Billionaires Dollar Series

“Everyone does,” Wilma adds.

Steel in my spine, I march into the pristine kitchen and its five-thousand-dollar oven. “Bring out the mixing bowls,” I declare. “We have eggs to beat.”

The dramatic moment is undercut when we all stand there, staring at the beautiful knob-less cupboards. None of us have a clue where things are, not to mention how to open some of the melt-into-the-wall pantry doors. But just like we figured out our Orientation Week, we’ll figure out this kitchen-together.

It’s late afternoon by the time we have the perfect batch of brownies cooling on a tray. “They look delicious,” Wilma says.

“You can have one,” I say. “Actually, take a few.”

“You don’t have to say that twice.” Trina leans against the kitchen island, a plastic binder in her hands. “So these are your instructions?”

“Yes, the house-sitting manual. It has all the information about this place.” Winking, I snatch it out of her hands. “Including confidential information.”

She grins at me. “I didn’t see anything important. Well, apart from the preferred pH-value in the pool. But I promise I’ll take the information to my grave.”

A soft meow echoes in the kitchen. “Ah! There you are!” I crouch down, moving slowly toward the sleek, gray cat. “My roommate!”

The cat looks unimpressed.

“You’re a cat-sitter too?”

“Yes. That’s part of why they wanted someone here, to keep him company.”

“What’s his name?”

Giving up on trying to pet the cat-he’s flicking his tail and looks ready to bolt-I reach for the manual. “It must be in here somewhere. It was on the page with feeding instructions. Toast!”

“Toast?”

“That’s his name.”

We look at the cat, now stretched out on the carpet, his tawny eyes staring back at us.

“Rich people,” Wilma declares, as if that explains everything. “And speaking of rich people… it’s time for us to leave and for you to knock on a certain someone’s door.”

I give a mock groan. “I can’t. I’ve forgotten how to knock.”

“Bella, you promised.”

So I did.

Ethan Carter. I’m just going to go say hi to Ethan Carter, my neighbor. One of Seattle’s most impressive tech icons. A pioneer in the field of technical mechanics. Who just happens to be my neighbor for the next three months.

And who has seen me topless.

“I did promise,” I say. “And that means you have to go now, before I completely lose my nerve.”

Wilma jumps down from the barstool and Trina gives me a nod, the kind a team player gives to another in the heat of the game. “You got this,” she says.

“Thanks.”

Reaching over, she smooths my fringe into place. The curtain bangs had been a complete impulse decision just two weeks ago, but I like them. They frame my face. They’re a change. New hair, new me.

“You look gorgeous,” she says. “Nice choice of dress.”

Glancing down at the sundress I’d put on this morning, I have to agree. It’s probably the one thing I own that has spaghetti straps. “Thank you.”

“Text us the second after you’re done, and tell us everything,” Wilma says. “Oh! I almost forgot, I brought you those pills you asked for.”

“The herbal sleeping aids?” I ask. Across the counter, Trina raises an eyebrow at me. We’d had an intense discussion last time we were together about whether Wilma’s new fascination with herbs had any scientific basis.

“Yes.” She puts a bottle down on the counter, a picture of leaves on the front. “They’ll help you sleep, I promise.”

I turn it over in my hand. “I’m willing to try,” I say. “I can’t handle having to lie awake for hours much longer.”

“Consequence of your break-up,” Trina points out.

“Yes, but an annoyingly persistent one.” Searching through the pantry for a large platter, I start arranging the brownie slices. “Thanks, Wilma.”

They leave with good-luck wishes and the roar of an old engine. Looking at myself in the gold-framed mirror in the larger-than-life hallway, I decide I look pretty good. Presentable. The girl-next-door, I think, smiling at my own little joke. A big plate of brownies in hand and nerves dancing in my stomach.

As much as I might groan, Trina had been spot-on with this dare.

Locking the giant door behind me, I leave one imposing house for another. My neighbor’s house is just as large.

A white villa rises up behind the gates. Gray shutters. A large porch. That’s pretty much all I can see through the fence.

The curb appeal in this area is seriously high, if your particular thing is fences and gates.

I press the button to the intercom with a heart that threatens to gallop off and leave me behind in the dust.

A softly accented voice answers. “Hello?”

“Hi. I’m Bella, I just moved in next door and wanted to introduce myself. I brought brownies.” Stupidly, I lift the plate up high to the miniscule camera, as if the sight of gooey chocolate might help my case.

Silence stretches on.

God, I’ve miscalculated. These people don’t do things like this. They don’t have yard sales or exchange baked goods, and they sure as hell don’t let strangers into their gated little slices of paradise. Greenwood Hills doesn’t work like this.

But then microphone static reaches me, and the same female voice rings out. “Come on up to the main door, sweetheart.”

The wrought-iron gate swings open.

That must have been his wife. Stupidly, the realization hits with faint disappointment. The thought of the smile playing along the edge of his lips had been intriguing. How would you draw it out? What would be the right joke?Copyright by Nôv/elDrama.Org.

I stop outside a beautifully carved wooden door. It seems a shame to have houses this beautiful when nobody can see them from the curb.

The door swings open and I’m greeted by a smiling, black-clad lady in her mid-fifties. Her dark hair is pulled back in a bun. “Hello,” she says. “Bella?”