The Dirty Series 1(36)

“Laurence is…?”

“The chef. He’s here almost all the time and will make you anything you want to eat.”

She nods, her eyes bright but her skin still pale. One introduction is enough for now.

I guide her to the massive kitchen, which divides itself between pristine luxury appliances in stainless steel and polished wood paneling that hides the refrigerator, the espresso machine, and a microwave with more features than some people’s smartphones. Laurence is fiddling around at the Italian marble counters, his curly hair barely contained by his chef’s cap. When we step into the kitchen he turns with a massive grin on his face, showing off his dimples.

“Miss Catherine,” he says, rushing around the island to take her hand in his. “My name is Laurence, and I’m the personal chef for Mr. Hunter. If there’s anything I can make or find for you—anything at all—come to me at once, or just call.”

“Please, call me Cate. And—call?”

Laurence hurries to the wall where an intercom unit has been installed, its recessed edges making it easy to miss. “I’m button number two. Anything at all—don’t forget.”

“I won’t. Thank you.” Pink rises to Cate’s cheeks and it makes my chest swell with warmth to see her enjoying the luxuries I have.

Now that we’re past the ugliness of trying to force ourselves apart, I feel like a new man.

No telling how long that will last, says the asshole in the back of my mind. I internally roll my eyes. It’s a goddamn miracle that I’ve made it this far in my life.

Cate yawns dramatically, interrupting my train of thought, and everything in me snaps back to giving her my full attention. The doctor’s words ring in my ears. She needs to rest, or she runs the risk of ending up in a worse situation than before. I have no interest in watching her collapse to the floor again.

“Good man, Laurence,” I say, putting my arm around Cate. She waves to Laurence over my shoulder.

It’s not a very long walk to the main guest suite. I had Gloria make sure it was absolutely spotless and switch out the bed coverings for pieces similar to what Cate has at home—but the finest versions money can buy—so it’ll feel familiar and comfortable.

Her eyes go wide at the size of the room, the king-size bed, the carefully placed throw pillows. But a tour will have to wait, because she goes directly to the bed and stretches out atop it, falling asleep right away.



Cate rests for three days, and I cancel all of my appointments to wait on her hand and foot.

Well, me and the rest of my staff. Laurence makes all of her favorite things—pancakes, tacos, strawberries with cream—and we watch every movie she hasn’t had time to see since she’s been working at Basiqué.

We spend time talking.

“Where did you grow up?” she asks me, nestled into the crook of my arm. A perfect fit.

“Outside the city.”

“Not here in this building?”

“No,” I laugh, picturing my parents’ two-story house in New Jersey. “My parents had money, but not nearly this much.”

“What did they do?”

A wave of sadness bubbles in my chest, followed by a spike of anger.

We’re here. We’re at this point. It’s time for me to loosen my stranglehold on personal information…at least with Cate.

“My mother was a teacher until she became a housewife. And my dad…” I clench my jaw involuntarily and have to work to release it. Cate presses against me a little harder. “My dad was a stockbroker. And in his later life he ran a Ponzi scheme that got his ass parked in jail for fifteen years.”

Cate’s mouth opens in surprise.

“What about…what did your mom do about that?”

“They got a divorce. But she’s…she’s not well. She has Alzheimer’s. She’s in one of the best senior care facilities in the city, but there are a lot of bad days.”

She leans her head against my chest and commiserates in silence.

I ask her about where she grew up.

“Where did you come from, Catherine Schaffer?”

A smile spreads across her face as she pictures home. “Winthrop Harbor is a town off of a postcard. The whole thing is on a lakeshore, and it’s about the cutest shit you’ll ever see in one place. It was pretty idyllic to grow up there. I have no complaints.”

“Why did you leave?”

She sighs a little.

“My sister Bee was always a go-getter,” she says, pursing her lips. “In one way I wanted to outdo her—go farther, get a better job. But I also loved fashion, and this is the place to do it. I came here to get ahead, but I stayed because…” She trails off. There’s something she’s hesitant about telling me, something deeper than the surface level that we’re carefully treading on.