by Lila Monroe
Portia appeared torn between her desire to agree that I needed new clothing, her desire to deny me things, and her desire to appease Grant.
Grant took advantage of her struggle to press home his argument:
“You’ll do all of this so much better without us getting under your feet anyway,” he said, rising with a quick peck of a kiss to her cheek. “What was that you always said to me when I was growing up? ‘If I wanted a shaggy ragamuffin underfoot upsetting my plans, I’d have gotten a puppy, so go ask your grandfather if he needs any help.’”
He smiled in fond recollection; I internally raised an eyebrow that he could smile in fond recollection at what was seemed to be basically a fancy way of saying ‘you’re an annoying little brat; fuck off into the sun.’
“You always took such good care of me. I always know I can count on you.”
Portia dithered, at least as much as an iceberg can dither. “Well—”
“Thanks, Portia! You’re a doll!” Grant grabbed my hand and swept me off my feet, simultaneously kissing Portia on the cheek again. “We’ll see you later!”
And we were out the door and into the bright sunshine before she could say another word, and I was almost dizzy with delight. Grant’s car might not have been a pumpkin carriage, but I could not have been happier to get away from his godmother.
We were at the Japanese tea garden of the Golden Gate Park, gently sculpted bonsai trees scattered artistically amidst elegant shrubs, bright pink blossoms, burbling brooks, simple yet striking bridges, and resplendent pagodas. It was almost deserted, everyone else seemingly still at their indoor lunches as we walked through greenery so carefully cultivated it almost seemed to be a temple. It was a beautiful yet strangely still place to find in the midst of a bustling metropolis, so serene, so utterly at peace.
It was basically the exact mirror opposite of how I felt.
“I can’t do this!” I finally blurted when I realized that Grant was just going to keep walking in silence unless I said something. “Really, I can’t do this. No one could do this; I thought I could, but this—this is just—this is so much more than I realized!”
“Breathe, Lacey.” Grant took my hands, his thumbs rubbing gently over my skin in soothing circles. “We’ll get through this. Look at me.” I did, and oh, big mistake. Those eyes, deep sapphire pools that the designer of this garden could only have dreamed of making. “Breathe. There you go. We’ll get through this.”
“How?” I asked his eyes plaintively.
He pulled me into a big bear hug, his strong arms reassuring around me, and rubbed my back. “You’re a capable woman,” he said softly into my ear. “I’ve seen you at work. This seems insurmountable, but you’ll break it down into its components and tackle them one by one. Before you know it, you’ll have conquered them all.”
His hot breath on my ear was doing all sorts of things to my heart rate and my ability to concentrate on his actual words, and I fought against melting with my most potent weapon: sarcasm.
“Wow, have you looked into becoming a life coach?”
He pulled away slightly, which was good, right? That’s what I’d wanted him to do. So why did it make me feel so bad?
“Lacey…” He was coming over all wounded now, the manipulative bastard. Eyes like a puppy dog that had been told that Petco would no longer be selling squeaky toys.
“Why am I doing this anyway?” I snapped defensively. “This is so you. You expect everyone to do things for them, and somehow they just can’t say no and before they know it it’s yes-sir-Mr. Devlin, and would you like three mints on the bedside table!
I just can’ t believe I let myself get sucked into this when I’ve been seeing you do it to everyone else for all these years!”
Grant’s eyes had gone steely, battleship grey-blue. “I’m sorry this is such a hardship for you.”
Whatever he was thinking was locked up tight now behind those high cheekbones and blank eyes and crisp, perfectly polite and noncommittal voice.
“You said last night that this was to be purely a business arrangement. Are there any terms we could renegotiate to sweeten the deal?” he asked.
“I seriously doubt it,” I muttered, swiping my foot along the perfectly smooth slate grey pebbles of our path.
“Come now, Lacey,” he said. “Don’t be shy. Surely there’s something you want?”
“I want a goddamn time machine so I can go back and make sure I avoid this in the first place,” I grumbled.
“Well, I don’t believe that I have any DeLoreans in stock at the moment, but how about half a million dollars?”
It was so absurd that I burst out laughing.
I don’t mean a dignified little chuckle, elegantly tossed off like a refined Victorian lady expressing her amusement at a witty remark by Elizabeth Bennet before taking another sip of finest Darjeeling tea, pinky extended, of course. I mean gut-bursting, high-pitched shrieking, guffawing, snorting like a horse with a sinus infection.
And then I noticed that Grant wasn’t laughing along with me.
“Wait,” I gasped—partly from surprise and partly from still having trouble breathing after laughing so hard, “you’re serious?!”
Grant looked about as offended as if I’d suggested that Australia was basically the same thing as New Zealand.
“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sincere.”
For half a second, I let myself get lost in the fantasy. Half a million dollars…that kind of money didn’t just buy you new things, it bought you a whole new life. A whole new life of taking only jobs that fulfilled me and not living in fear of destitution if I was fired, of paying off my student loans with a single click of my computer mouse—or better yet, with the thud of a suitcase of bills on the desk of the financial aid officers who had declined my application for a reduced interest loan with smirks on their faces: watch her, she’ll drop out in a year when she finds out how hard the courses are anyway.
I could see it all now: the grateful smiles on the faces of loved ones as I paid them back for all the faith and love they had shown me: I could send my parents on a trip to meet the Dalai Lama and do service work in Tibetan orphanages; I could launch Kate’s lingerie business with a single cash gift. I could establish scholarships at Stanford for all the other girls like me with smarts and determination but no money, and a whole world ready to tell them they weren’t cut out for it, wouldn’t make it.
And in that bed, at least for a few months, there would be Grant Devlin, Grant Devlin with his strong muscular arms and his firm well-shaped legs and that ass just begging to be grabbed as he plunged deep within me, his voice shaking with passion and then muffled as he claimed my lips, his eyes burning with need as he groped my bare breasts and ground his hips against mine, the rasp of his stubble against my soft skin sending me into ecstasy—
“Well? Will that be sufficient? You could possibly haggle me up to a full million.”
And his voice brought me back to reality, and to the fact that I would never be able to let myself take that payment from Grant. Because taking that money would mean giving up my pride, and that was the one thing I could never afford.
“No money,” I said. “It feels tacky. I’d rather have rules than cash. If you’ll stick to them.”
“I’ve heard rules were made to be broken,” Grant said with a wicked grin, and my brain decided to make a flash-cut right back to my fantasy, only now I was tied to the bed, Grant hovering above me with that same wicked grin as his hand traced a line down my chest, dipping between my thighs and—
“Not these rules,” I squeaked through a throat suddenly very dry.
Grant deployed another of his Threat Level Red pouts. “Oh, very well. Can you elaborate on exactly what these rules will be?”
I took a second to look around the park at the artistically twisted pine branches and meandering pathways, thinking hard. These rules had to be reasonable, but ironclad. No loopholes for Grant ‘Pouty Lips’ Devlin. Or for my own idiotic
heart.
“We have a month-long engagement. Portia does all the wedding planning and I get to stay the hell away from her and her stare of death. As soon as Jennings signs the papers, we have an amicable breakup so boring the paparazzi start weeping in despair.”
“Well, that all sounds very—”
“I’m not done,” I said, heart hammering. What if he didn’t agree? “And this last part is non-negotiable. We’re telling my parents.”
Grant’s face creased in puzzlement. “But why…?” And then understanding dawned, along with a soft smile, almost of wonder. “You want to be honest with them.”
“They’ll pretend,” I promised him. “But I can’t lie to them. I can’t make them so happy about this and then rip it away from them. They’ve worked too hard for me—”
“Lacey!” Grant held up his hand, still smiling. “I’m not objecting. I’m only surprised. I shouldn’t be, though; this is just like you.” He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “A pretty girl, a head on her shoulders, and now a real sense of family. How do you manage to keep wrong-footing me?”
I leaned back into his shoulder, relaxing. “So you agree to the terms?”
“They sound simple enough.”
As if anything could be simple with Grant.
“Thank you,” I said, and wrapped my arm around his waist. Purely to help keep my balance as we resumed our stroll, and to present the perfect picture of a happy couple in case any press were lurking in the bushes. Not to feel the ripple of his muscles under my hand, or to pretend that this was all real.
“I would like to give you whatever you want,” he said, not looking at me. Looking instead at the silhouette of the red and green and gold pagoda, its lines and curves the only thing above the trees against the blue sky, as if we had left San Francisco and were walking in a world of our very own.
And I knew what I wanted. Of course I did. I’d had it planned out ever since I was a little girl. College, a career, and a man who loved me—not this man, this entitled, arrogant asshole. But this man could help me get the rest of those things. And it would all be so simple and easy then—
If I could just stop wanting Grant too. If I could just stop wanting those strong arms around me, those soft lips on mine. If I could just stop wanting that look, when his stormy blue eyes suddenly turned soft and delighted because I had surprised him—that look, when I could almost convince myself he loved me, not just the challenges I threw his way.
I ached with how much I wanted to just turn to him, right then and there, and tell him how I felt—
But sometimes you want things you can’t let yourself have.
16
Kate waved to me from across the workplace cafeteria, and I took my tray and joined her. I could not have been happier to see her face after the morning straight from the Twilight Zone I’d had.
Ever since I’d stepped onto the polished marble floor of Devlin Media Corp., I’d been followed by whispers. Conversations stopped dead the moment I walked into a room, though in a few cases not quickly enough to keep me from catching a few choice tidbits:
She’s obviously just after his money—
--people with lots more experience, is all I’m saying--
With a face like that, it can’t be anything but—
--no way in hell Mr. Devlin would ever settle--
Do you think she actually knew what she’s—
--do you think she remembers that time I called her a bitch?
Plus, everyone I worked with was either sucking up to me or treating me like I’d gotten the bubonic plague. But that was in the past. Well, twenty minutes into the past, but still! There was pizza on my tray, there was relief in my heart, and there was Kate sitting opposite me as I set down my lunch, beaming her smile at me just like nothing had changed at all.
“Girl, you look twitchier than a ferret on feed pellets laced with cocaine and espresso,” Kate said the second I sat down. “Show some confidence! Here, have you tried this fig and goat cheese combo? It is delish.”
“I’m not sure about the connection between pizza and confidence,” I said, and took a bite. “And why do I have to be confident right now anyway? It’s lunch. I need a break from being confident at people.”
“Can you at least project an air of confidence?” Kate asked, gesturing with her own slice of pizza to emphasize her point. “Fake it till you make it, girl. You might be on break, but the super-spy surveillance team that is the gossip-mongering harpies of the marketing department never goes on break. And it’s not just them. Literally everyone is watching you. With Grant out on that community service you gave him, you’re the boss by default.”
“Oh God, don’t say things like that. I hate all this attention.” I buried my head in my hands, shutting out all visual confirmation of reality. Oooh, this was nice. Maybe I could stay like this forever. I should invest in some serious real estate in the state of denial; it was fan-fucking-tastic there.
“Get used to it,” Kate said bluntly, and swigged her orange juice with a loud smack of her lips.
“Some friends would be sympathetic to my woes,” I said through my fingers.
“Some friends wouldn’t have turned down a billion dollars,” Kate retorted.
“It was half a million,” I said. “That’s like two hundred times less than what you said.”
“Oh, my mistake,” Kate sassed. “Just a measly little half million then. Definitely nothing to write home about. Practically small change. I could probably find that much in my couch cushions.”
“Come on, Katie,” I whined. “You’re my best friend! Validate me!”
Kate patted my hand gently. “Oh honey, I know why you feel like you had to turn him down, and I’m not saying you’re wrong. Heck, I’m actually hella proud of you for sticking to your guns. You know that.”
She sighed, and carefully eased my hands away from my face, framing it in her hands instead so I had to meet her eyes.
“I just know how much you want to be independent and able to tell all the big jerk-wads to kiss your ass, and free of all your student debt and stuff. And I wish you could have that too. I want you to be happy.”
“It wouldn’t really be independence, though,” I said sadly. “Not if it came from lying for Grant.”
“Girl, I know. Hell, I guess I was probably projecting some too.” She swished her orange juice around her mouth contemplatively. “I wish I could quit and work on my lingerie full-time instead of playing nicey-nice with the jag-offs who think I live to serve them. ‘Put me through to the CEO right now or you’ll regret it!’” she mimicked. “Or ‘hey, pretty thing, is it just the candy or are you for sampling too?’ Ugh.”
“You’ll get out someday,” I told her. “You’re too talented not to.”
“You too, girl,” she said with a grin. “As long as you keep following my advice, anyway.”
“Congratulations,” Gail said stiffly. “We’re all so pleased to hear the news of your engagement.”
“It’s so thrilling!” Michelle enthused. “Was it a surprise? My sister says he must have told you ahead of time or he wouldn’t have done it, but in the pictures you just look so surprised!”
“Are you going to have a killer party?” Ken asked. “We’re invited, right?” He laughed in that joking-not-joking way people have when they want you to give them something but don’t want to come out and ask for it and risk being rejected.
I could see the rest of the attendees of the meeting bucking for their chance to leap in and congratulate me, and coincidentally, get me to acknowledge them and maybe favor their personal work projects, and I decided to cut this nonsense off at the pass before it all snowballed into a congratulations avalanche and we had to call out a rescue team to dig me out from under the deep layers of smothering well-wishes.
Plus, it was hard enough acting like I couldn’t see Grant in the corner, couldn’t feel his eyes tracing the tight contours of my curve-hugging power suit, without everyone reminding me that in
the eyes of the world, we were the latest Brangelina-esque power couple.
“Thank you all, but we’re here for business, people, so let’s get to it,” I said briskly. Maybe too briskly. Everyone leapt for their seats and their laptops like I’d electrocuted them.
Gail and Michelle’s presentation was first. They held up a graph that resembled the flight of a rocket.
“The share price is undergoing an unbelievable rebound,” Michelle chirped. Gail clicked on the projector, which displayed glowing quotes from various business journals about our recent success. “Forbes called us a ‘Cinderella story!’”
I asked Michelle and Gail a few questions about the long-term sustainability of the share price increase, and we put together a committee dedicated to keeping it growing a stable rate. Next up were Ken and his cronies from marketing. Ken popped his collar—who did he think he was, a prep school senior?—and began:
“So, uh, this is one of our ads. It’s totally blowing them away in the forty plus male demographic. Ninety percent approval rating. Dim the lights, guys.”
An intern dimmed the lights while Ken called up a video on YouTube. Gentle violin music played as the camera panned over white marble columns, perfectly manicured green lawns, and flower beds so crisp and clean it looked as though they had never even heard of the concept of weeds.
“Family,” intoned a rich British accent as the camera continued to pan across to a picnic table by a lake so picturesque it could have been painted by Norman Rockwell, with a small blonde boy and a golden retriever romping in the shallows. “Family is the greatest gift of all.
“Family feeds us, clothes us, protects us,” the voiceover continued in its rich plummy tones as the ad cut from a view of a blonde family seated around a Thanksgiving dinner table while a golden retriever watched hopefully, a young girl in a graduation gown having her cap fixed to her head by a proud mother, a father scooping two little twins in matching onesies out of the way of an oncoming car.