"I’m tired," she whispered.
Diana adjusted the towel around the ice.
"I’m just tired... I can’t do this anymore."
"He’s just strung up this morning, that’s all, love."
Naomi looked at her then looked away. There was nothing to say.
Not anymore.
Aunt Diana and her mother were the same.
Different men.
Different circumstances.
Same blindness.
They loved so intensely that eventually the men they loved could do no wrong. Every cruelty had an explanation.
Every outburst came with an excuse.
He was tired.
He was stressed.
He didn’t mean it.
Maybe that was why falling in love frightened her. Her mother had loved her father until that love destroyed everything.
Naomi wanted no part of that kind of love.
None.
Diana stroked her hair carefully. "It’s going to be okay. Once you are married to the Sterlings, the burden will ease on you."
Her head hurt too much to argue. Her phone started ringing. She considered ignoring it. Then she remembered that she worked two jobs.
With a sigh, she dug into her pocket. She cleared her throat and answered.
"Hello, Chef Bennett speaking."
"Naomi?"
She recognized the voice immediately and shifted slightly in the chair. "Hey. Hi..."
"I’ll pick you up as soon as I’m done with court this afternoon."
Naomi frowned. "Uh... what’s going on?"
"Lunch with my mother."
"I... I... can’t." Naomi immediately started stumbling over herself. "I’m, uh... I... uh..."
"Naomi."
"I just... I don’t think today is a good day."
"It’s just lunch, Naomi. Be ready," Dorian continued. "I’ll see you then and go over some things with you. Adrian will have the contract waiting for you at home."
Home.
Naomi’s brain snagged on that word.
His house.
He meant his house. Dorian hung up. Slowly, she lifted a hand toward her cheek.
"Please tell me this won’t leave a bruise, Aunt Diana."
Diana looked at her sadly. Naomi’s stomach sank.
"Oh God...." how would she explain it?
*****
Dorian had called Naomi six times. She had ignored every single one. "What the hell is wrong with her?" He leaned back in his car and opened the security application connected to his townhouse.
The motion sensors showed no recent activity. She wasn’t there. Had she gone to work? Of course she had probably gone to work.
The woman had two jobs, barely slept, and somehow still had enough energy in the morning. Dorian almost called Adrian to ask which restaurant she worked at during the day.
His thumb hovered over the contact. Then he stopped.
No.
Her apartment was closer. He would check there first. As he pulled away from the curb, the same question that had bothered him since Adrian handed over Naomi’s background report returned.
Why the hell did she work two jobs? At first, Dorian had assumed the obvious.
Money.
People worked two jobs because one job did not pay enough.
Simple.
Except nothing about Naomi’s situation was simple. According to Adrian, Naomi Bennett was worth considerably more than the three hundred dollars sitting in her bank account.
Much more.
Hell, she was worth more than the five hundred thousand dollars Dorian intended to pay her at the end of their arrangement.
Yet she lived in a modest apartment. Worked herself into exhaustion. Counted money like every dollar mattered.
And reacted to five hundred thousand dollars that morning as though he had dropped the deed to Manhattan in front of her.
None of it added up. Dorian hated things that did not add up. It was an occupational defect. Or advantage, depending on who was paying him.
He had spent years making a career out of noticing inconsistencies. People always believed lies were exposed by dramatic mistakes.
Usually, they weren’t. Usually, it was something small. A detail sitting where it didn’t belong. Naomi’s entire financial life felt like one enormous detail sitting in the wrong place.
Why was she working herself to the bone? Was she one of those people who rejected family money because they wanted to prove they could make their own way in the world?
Dorian frowned. If that was it, then she was crazy. There was independence, and then there was voluntarily choosing exhaustion when money existed. He could respect pride.
Within reason.
Working two jobs while having three hundred dollars in the bank crossed the line from pride into stupidity.
Then again, Naomi had married a stranger in Vegas. Judgment was apparently not always her strongest skill.
Dorian parked outside her building and looked up. The reporters were gone. At least that problem had been handled for the moment. He got out and entered the building.
This time, when he reached Naomi’s apartment, he stopped in front of the door.
He knocked.
"Tessa? Tessa, just come in. The door is open."
He stared at the door. She had reporters outside this building less than twenty-four hours ago and her current security strategy was apparently come on in, whoever you are. Dorian closed his eyes briefly.
This woman was going to shorten his lifespan.
"It’s me, Dorian."
"Dorian?"
There was enough alarm in that one word to make him suspicious immediately.
"Yeah."
"Uh... okay... hang on. I’ll be right there."
Dorian frowned at the door. Something shuffled inside. Then something fell. He heard Naomi mutter a curse. "Naomi?"
"Just wait!"
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing!"
A slow smile touched his mouth.
"Are you naked again?"
"No... yes! I mean yes! Just hold on!"
"You’re a terrible liar. I’m coming in." Dorian twisted the handle.
"I said no!"
Too late.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Naomi stood behind the small kitchen island with a large bowl in front of her.
Flour covered the counter, the floor. More importantly, flour covered Naomi. It was smeared across her cheek, dusted through her hair and her entire face.
"What..." He slowly looked her over. "What are you doing? You look like a homemade clown."
She brushed uselessly at her hair, sending another tiny cloud of flour into the air.
"Yeah, I spilled some..."