The Scent and The Siren

fourteen

I wake up startled by the high-pitched beep of the intercom.

Annoyed, I half-open my eyes to realize Chase and I have crashed in the living room halfway through the horror movie last night.

I am on the couch with one leg tossed over the back support and one over the throw pillow on the couch.

My brother is sleeping on the rug with a throw pillow under his head, half draped into the large blanket that I'd brought to tuck myself into while watching the movie.

"Chase, pick up the goddamn phone." I groan, nudging him with my foot.

"It's your goddamn house, you pick up." He mutters groggily.

"Don't be an asshole." I snap sleepily, snatch my blanket from him, and continue nudging him more. "Pick it up. Please. It's closer to you."

"My back is fucked from sleeping on the floor." He complains, pressing his fingers to his back, frowning at me in disapproval with his sleepy eyes, and reaches out to the handset to answer the call. "It's the front desk." He throws the phone in my lap and stands up, massaging his back.

"This is Juliette," I answer the call, stretching on the couch.

He heads straight to the wet bar in the corner by the window wall to pour himself a glass of water from the jug and top it with a couple of ice cubes from the icebox.

"Good morning, Ms. Rothschild. I have a team of eight Dior Spa Cheval Blanc beauty and spa ambassadors from Paris. They are at the reception. Should I have them escorted to your apartment, miss?"

I sit upright and check the time on my phone. It's 7 am on a Sunday morning, for fuck's sake.

"Uh. Sure. Thanks." Who gets a spa at this hour? This could only be my mother's doing.

Grabbing a tin box of cinnamon Altoids from the side table's drawer, I pop two into my mouth.

I yawn as I enter the kitchen for my morning shot of caffeine. "Chase, would you like some coffee?"

"Would I like some oxygen?" He yells back.

"What's with men never giving direct answers?" I grumble, setting the pod in the machine, slump on the chair, folding my arms on the kitchen island, and rest my head on it.

"If not the whole army of staff, you should at least have a full-time cook now that you're back in the city. Do you plan on making coffee for yourself every morning?" He appears a while later in the kitchen fully dressed, his eyes fixed on the Mac he's carrying on his arm.

Workaholic doesn't even begin to cover his personality. It's a word too light to define him.

"I don't mind making my own coffee." I yawn again as I speak. "I don't need strangers sharing my living space with me. A few of Rothschild Mansion's domestic team members come, do their job, and leave while I am at work. It's the most convenient option for me."

"What was the call for so early on a Sunday morning?" He looks up, and a frown creases his brow.

"Mamma may have thought it wise to have our spa therapists flown in from Paris to pamper me. I wish she'd at least bothered asking me first." I snort.

"She'll start having a crisis if she lets you spend a day without her direct and indirect intervention." He chuckles, settling the mac on the marble surface of the island, and moves to pour coffee into two mugs.

"She's just looking out for me more because you don't let her do that for you." I sit upright to accept the coffee he proffers.

"I'll just pretend you really believe that." He smirks, taking a sip of his coffee. "I am heading home to spend my weekend as a real man should."