Chasing Us (Dark Love 2)

“I’m that confident that, yes, we can have the toilet paper your way.”

I reach for my phone and google ‘fry in sundae.’ Video after video appears. I hit play, and a very annoyed Charlotte huffs. “Whatever.”

I won the toilet-paper-roll battle, the compulsive neat freak side of me metaphorically sits in its smoking jacket with a pipe and slippers. It also results in me licking chocolate fudge off her erect nipples. I hear no complaints from her, only two screaming orgasms.

Wednesday is our first official real-couple fight. After much persuasion, Charlotte agrees to go apartment hunting with me as we need something bigger. We talk about whether we should move to the suburbs, but both our offices are in the city, so it makes sense from a commute perspective.

Surprisingly, something perfect comes up almost immediately, and I’m ready to put in an offer. The apartment is located on Fifth Avenue, a rare find with sweeping views of Central Park.

With Charlotte’s hand in mine, she walks around the apartment with her mouth wide open. I have to say, it’s impressive, and so is the thirty-five million-dollar price tag.

“Can we afford this?” Charlotte whispers beside me. “I mean, I could sell my place as well as the one in Connecticut, but I don’t think—”

“Charlotte, we’re not selling anything,” I tell her. “And yes, we can afford this.”

“But… I want to contribute. I don’t want to freeload off you.”

I lower my head, shaking it with a small laugh. “Charlotte, that should be the least of your worries. If you love it, it’s ours, okay?”

We continue the tour of the place and stop inside the grand kitchen.

“The kitchen is fully equipped with everything a professional chef will need. I assume, Mr. Edwards, you would have a full-time chef?” Anita, the realtor, asks.

“Yes, as well as a live-in housekeeper and possibly a nanny,” I boldly respond.

“What?” Charlotte asks, her pitch high.

I sense she’s annoyed. Why? I have no idea.

“Charlotte, please, I won’t have it any other way. If you’re worried about the money—”

“I don’t care about the money. What makes you think I’m going to be one of those women who sits around with hired help? I wasn’t raised that way and don’t intend to raise our child with hired help, either. I’m not like that, and I don’t give a shit about your fucking money.”

I asked the realtor to excuse us. Attempting to control my temper, I clench my fists, remembering that this is the woman I love, and she’s carrying my baby. Fuck, women are so unpredictable!

“Was that really necessary in front of the realtor?” My voice is low, trying my best to remain calm.

“Probably not, but right now I don’t care. I understand that you are wealthy, but you don’t control everything we do, do you understand that? I don’t want money to dictate our life. If you want me, then you need to learn to consult with me about things like this. I may like clothes and shoes, but I don’t want to be known as some stuck-up New York housewife. I have worked very hard to get where I am, and I’m proud of what I have achieved. It

was never my intention to work hard and have others serve me, it just doesn’t sit right. You want a woman like that, perhaps you need to go back to Victoria Preston.”

Where the fuck did that come from?

Charlotte knows I was never with Victoria. This is so left field.

“Is this your hormones talking?” I ask, confused.

Shit! I went there.

Her face contorts into pure rage until she storms out, slamming the door behind her. I apologize to the realtor who no doubt will run to the press with a ‘Lex Edwards on the Verge of Break Up’ headline. God, what the fuck is that? Why can’t Charlotte see how difficult it is for me to factor someone else in. I’m used to making my own decisions. I can’t be so fucking accommodating all of a sudden.

I walk outside to be met by the icy winter breeze, and that is just from Charlotte’s glare. Sitting in the cab, she remains silent staring out the window, avoiding me. Not wanting to push her, I allow her some time to calm down, choosing my words very carefully.

Inside the apartment, behind closed doors, she throws her keys onto the table and motions for Coco to come to her, still ignoring me.

“Charlotte, I assume that having help will allow you to focus on your career. I know that’s important to you.”

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you. This money and wealth have changed you,” she admits. A more rational Charlotte now appearing. Thank God.