But I didn’t usually weigh in on this stuff. As much as I wanted to protest that I wanted to stand on my own two feet and be independent and a full partner in our relationship, where money was concerned I was kind of along for the ride, because my income didn’t match our lifestyle. I still had a twinge of guilt every time I used his money to go shopping, or when he bought me an occasional present. I wasn’t going to say, “Hey, I know you pay for most of my clothes, my food, the roof over my head, and you take me on trips all over the world, but let me tell you how to make major financial decisions.”
This time, though, I totally was, and it had come as a shock to him. Not an entirely unwelcome one, I saw from his hesitant smile. “You really like it that much?”
“I do. This place could be our little escape. We could fly out here on weekends or something.” The thought of getting away from New York—or wherever we ended up living—for the sole purpose of being alone together—made my heart flutter. “You’re always saying that
your money makes our lives more flexible.”
“I’m strangely touched by the fact that you’re asking me to keep a very expensive home just because you think it’s pretty,” he teased.
“Don’t pull that misogynist sugar daddy shit on me,” I warned him with a laugh. “Just admit it, you’re thrilled that I’m telling you what to do, for a change.”
It was late. Neil started the gas fireplace and I headed to the ultramodern master bath to take a quick shower. Three tiers of natural wood decking surrounded the sinfully deep, two-person rectangular Jacuzzi tub. A plant with tall green shoots grew happily from a silver oval urn on the floor. I lifted an eyebrow at the square toilet and bidet.
Seriously, they were square.
I would deal with that mind fuck at a later time, I decided, plopping my beauty bag down on the counter beside the square vessel sink. I fished out my shampoo and soap and put them in the shower—a polished concrete and glass room with iridescent black tiles—and fiddled with the taps. Then I went back to the sink to brush my teeth. When I rinsed, I smiled at myself, flashing my braces-straight whites. I was going to look so good on television.
If you have the job, I reminded myself, puncturing my vanity bubble. I was trying not to get my hopes up, but I really, really wanted the gig with Wake Up! America. I knew it was an extreme long-shot; I’d only gotten the interview because of strings that India Vaughn had pulled with her beauty journalism clout. A producer on Wake Up! America had once worked as an intern under India, and would do anything for her, including granting an audition for a job I would have normally had no chance in hell of getting.
But still, I wanted to hope. Believing something would happen was supposed to make it happen, right? At least, that’s what The Secret had said. I tilted my head back and forth, imagining how poised I would be on camera. Then I snapped myself out of it and got into the shower.
* * * *
After a few hours in bed—I had to force myself to sleep after my epic pass-out on the plane—Neil and I got up and had a light breakfast. We’d made out a grocery list to cover our three-day stay in the country, and the people who’d opened the house had stocked the fridge and cupboards.
“If we don’t use something in here, what happens?” I asked, pouring a bowl of cereal from a box I knew I wouldn’t finish before we left.
Neil leaned against the counter and considered as he chewed a bite of his tempeh scramble. How he managed to eat that stuff first thing in the morning, I had no idea. “I assume the housekeepers take it home with them.”
“Could you make sure?” Maybe it was my recent return to my roots that had reminded me of all the times we’d had just enough food to get by. I hated to admit it, but I’d become one of those people who forgot what needing money was like the second I didn’t need it anymore. “I just don’t want it to go to waste.”
He nodded. “Certainly. You could leave a note, if you’d like.”
“Will they understand it? I mean, since I can’t write it in Icelandic?”
“I could write it for you, if you’re concerned. But, as far as I’m aware, my staff here speaks and reads English.”
“As far as you’re aware?” I frowned. “You don’t speak English with them?”
He looked like I’d just asked him why he didn’t have a tail. “No. Sophie, I lived here from age seven until I went to university. When I’m here, I speak Íslenska.”
“Oh.” I had meant to get Rosetta Stone or something to try and learn Neil’s second language, but the year had been kind of busy. Now, I felt a mild stab of panic. “Your brothers speak English though, right?”
“Yes, of course. They spent more of their childhoods in London than I did. Anyway, you’d be hard pressed to find someone here who doesn’t speak English.” He pointed his fork at me and narrowed his eyes in a playfully stern scowl. “But it wouldn’t hurt to try. With the family, that is. Not the general public.”
“I remember ‘Merry Christmas,’” I said with a laugh. “That’s going to have to do.”
“Do you now?” He took a sip of his coffee. “And how do you say it?”
“Gleh…um. Glehk-ee-leck yo?” My face got hot as I tried to contain my embarrassment at murdering the greeting.
He sputtered and set his coffee mug down, laughing as he reached for a napkin to wipe his face. “That might be the worst I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, excuse me,” I huffed, only partially offended. “You know, at least you didn’t have to learn a foreign language to meet my family.”
“Oh, didn’t I?” He chuckled ruefully. He set his plate on the counter and reached for me, snagging one arm around my waist as I moved to put the soymilk back in the fridge. He pulled me up against him, and I put the carton on the counter with a weary sigh. But I couldn’t be too mad, because he leaned his head and kissed me.
Even with his coffee breath, I couldn’t resist him.