by Emily Bishop
Chapter 7
Grayson
DAY 5
A HAPPY HOME, the sign reads. What a load of shit.
Isabella looks up at it with a bit of a snarl, too. But her eyes are sad. Fuck knows why. She’s got her curls piled up on top of her head. No makeup. She’s actually very pretty without it. Just jeans and a top today, not that figure-hugging dress. No dance in her eyes. No hair-flicking and smiles and flirty voice.
She told me I gave her the best sex of her life last night. She was sitting on my lap, her hair wild, her eyes alight. It was great. But when I agreed, her eyes changed, and she told me we’ll never do it again. I don’t get it. But anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re here to call Mr. Fink. That’s all.
“Let’s get this over with,” she says.
“That’s what we’re doing.” I get a cart and push it through the automatic doors. “This will be too heavy for you when it has stuff inside it.”
“Stuff inside it? What money do you have to shop?”
“It will look more realistic when I call Mr. Fink. We’ll tell him we’re bringing it all back to England with us.”
She sighs then marches over to a shelf. She pulls off a trash can, then marches a little farther on and pulls off some storage boxes.
“What on earth would I buy those for?”
“I know it must be an alien concept to you, Grayson, but people have to actually do life stuff. You know, like organize things. Store things. Actually run their own life. Instead of having housekeepers to do it all while you drink and flirt.”
She starts to load them into the cart but I rush to do it instead. “I don’t just drink and flirt. You make it sound so shallow.”
“It is shallow. You’re the shallowest person I know.”
“What? Just because I’m not a human rights lawyer or something.”
“No.” She leans against the cart with one hand and plants the other on her hip. “Because you have no concept of responsibility, or… look, we don’t need to do this. Let’s call Mr. Fink, and then I can go back to my paperwork. There’s still a lot I have to do before we fly out.”
“We need towels first.”
“Geez.”
I swerve the cart into the next aisle and spot the towels. I grab some red ones and put them in the cart. “We can call him now.”
“Yeah,” she says, disinterested, looking over the towels. “Out of all the colors there, why did you pick that bright gaudy one? It’s not exactly relaxing.”
I tap Video Call and wait for a response. It just rings and rings. “It caught my eye. It’s bright. What does it matter?”
“This is exactly what I mean. You don’t put thought into anything, do you? Whatever catches your eye, you go for. No planning. No consideration. Nothing. Just ‘I like that one, I think I’ll have it.’”
“I get what I want. Nothing wrong with that.” It goes to voicemail, and I hang up. “Finky’s busy.”
“Ugh.” She walks along the aisle.
I watch her. I seriously don’t get it. I gave her the best fuck of her life last night. Now she’s acting like I’m her enemy. My phone vibrates and I check it—Finky. I’m with a client. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done.
“Cheer up,” I say. “Remember I am giving you fifty million dollars, after all.”
She turns. Her eyes flare. She makes a deep bow with a flourish of her hand. “Oh, thank you, King of the Universe. May I kiss your feet?”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she says and turns back to the shelves. She smells all these different colored candles, one after the other. “Where do you find these women?”
“Everywhere.”
“What is it they see in you? Seriously. I’m not seeing it.”
A slow grin spreads over my face. “You weren’t saying that last night.”
Her head whips in my direction. “I told you that never happened,” she says with a dark glare. “And if it did, it’s never happening again.”
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“Yeah, yeah, and you’ve weaseled your way back into their pants again. Well, you know me, Grayson. You know when I say something, I mean it. And I mean this. I will never do anything like that with you again for as long as I live.”
I feel something in my chest. It’s not nice. But I shrug. “Plenty more fish in the sea.”
“Yeah, plenty more fish to hook on your line to nowhere.” She plonks two candles into the cart. “I’m actually buying these. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for them. I know you don’t have…”
A couple passes us, arm in arm, and she trails off. She watches them intently. I turn to see what’s so interesting about them. Nothing out of the ordinary. A downtrodden man pretending that one woman can satisfy him. She has a nice body, a nice face, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, not a scrap of makeup on but still pretty. But even so, poor guy. What a jail to be trapped in. He has a gold shackle around his finger. They stop a little farther up and start going through the whole candle-smelling ritual. She’s placing them up to his nose and asking his opinion.
Isabella turns and sighs. She sees something I don’t see.
“What?”
“If only there were more men in the world like that,” she says.
“I feel sorry for him.”
“What?” she says. “Look at him. He’s so attentive. He’s completely in love with her. Look at the way he looks at her. Like she’s the only woman in the universe.”
“Well, then, he’s delusional.” I push the cart on. “That’s all there is to it. A poor, delusional, miserable fool.”
She grabs my arm. “Look at him, Gray.”
I turn. He’s smelling a candle his woman holds out to him. His hand rests on her lower back. She’s looking at him like he’s God of the Universe. He has a gentle look on his face, his eyes full of love.
Isabella sighs again. “That’s a real man. Look how happy he looks. Look how happy she looks. It’s like they’re in their own little bubble.”
He does look a bit happy, actually. Weirdly. He must be getting great sex. I look the woman up and down. She looks like a regular, not-gorgeous-but-still-attractive, woman. Nothing special about her, really. But he’s gazing at her like she’s Beyoncé. She must be a freak in bed. I look at her face and wonder what she looks like when she’s in pleasure. Maybe he’s addicted to that. Or maybe he cheats. But when he passed Isabella, he didn’t give her much more than a glance. Other guys’ eyes get glued to her. They turn their heads over their wives’ shoulders to take a longer look.
“Anyway,” Isabella says, a businesslike look on her face. “That’s nice for them. It won’t be something I ever have.”
“Me neither. Thank god.” The idea of being tied to one woman for life? Terrifying. But as we turn out of the aisle, I give them one last glance. Maybe he enjoys having her all to himself. Like her sexuality is hidden from the world, and he’s the only man who has the privilege of watching her come and scream and maybe even squirt. That’s kind of hot. Maybe marriage has that advantage. But I couldn’t stick to one woman. Maybe I’ll have a few wives. That would be kind of cool.
“Thank god?” Isabella questions. “You know how amazing it would be to fall in love?”
Yeah, it feels good at first. But then it’s like a thousand knives stabbing away at all your insides. I never blamed Lillia, though. I was just furious with myself for not sticking to my code—fun and enjoyment and nothing serious. That’s not just for relationships. That’s my life code. “I’ll pass.”
“When I fall in love for the first time, I want it to be forever. That’s why I haven’t allowed myself to yet. I want it to be for the right man.” She tosses a thumb back, indicating the next aisle where the couple are. “A man like that.”
“You’ve never been in love?” I’m surprised.
“I just explained that. I haven’t wanted to. I haven’t found the perfect person yet. I don’t want a divo
rce. I don’t want an unhappy marriage. I don’t want any of that. I want it all to be perfect.”
“And they all lived happily ever after in a castle.”
“Something like that.”
“Castles are shit. My mum’s side of the family have one in Wales. Her brother lives in it. It’s cold and it stinks of dust and rats breed in the attic.”
She laughs and looks relaxed for the first time today. “Trust you to put such a romantic spin on things, Gray.”
My phone rings. “It’s Finky. Oh, shit, take this. I forgot.” I get the ring out of my pocket. It’s just 9k gold plate with zirconia, but it looks like the real deal. It’s for Finky’s benefit, and he’s a solicitor, not a jeweler. He’ll never know.
Isabella slides it on her finger quickly and puts her arm around my shoulder.
“Finky!” I say when I see his gray, tight self come up on the phone screen.
“Gray,” he says. “How are things?”
“Great! Isabella and I are just here in A Happy Home, picking up things for the house. I was thinking I might move out of the mansion and stay in one of the gardeners’ cottages instead, with Isabella. So we’re getting things to make it like home.”
“Hi, there, Mr. Fink,” Isabella says. She smiles at him, a lovely, genuine smile, and puts her hand on my neck. It feels warm, gentle. I like it a little.
“Hello, Isabella.” His voice is suspicious.
“I’m so looking forward to meeting you,” she says. “Gray has told me so much about you, his old family friend. I can tell you some funny stories about him back in school. You know, I always had a crush on him, but I never plucked up the nerve to do anything about him. It was like fate, us meeting again here. I really believe it was meant to be, Mr. Fink.”
He looks a little more relaxed. She aced it. “I’m looking forward to meeting you, too,” he says. “Anything else, Gray? I have another client coming, and I need to prepare.”
I grin. “No, that’s all, Mr. Fink. Just so excited about my new love and our new house.”
Isabella plants a kiss on my cheek. Why does that feel so damn good?
Chapter 8
Isabella
DAY 5
God, why was I so scared of Gray? He’s not a monster, really. Just a guy. Sure, a bit arrogant, a bit full of himself, but just a guy. I feel kind of dumb for reading all the Kindle stuff and getting so caught up in it. I felt in control at the time, but I was scared, I think.
With the shopping bags on my arm, filled with a few candles and a couple things for my apartment, I feel good. He walks next to me with his long stride and confident manner. When he smiles at me, it’s real. I can tell. Not control. Not a game. Just him. The real him.
“Let’s get dinner later. When you’re done with your work.”
“Sure,” I say. Maybe we could actually enjoy chatting properly now, instead of all those power-play games. After all, we’ll have to spend quite a bit of time together while in England, cooped up in his mansion in the middle of nowhere. We may as well learn to get along before then.
“There’s this amazing Italian place—” he begins.
“Gray!”
We both look in the direction of the excited female voice. Oh god. Some girl runs toward us, her arms outstretched. Her cleavage leaves nothing to the imagination. “Gray! Gray!” she shouts, like he’s a movie star.
“Hello,” Gray says. He doesn’t want her around.
“You don’t remember me, Gray?” She’s all batting eyelashes and soft touches on his arm. “Of course, you do. Remember that night? At the hotel?” She leans in and says in a not-so-subtle whisper, “Where you gave me the best sex I ever had?”
Oh, lord, help us. I make a beeline for Gray’s rental.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, so vaguely I know he can’t remember who she is.
“Let’s do it again. You have my number, right?”
“Isabella,” he calls after me. “You don’t have the keys.”
I have to turn to face them. It’s excruciating.
“Gray,” the girl says, looking a bit offended. “You said I was your favorite girl.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” I say. I’m giving myself the same advice in my head. “You’re probably one in a long line of favorite girls. Ask him your name. He won’t remember.”
“I’m leaving now,” Gray says to her. “Best to forget about me, if you can.” He walks to the car.
She follows. “Gray! Why are you being like this? You were so nice before.”
A fury toward him rises in me. “That’s the act he plays before he gets in your pants. Afterward, you’re of no use. You’re history. He’s on to his next conquest.”
“Get in the car,” Gray grunts.
“Happily,” I say. “I want to go home. Now.” I plonk myself down in the passenger seat, but then his dithering with the keys gets under my skin. “In fact, I’ll take the bus.”
“But you said you really liked me, Gray,” the girl whines.
“Isabella!” Gray calls out after me as I climb back out of the car
I walk past her, swinging my bag. “He says a lot of things. Cut your losses and move on. Quickly.” I march through the parking lot as if I haven’t a care in the world. But it’s anger making me strut. Anger that I ever let myself believe in Gray.
Gray swings the BMW up next to me. “Get in the car, Isabella.”
I turn and put my hand to my chest and look around like I’m confused. “Oh, sorry, were you talking to me? I wasn’t sure if it was me or Miss Favorite Girl you were speaking to.”
“Come on,” he says. “Let me at least take you home. You can’t get the bus.”
“Funny, because I’ve been doing so for a while now.” I had to sell my car in an effort to clear the debt. But it was like throwing a pebble into an abyss for all the difference it made. I had to move out of my lovely apartment, too, and take one in a sketchy part of town. But I’ll do anything for my father’s legacy. Anything.
Then he says something that breaks me. “Woman, why won’t you let anyone take care of you?” His voice is sharp. It cuts me as much as that sharp gaze does, as seeing the stubble along his chin. I get in the car. He’s opened a wound in my chest I didn’t even know was there.
“Thank you,” he says softly, then drives us out of the parking lot.
I finger the handles of the A Happy Home bag and feel strange. The sky is this soft chalky blue, and cotton ball clouds drift across with the gentle breeze. There’s hardly any traffic on the street. Everything’s calm. But I feel disconnected. Locked out of the peace.
Gray keeps taking glances at me. I look away.
“That girl is crazy,” he says eventually. “I have no feelings for her. Don’t worry about that.”
“Why would I worry?” My voice comes out with a sharper edge than I meant it to.
“Well, you’re not happy. Doesn’t take Oprah to work that out.”
“I’m fine.” That’s such a lie.
That girl was so pretty. So vivacious. Gray has girls like that swarming all over him. How could I ever compete? But then again, why would I want to compete? Ugh, this is too confusing.
“No you’re not,” he says.
I don’t reply. Last night flashes into my mind. Not his cock sliding into my pussy. Not even the shivering, shaking, screaming orgasm that blew my mind. But how I felt all about it. “Let me ask you a question.” I’m surprised by the venom in my own voice. “Do you get off on giving women really good sex, then—”
A grin crosses his face.
“There’s no need to look so proud of yourself,” I say. “It’s just sex. Being good at it doesn’t really mean anything. It’s not going to win you a Nobel Prize, dude.”
“Don’t want one.” He smirks. “So you were saying, giving women really good sex, then?”
“Then instead of taking her feelings into account, you just absorb all her pleasure into your already massive ego. Giving yourself another medal. A
trophy. It’s like you collect them all on an inner shelf or something. Then forget all about them like they’re nothing. Just keeping your memory as a trophy for your ego.”
He shrugs, but the smile is gone. “I don’t know. Something like that.”
“I can’t believe I had sex with you.” I’d thought I was in control last night, but I was wrong.
He did all the wrapping around fingers. God. That’s fucking frustrating.
I expect him to grin and look at me and say, “Ha ha, but you did. I got you. I conquered you.” But he stares forward and jerks his shades onto his face. “I’m sorry you had to go through the ordeal,” he says acidly. “I’m sorry you hated it so much.”
“I didn’t hate it,” I say, with confidence I don’t feel. “It was…” Such a relief. Relief from what, I don’t exactly know. I felt free. “It was a dream. Just a fake dream.”
“It was real.”
Anger rushes into my voice. “Yes, I know it was real,” I snap. “Your dick was in my pussy, whatever. But the whole special thing. All right, I admit it. It felt special. But that was all fake.”
He shakes his head. “It was special.”
“Yeah, OK. I was special. And she was special. And the one before that was special. And the thousand ones before that were special, too. Special for one night only.” I manage a wry smile.
“You are special, Isabella.” He’s sincere. I’ve never heard his voice with that kind of weight in it.
“Yeah, right.”
He shifts and stares at me. “You don’t even need to try. You just are special. You always have been. Even back in school.” He means it. I can tell. “You always stood by what you believed in. Whatever the outcome. That takes a lot of strength.”
“So, why did you make fun of me every chance you got?”
He’s silent for a while. He clears his throat. “I was a jerk back then. I didn’t know what was important.”
“And you do now?”
He shrugs. Stares ahead at the street.
“You know what sucks? No matter how special I am, no matter how hard I try, I can never get things perfect. I can never be as perfect as I want to be.”
He actually laughs. Not at me. But a carefree, easy laugh. “Who wants to be perfect?”