Page 103 of Morally Black Betrothal

Simone

Most people don’t sleep well their first night in a strange place.

Apparently, that rule didn’t apply to The Aerie.

I woke up the next morning to the scents of breakfast and coffee after having slumbered like a baby in the big, soft bed. Up here, there were no sounds of cars backfiring or sirens to wake me up. No footsteps of neighbors to thumb through the walls or streetlights to shine through my blinds. I hadn’t slept this well since leaving Vermont, where the five hundred acres insulated my family’s farmhouse from anything other than the occasional moo and bird calls through the maples.

The penthouse was already bustling with staff when I wandered toward the kitchen in my purple robe, my hair tied up with a yellow scrunchie. I passed two women wearing maid’s uniforms who nodded politely before they went back to vacuuming. A few people in businesswear were perched at the dining table chattering into headsets, and when I entered thekitchen, I found Ruth, iPad out, having an intense conversation with a portly woman doing dishes.

I tried to ignore my disappointment that none of the people were the man who actually lived here.

Before I could decide whether or not to get dressed before finding coffee, Ruth spotted me. “Ms. Bishop! You’re up, good. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to wake you. Please, help yourself.”

She gestured toward a buffet of sausages, bacon, three egg dishes, fruits, a tureen of what looked like Swedish pancakes, plus an array of pastries, bagels, and other delicious items that was set up on the kitchen island.

“Are we expecting company?” I asked. It was enough food for the entire building.

“No,” Ruth replied as she crossed the room. “Would you like some coffee? Tea? Hazelnut latte?”

She might have been gruff, but I couldn’t deny that she was an excellent assistant.

“Er, just regular coffee, please.” I picked up the plate laid out for me and selected a pancake plus some fruit. “With some milk if we have it. “Does he eat like this every day?”

“He does not,” Ruth replied. “Rosie, can you?—”

“On it,” called the woman at the sink in a thick Irish accent. “We weren’t sure what you typically eat in the mornings, so Mr. Black had me make the works. ’Twas fun, really. I haven’t made scones in an age.”

“Rosie is Mr. Black’s chef. Well, your chef too, now.” Ruth escorted me to a round table at the other end of the kitchen, neatly corralled by a view over downtown and the Common.

“Who are the others?” I asked. “There were some people in the dining room and working in the living rooms?”

“Oh, those are the maids, Eleanor and Yana. You’ll see them every other day. The two in the dining room are my assistants, Kevin and Jade.”

I balked. “You have assistants too? I thought you were Brendan’s.”

If Ruth had feathers, they would have been ruffled. “I am Mr. Black’sexecutiveassistant, which means I am responsible for managing all of his personal and business affairs. But he’s an extraordinarily busy man with extraordinary needs, andmyjob of catering to all of them requires more than one of me. So, yes, I have staff.”

“Just Kevin and Jade, then?” Just how many people were required to operate Brendan’s life?

Ruth shook as she checked something on her iPad. “No, they only manage his personal matters. Jade is in charge of his finances, while Kevin runs errands and takes care of his social calendar. Geri and Evelyn function in a similar manner at the office. You’ve already met Anthony, his driver, and Rosie, of course. There is also his trainer, masseuse, stylist, and his head of security, Mac. Everyone reports to me.”

She flipped her iPad around to show me a multi-colored calendar that looked more like a rainbow mosaic than a schedule, with multiple overlapping events. Brendan didn’t need assistants. He needed clones of himself to make that schedule work.

Thoroughly put in my place, I sat back in my chair. Perhaps I should just focus on the here and now. “What about me? Who manages my, um, affairs?” Clearly I’d been naive to think I could fit into that mosaic on my own.

Ruth looked up from the tablet. “Mr. Black has asked me to assist you personally.”

I blinked. “Aren’t you a bit overqualified for that? My life is pretty simple.”

That sympathy broadened. “Yes, but as you can see, Mr. Black’s life is not. Anyone would need some help acclimating tothe, shall we say, rigor of being his partner, and no one knows that better than I. Mr. Black asked me to step in, and so I am.”

“What she’s saying, dear, is that our Brendan loves you,” Rosie informed me as she bustled over with a cup of fresh coffee and a pitcher of milk. “He’s asked Ruth to see to your needs because there’s no one else he would ever trust. Isn’t that right, Ruthie?”

Ruth cast a long look at Rosie that could only be described as disapproving. “Indeed.”

I stared at my coffee. I had no idea what to do with that information. Or the lengths that Brendan was clearly going to convince even his closest staff members that we were in love.

I shook my head as I added the milk, then took a grateful sip of what had to be the best cup of coffee of my life. “Oh my God. This isheaven.”