The Pact

by Max Monroe

  Slowly, I spin on my favorite secondhand black Prada heels and ready myself as Damien strides toward me with a terrifying smirk etched across his handsome face.

  “Morning, Dame,” I say, trying like hell to keep the nervous titter out of my voice. Everything is on the line here.

  “Morning, doll.” He smiles, slides open his office door, and gestures for me to come inside. “Finally ready to spill the details of your Vegas adventure? Because I’m dying for a taste of tea…and a baguette.” He chuckles at his penis joke, and all I can do is giggle back, almost painfully avoiding how very aware I am that his point was not at all about a morning beverage and snack. But whatever. Avoidance is all I have to keep myself emotionally afloat right now.

  I hold up the to-go Starbucks cup clutched in my left hand and punctuate the gesture with a wiggle of my wrist. “I don’t have tea, but how about a morning caramel macchiato?”

  An amused laugh jumps from his lungs, and he sidles around his massive all-glass desk to sit down in his black leather desk chair. A desk chair, mind you, that’s a ten-thousand-dollar Arne Jacobsen Egg Chair that’s exactly sixty years old and has the kind of perfect patina on the leather that would make any interior designer or vintage furniture lover weep tears of joy.

  The man has impeccable taste. Expensive-as-hell, but impeccable, nonetheless.

  “Party pooper.”

  I shake the frilly coffee drink again, and he sighs.

  He curls his index finger toward me. “Hand over the macchiato, and no one gets hurt.”

  I set the still-warm drink on his desk and take a seat in one of the chairs across from him. “You’re welcome, by the way,” I add as I watch him enjoy his first sip.

  “Thank you.” He winks. “But if you’re not here to gossip, what has you bringing me my favorite drink and pacing outside my office for the last thirty minutes on this lovely Monday morning?”

  “I wasn’t pacing.”

  “Weren’t pacing? Dais, I’ll probably have to have someone come out and refinish the Brazilian hardwood in front of my door.”

  I roll my eyes, and he laughs.

  “Fine. Maybe I was pacing…a little.”

  “Come on. It can’t be that bad. I mean, what? Are you here to tell me you want to quit?” He laughs at first, the presumed absurdity of his statement laying on his funny nerve. When I don’t say anything, though, his mouth drops open.

  “Oh my God! Daisy Diaz, you’re not trying to quit your job, are you? Because I swear on everything, I will—”

  “No, no, no,” I quickly respond. “I don’t want to leave. I… I just… I…” I pause, trying like hell to figure out a way to verbalize what I actually do need.

  “Daisy girl, you’re making me nervous here. Stick your finger down your throat if you have to and ralph that shit up!”

  “I’m not trying to scare you,” I say, but it comes off as more of a whine than anything else. “I just… I need to move to New York.” The words come off my tongue way more direct and harsher than I intend, and it doesn’t take long before I’m backtracking. “For a little while. Not, like, permanently. Just…three months or so. That’s it. That’s all I’m wanting to ask you.”

  “Excuse me?” He furrows his brow. “You want to move to New York for three months?”

  “Yes?” I respond, and when I realize how uncertain I sound, I swallow and reiterate with a firmer repeat, “Yes. That’s what I need.”

  “And why exactly do you need this? Have you taken a position with the New York City Council? Applied to be an extra in the remake of Mary Kate and Ashley’s New York Minute? What’s going on with you?”

  “They’re remaking New York Minute?” I ask, suddenly distracted.

  “Daisy!”

  I hold up both my hands in defense. Sorry. But to be fair, I am a child of the Mary Kate and Ashley generation.

  “I have to go to New York because…” My whole career, my whole life, depends on it. “Well, you know I got married. And…I…want to…spend more time with my husband. We don’t know if we want to live on the East Coast or West Coast, and I figure this is a great way for us to figure that out. And, you know, we’re newlyweds, and we should be together and… Yeah, that’s pretty much why.”

  “So, you want to move to New York to spend time with your mystery husband that you married in Vegas, whom I know absolutely nothing about? Am I getting this right?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I suck my button lip into my mouth and then quickly add, “Obviously, I would be staging properties while I’m there. I want to work for you. That hasn’t changed.”

  “Okayyy…” He pauses and runs confident fingers over his chin. “What’s this husband of yours’s name?”

  “Flynn. Flynn Winslow.”

  “And how long have you known Flynn?”

  Like…a week?

  “Uh…not that long.”

  “He can’t move to LA?”

  Well, no. He’s a resident of New York, and I sent in an application to Immigration stating that very fact. Obviously, though, I can’t exactly tell my boss that.

  “It’s not a good time…” I pause and then quickly add, “For his job. Yes. His job needs him to stay for now. That’s why.”

  “And what does he do exactly?”

  Thank God, it’s something you actually do know about him!

  I almost want to slap myself over how insane my life has become that I’m thrilled I know the answer to a simple question like this. About my freaking husband.

  “He’s an electrical engineer.” And some kind of investment stuff that you haven’t gotten the full story on yet, so technically, you don’t even completely know this answer…

  “Interesting.” Damien smirks. “And what made you decide to marry this mysterious electrical engineer in the first place?”

  Obviously, he’s fishing for information. And I’m willing to bet ninety percent of that has nothing to do with work; it’s purely because Damien is a nosy little biotch.

  Though, I can’t really blame him. I’d be asking him the same exact questions if the roles were reversed. I mean, our relationship’s foundation might revolve around boss-employee, but ever since he headhunted me to work for his company, we’ve grown to be fairly close friends.

  “I don’t know. Because it just felt…right?” You know, how any good marriage proposal feels when it’s done to prevent you from getting deported.

  Damien’s mouth straightens into a firm line, and I know I’m going to have to do a hell of a lot better to convince him my marriage to Flynn isn’t a total lie done in the name of my visa-expiring ass.

  Come on, Daisy. It’s time to really amp up the insta-love, love-at-first-sight, he’s the most amazing man you’ve ever met factor. Because right now, it sounds more like you’ve scheduled a root canal rather than married the love of your life.

  “I know it was impulsive to marry someone I just met, but…” I pause, searching for the right words to make Damien believe this marriage is the real deal. “He’s the one, Dame.” Who will save my ass from getting deported. “My…person. I can’t really explain how I know this, but I just know. Everything is right when I’m with him. And trust me, I never thought I believed in love at first sight, but…yeah… I married Flynn because he’s my soul mate. He’s my forever.”

  “Your soul mate?”

  I nod fervently. “It’s as if I’ve known him all my life. As if I’m destined to be with him.”

  “And this is why you want to go to New York? To be with him?”

  “Yes.”

  Damien thinks it over for a long minute, running his hand across his hair and searching my face closely. “You have to understand this is a shock. I know for a fact you weren’t dating, weren’t even looking. Hell, to be honest, I often wondered if you were a closeted lesbian or something.”

  I snort. “I’m not a closeted lesbian. Though, I admit I considered it once when I first started here and met Nikki.”

  “Girl, I hear that.” A burst o
f laughs leaves his lips. “Someone needs to get her to spill the details on her skincare regimen because, I swear, she looks airbrushed.”

  Nikki Fellows is a fortysomething goddess who is one of EllisGrey’s top-selling agents. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-five, and her skin always has that dewy, vibrant glow you only see on high-fashion models in makeup commercials. It’s almost disturbing how perfect she is.

  I honestly don’t know if it’s Botox or good genetics or some super-secret fountain of youth she has in her background, but homegirl is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life. And she’s smart and nice too.

  “Maybe the next contract re-up, you should consider adding that into Nikki’s requirements.”

  “You’re diabolical. I love it.” He smirks and takes a sip from his coffee. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to catch up on some emails or else Thomas will turn psychotic.”

  Thomas is the Grey half of EllisGrey. And while Damien is mostly laid-back, relaxed, and cool, Thomas is a Type-A nightmare. Very nice but very demanding. Truthfully, if I were working under him, I’m not sure I would’ve lasted in my career.

  It’s not like your career is exactly stable right now as it is…

  Damien’s eyes are already on the screen of his computer and his fingers move quickly across the keys, but I continue to sit there, still uncertain about the whole reason I came into his office in the first place.

  “So…uh…New York?” I question gently, and Damien’s gaze lifts to mine.

  “Doll, I’m a gay man whose favorite movie is You’ve Got Mail,” he answers with a cheeky grin. “Like I’d ever stand in the way of soul mates.”

  My shoulders sag, and a whole double-lungful of toxic air I didn’t know I was holding floods the room in a rush.

  “Though, I want you to finish planning out the staging on the Santa Monica, West Hollywood, and Beverly Hills properties. I figure that’ll take you at least the week, and then you can go.”

  That’s another two weeks of work, but leaving in one is better. Even that feels like an eternity in “anxiety years.” I’m just going to have to fit it all in somehow.

  “Of course.”

  “And most of the listings you’ll be working on will be mine. Not Thomas’s. So don’t let that demanding bastard force too much work on you.”

  I nod, more than happy to agree to that stipulation.

  “Update Carrie on your temporary transition to the East Coast,” he adds, and I know that’s my cue that this conversation is done.

  But as I leave his office, I can’t deny that relief isn’t the only emotion I’m currently feeling. Even a week is a hell of a lot of time to lose when I’m supposed to be showing that Flynn and I are a married, in-love couple.

  Most newly married couples don’t live on opposite ends of the country. They live together. In the same state, same city, same house. So, how in the hell are we going to show proof of our relationship when we’re thousands of miles away from each other?

  It’s not long before I’m pulling my cell out of my jacket pocket and firing off a text.

  Me: We need to talk. Call me as soon as you can, please and thank you.

  And then, when I think about the awkward way I ended our last conversation—when I found out his hot bod was only covered by a damn towel and proceeded to ramble like a moron—I type out a second text and hit send.

  Me: Also, please don’t FaceTime me when you’re in a towel again because this is a serious, non-towel-wearing conversation.

  Once my words fill our text box and I reread what I wrote, insta-mortification sets in.

  Oh my God! Why did you send that?! Fix it!

  Me: Ha. I’m kidding, obviously! Call me in whatever you like! Fully clothed, balls out, rocking out with your cock out! Doesn’t matter!

  Ha-ha-ha, I’m an idiot.

  Me: Holy hell. Can you just go ahead and ignore all of that?

  Me: Oops. Besides the call me part. Still do that. Okay. Bye.

  Daisy

  After spending ten minutes on self-loathing and theoretical questions about life brought on by my text faux pas with Flynn, I eventually invested myself in finishing my staging plans for one of the properties Damien wants done before I relocate to New York, and my workday just sort of flew by.

  I didn’t have time to sit and stew, and for that, I’m thankful. Because now that I’m done with my task list for the day, each and every one of my thoughts about those messages has come back with full force.

  Hindsight is a bit of a bitch, and I realize now that my messages probably came off as a confusing combination of weird-as-hell and oddly serious. Not exactly the impression I’m going for, which, of course, makes me want to fix it. The solution teasingly seems like it rests in more messages. But thankfully—in part because of my age, and in part because I’m a lifetime member of the foot-in-the-mouth club—I know that’s not actually true. It will, however, probably make me sound like a crazy, nagging shrew to a man who’s done nothing but try to help me, and that’s the very last thing I want.

  On a sigh, I drop my phone back onto my kitchen counter and busy myself with grabbing a yogurt and some granola. It’s a little after nine in the evening and this is a terrible dinner, but going to the effort to cook or order takeout at this point feels akin to starting a 5K run knowing my blood sugar is already low.

  Regardless, I only get through one bite of my yogurt before my phone starts ringing from its abandoned spot on the counter, and I slip-slide across the kitchen like a newborn colt on a patch of ice trying to get to it in my stocking feet. I fumble and bumble attempting to set the yogurt down with the spoon inside, and I finally pick it up on what I know to be one of the last notes of my ringtone without looking at the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Daisy,” the caller says, the rich rumble of his voice immediately recognizable. A whole-body shiver starts at my toes and curls right into my buzzing brain. It’s weird, but I think the rarity of my new husband’s words ups their potency or something.

  “Flynn.” I giggle involuntarily. “On the phone. Talking.”

  “You asked me to call.”

  “I did. You’re right. It’s just…you, on the phone, where you literally have no option but to talk in order to communicate. It’s almost nonsensical.”

  It’s as if the man has a set quota of words per day, not to be exceeded. In the modern age of social media, where everyone is pretending to be the very best version of themselves by spewing bullshit from their keyboard at every turn, that’s refreshing, to say the least.

  I wonder what percentage of total words in his lifetime have been used while in the bedroom?

  My cheeks flush pink when memories of the one and only night I spent with Flynn Winslow fill up my head like helium in a balloon. Holy moly, he didn’t hold back any words that night. If anything, he was completely uninhibited, and his frequent use of words only spurred my pleasure further.

  That was a hot night. One for the damn record books.

  “Daisy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You wanted to talk?”

  “Oh, right,” I respond and cringe through an embarrassed smile. Clearing my throat, I yank my mind out of the gutter and focus on the actual priority. “So, I have good news and sort of bad news, I guess. I got the okay from my boss for my move to New York, but since I have a few more staging projects to finish up, I probably won’t be able to get out there for another week. Possibly ten days if my plan to work like a dog comes up a couple barks short of a tail wag.”

  The silence stretches out for what feels like forever.

  “Flynn?”

  “A couple barks short of a tail wag?”

  My cheeks warm as I suck my lips inside my mouth before popping them back out. “Of everything I said, that’s the part you heard?”

  “I heard the rest. That was just the part that interested me.”

  “The fact that it’s going to be at least a week before I can move
out there doesn’t concern you?”

  “I can assume from your tone that this isn’t the answer you’re looking for, but no, it doesn’t,” he answers matter-of-factly. “We’ve both sent USCIS everything they need for the application. From where I stand, everything that needs to be done is getting done, and I don’t see a problem with it taking a week for you to move out here.”

  “Okayyy…but wouldn’t you say it’s a bit of a problem for showing proof of our marriage?”

  “I think they’ll understand there’s a transition period, babe. Lives take time to shift.”

  “And, what? We just don’t talk to each other all that time to make the anticipation grow stronger?” I retort. “That’s sketchy as hell, Flynn. It’s going to toss up all the red flags for the immigration overlords and make them suspicious of us. Of me. We’re going to have to think of other things to do to show we’re together and want to be together.”

  “I’m a reasonable guy, Daisy, and I made an agreement with you. All you need to do is tell me what you think we should be doing, and I’ll do it.”

  When I picture him standing there, most likely in his apartment in New York, holding a phone to his ear and having a conversation with me I can almost guarantee he’d rather not be having, plus the FaceTime call in his towel and everything else he’s done for me up until now, I know that’s true. Flynn Winslow has an irrefutable track record of keeping his word to me.

  “I think…” I pause and, for some reason, find myself fumbling over my words. It makes zero sense, but I can only chalk it up to already feeling like I’m asking him for far too much. “We…uh…need to show proof of our relationship through other ways. Like…text messages…phone calls…you know, that sort of thing. And also, probably delete any damning evidence of contractual indifference from our previous conversations…”

  “Okay.”

  One word. Just like that, and he’s already agreed. Call me a sadist, but this feels too easy.

  “Are you…uh…sure?”

  “Daisy.”

  Right. This is good. Great, even.