outside the basement, that’s going to be another living area. Maybe a second master.”