by Emily Bishop
He shifts in his seat. “I was just saying hello, not looking for lengthy discourse.”
“Hey there, sir.” I turn to see an air hostess bending down to talk to us, full of makeup and perfume and white teeth.
I watch Gray’s face carefully. He doesn’t look her up and down. His eyes don’t zero in on her ample cleavage, as I expect. “Hello,” he says.
“I just wanted to thank you for what you did for that couple over there,” she says. “We’re run off our feet here and couldn’t reach the elderly gentleman in time. That was really kind of you.”
I can tell he’s doing everything in his power to not beam. “It was nothing.”
She makes a little signal to her colleague that I can’t make out, then turns back to us. “Are you two flying together?”
Gray grabs my hand and gives her a proud smile. “Yes. This is my fiancée, Isabella.”
The air hostess smiles, a genuine, warm smile. “You make a lovely couple.”
“Thank you,” I say, not really knowing what to feel.
“Now, if it’s all right with you, we’d love to upgrade you to first class,” she says, then nods to Gray. “As a thank you for your kindness.”
“Wow!” I can’t lie, I’m thrilled.
“That would be very kind of you.” Gray sounds the perfect gentleman.
“Please bring your bags and come with me.”
Before we know it, we’re settled into huge comfy seats in first class. Take-off is a breeze, and soon we’re in the air. Glasses of champagne sit on our own personal table. Yes, table, not tiny little tray attached to the seat in front. I have all the space I could dream of, and the hostess showed us how we can recline our seats back all the way until they’re like beds. With the pillows and blankets provided, this is going to be a dream of a flight. I’ll snuggle back on my bed-chair and read and doze and before I know it, we’ll be in London. There’s a businessman in the middle of the aisle, and a couple over to the right, but we have plenty of space of our own and even a curtain to pull around us if we want privacy. To sleep, that will be. Only to sleep.
Gray grins at me and raises his champagne glass. “To fake engagements.”
I can’t help but grin back as I clink my glass against his. “To fake engagements. And good deeds, too. You worked us some magic there.”
He shrugs but can’t keep the smile from his face. “I’m not always a monster.”
“You’re not a monster at all. Talking of fake engagements, though. I assume you haven’t had any real ones?”
“Don’t you know me yet? Of course not! What about you?”
I shrug. “Haven’t let anyone close enough. One guy proposed to me, but I turned him down. He was lovely, but…” I don’t really know how to explain it.
“But not Mr. Perfect-Goodie-Two-Shoes?”
“I’m not sure. I just… it didn’t feel like it would make the perfect marriage. I didn’t feel like all the elements were lined up correctly. Like we were matched well enough.”
He laughs. “In other words, he didn’t meet your impossibly high standards.”
That’s actually the guilt trip that played through my mind when I broke up with him. So that stings a bit. “Is it really that bad to have high standards?”
“Depends how high. If it ends up with you locking out the world, then probably, yeah. People around you are going to feel judged. Like you’re looking down on them.”
Now that shocks me. Scares me, even. I don’t want people to think that. “Do… do you feel judged? Like I’m looking down on you?”
He laughs again, so free and easy. “Yeah, but I don’t care much. If I cared what prim and proper people think of me, I’d never have any enjoyment in life.”
“Prim and proper people? What’s that supposed to mean?” He makes me sound so uptight. Like some strict old aunt instead of the determined, independent, principled woman I see myself as.
“Oh, you know, always playing by the rules. Doing things right.”
“So, what, I’m supposed to want to do things wrong? Maybe rules are there for a reason, Gray.”
“Life doesn’t really have rules,” he says and knocks the rest of his champagne back. Right away, he pours himself another glass. “It’s a free for all. You do what you want.”
“You’re supposed to do what’s right,” I say tightly.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Frustration starts tensing my muscles. “I’m going to read now.”
“No, wait, listen to this. Watch how messed up I would have been if I played by the rules and did the right thing. So, I was with this girl. Lillia Smythe-Darcy. Lilly.” His face creases up as he says it, like her name is some highly infectious disease. “She’s from some aristocratic family with old titles. No money, but that didn’t matter to my dad. He thought, you know, link up the Fairfax family with the Smythe-Darcys, and we’ve bought ourselves some more credibility. Some more status. Like we need any more.” He rolls his eyes. “So, her family were dead set on it. My dad was pushing me to do it. It all made sense. Their family wanted our money. My father wanted the status. She said she loved me. I was trapped in some foolish illusion thinking I loved her. So, surely, the right thing to do would have been to propose, right? Lillia was beautiful, and she had class, titles, all of that.”
“Was she a good woman?”
“That’s not the point,” he says, frustrated. “It would have been the right thing to marry her, wouldn’t it? And if I’d done it, where would I be now? Trapped in some crumbling mansion with the gold-digger. In some gilded jail. No, thank you. But, you see, I chose to do the wrong thing and dump her. And now I’m free.”
“I feel sorry for her.”
“You shouldn’t,” he says acidly. “She was a bitch. Had no integrity whatsoever. Just wanted to use me.”
“Sounds like a perfect match for you, then. No values. No real loyalty.”
He rocks back in his seat like I slapped him. “I know what right and wrong is. I just bend the rules to get the best out of life. But her? She thinks right is wrong and day is night. That’s different.”
“You really think you have the best out of life?”
“You really think you have the best out of life?” he shoots back. “If you had half a brain in your head, you’d take this money and start a new life, not pour it into the black hole of your father’s failures. You’ll never see a return.”
I feel like I could explode and my rage would blow up the whole airplane. “My father’s failures? How dare you talk about my father!”
“He’s dragging you down from beyond the grave. Save yourself. Jump ship. He’s dead. He won’t even know.”
I could reach over there and slap him. “Shut the fuck up, Grayson,” I whisper furiously.
“You just don’t want to hear the truth,” he hisses back. “Your father is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Why are you trying to keep him alive?”
I have to clamp my mouth shut to keep from screaming. Eventually, I muster up enough self-control to spit, “I really hate you, Grayson Fairfax. Now I remember why I hated you so much in school. I thought you’d changed, but I was wrong. Tragically wrong.”
“I’m remembering why I hated you, too. You’re stuck up and think you’re better than the whole world.”
I sneer. “Maybe not better than the whole world. But certainly better than the likes of you.”
“Aha, there it is!” He throws his hands up in the air and claps. A big fake smile stretches across his face. “It finally comes out. I knew you thought you were better than me. Well, don’t worry, Queen of Perfection, soon you’ll be away from this monster, clutching your fifty mil.”
“I don’t want your money,” I say. If we weren’t on an airplane now, I’d be walking. Someone give me a parachute, and I’m out of here. “I wouldn’t spend another second with you for a billion dollars. As soon as we land, I’m booking a flight. The deal is off.”
“Fine.” He’s gone eerily calm and pours himself yet anoth
er glass of champagne. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone or anything. Not even my father’s money. I’ve gotten through life fine by myself so far. Book your flight and scurry back to your sad little life. See if I give a shit.”
“Yeah, and you go back to your empty little life. Enjoy.” Then I flick on my Kindle, thrust the seat back to the lying position, and turn my back on him. Grayson Fairfax II can rot in hell, for all I care.
Chapter 11
Grayson
DAY 8
I can’t believe she’s leaving.
I watch her all through the immigration and customs lines and baggage collection for any sign of her changing her mind, but her mouth’s in this tight little knot and her eyes throw daggers. For fuck’s sake. Not only have I blown my chances for my father’s money, I’ve blown my chances with her. Until she got this angry, I didn’t think I’d care. But I want to tell her to stay. To tell her I’m sorry. To tell her to please give it another chance.
But feeling shit has never been my thing and never will be. I learned quick that caring brings nothing but pain and grief and who’s got time for that?
“I’ll buy your ticket for you,” I say as we’re finally free from all the lines and checks. We’re in the wide-open area of arrivals. “Look, departures are on the second floor. I’ll buy your ticket there.”
“With what money?” she says icily. “I’ll buy it myself, thanks. I’ll have to put it on the business account.”
“Fine. Let’s go.” I lead the way to the elevator. She stabs the button before I get a chance to press it. I keep taking covert glances at her. I realize that something she said was totally right. That maybe my life is empty after all. Because I feel like if she gets on that plane, I’m left with nothing. Like life would just be some hollowed-out piece of nothingness.
As we ride up in the elevator, dread churns in my stomach. I try to placate it by thinking of all the cool things I can do when she’s gone. Hit a couple bars. Flirt the night away. Make some new conquests. Yeah, I can do that. I’ll be all right. But my limbs are heavy. My thoughts are heavy. Everything feels so damn heavy.
I look at her. I wish I knew how to fix that pretty face back into a smile. She taps, taps, taps on the top of her luggage, agitated. As soon as the elevator opens, she launches out of it, like she can’t bear being around me for another second. Fuck. You’ve really gone and outdone yourself in the arsehole stakes now, Gray. Well fucking done.
I push the trolley with all our suitcases and follow her to the Virgin Atlantic desk. By the time I get there, she’s already saying, “Tomorrow morning? Are you sure there’s nothing sooner?”
The man taps on the computer and shakes his head. “Sorry, madam. The flight to Seattle left half an hour ago. We only make two flights a day there.”
She sighs deeply, then scrambles in her handbag for her purse. “I’ll book it. I’ll be the first person on that flight, trust me.”
“I’ll pay,” I say. If that would make her happy, at least I could do that. It would be Eddie’s money, but still.
“No, thank you,” she says tightly. “I’ve got this.”
And I’ve lost it. Lost her. Lost the billion. Lost the plot completely. Looks like I’ve lost myself, too. All that imagining of partying and flirting and drinking didn’t make a dent in the way I feel. Feel? What in the hell has happened to me?
“Great.” The transaction goes through. It’s the first time she’s smiled in what seems like forever. She takes the ticket from the guy and turns to me. Her smile evaporates. “I’ll get a hotel room here. Feel free to go.”
My mind whirs. “I’ll stay with you.”
“Like hell you will.”
“Not in the same room. But I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I don’t see you off.”
“When have you ever been a gentleman?” she scoffs, then looks at her phone. “Anyway, I’m getting a budget option. It wouldn’t be your thing.”
“I don’t want you to stay in a budget room,” I say. “You deserve the best. I want you to at least stay at the Hilton. I’m going to book it now.”
“But I need to save—”
“With my money. Yes, I have enough.” Before she can argue, I’m scoping the signs. The hotels are in the airport, but I can’t remember exactly where. I’ve stayed in the Hilton here before. “Oh, yes, there it is.” I spot the sign for the hotels. “Come on.”
She sighs, but thankfully she does as I tell her. “You spend money like water,” she complains. “I’ll bet your father’s billion will be gone within a couple years.”
“Wait, let me load your case onto the trolley.”
She pauses and grips the handle like she’s not sure whether to let me or not. But she does eventually. “Just because you’re being nice to me doesn’t mean the deal’s back on. You’ll have to find yourself another girl. You can’t manipulate me back into it.”
The thought had barely crossed my mind. This isn’t a Grayson Fairfax game. I’m not standing back in my power, manipulating everything to get what I want. I’m actually panicking. But I’m not going to let her see that, of course. I don’t know what to say. I think about it as we walk. “I respect you too much to try to manipulate you,” I say finally.
She blows out a stream of air through her lips in a contemptuous way. “Yeah. That’s probably another of your manipulation tactics. I wouldn’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”
Fuck. That’s a sharp dagger. For a split second, I think about coming back with my own weapon, much deadlier than hers. But as I turn to look at her, I can’t. I say something I don’t think I’ve ever said in my life. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to prove you can trust me.”
“I’ll walk on water before I trust you.”
Jesus.
Just about every man on the planet would give up on a woman with that kind of attitude. But I’m Gray Fairfax. When I want something, I do what it takes to get it. And I want her to trust me. “All right.” I’ll prove it to her. I will.
We walk along in silence for a while, the click-clack of her low heels rhythmic on the tiled airport floor. “The Hilton rates are probably extortionate,” she says. “Book one room. A twin room.”
“Are you sure you’ll be comfortable? Don’t worry about the money.”
She snorts. “That’s the kind of attitude that gets you broke. Book a twin room. Just don’t talk to me all night. Let me be. I want some space.”
And I just want to be close to you. I’m already imagining the room. How warm and cozy and clean and nice it’ll be. I want her in my arms, skin to skin. I want her riding my cock, her hair tousled, her breasts bouncing, her face enraptured with pleasure only I can give her. I want her to curl up into me in the night. I want her to be free. Like the time we fucked. I’ve never seen her look so… in her element. Powerful. Liberated. Like she could finally breathe.
This is so fucking weird. I’ve never cared about this kind of shit before. I don’t think I’ve ever really noticed, to be honest. You know, what a woman feels, or what’s going on in her head. It never crossed my mind to consider it. But now I’m trying to find the key to her mind. What’s she thinking? What’s she feeling? How do I make her feel better? How do I make her feel happy?
She’s still pissed as we enter the automatic doors of the Hilton and approach the front desk. I deal with it all and pay, and she can’t keep still. She walks up and down and looks at all the modern art prints on the walls. Then she walks to the elevator ahead of me.
“We’re on the third floor,” I say. I try to think of something that will break through her hard exterior, but nothing’s coming to me.
“Thank you for that enlightening piece of information. Fascinating.”
She has dark circles under her eyes. The look on her face tells me she just wants to shut the whole world out. Me included. I know that feeling. Sometimes after a long party and sex binge, I get it for days. I hole myself up in my room in my mansion and pretend the world doesn’t exist.
> When we get to the room, she practically runs to the bathroom, her cases discarded on the floor. The only thing she takes is her Kindle. “I’m going to soak in the tub,” she says. “Don’t expect to talk to me tonight. Don’t expect anything from me, OK? Just pretend I’m not here, and do whatever you’re doing.”
“Tell me if you need anything.”
She sighs, then leans against the doorframe. I think one of her walls has come down, somehow. She looks into my eyes, and her own are weary. But for the first time in a good few hours, she looks like she doesn’t hate my guts. “Just time alone,” she says.
I nod. “All right.” I find a smile somewhere and hope it’ll ignite hers. “I want you to feel better.”
She pauses, and her face changes. Her head cocks to one side. Her eyes look like they’re asking a question I can’t read. “Thanks, Gray.” The unspoken question infuses those words, too. “I’ll be a while.”
I nod. “Take your time.”
Chapter 12
Isabella
DAY 8
Now this is what you call a tub. It’s one of those big corner ones, with jacuzzi jets and lovely rounded corners that hug your body. The hot water is like liquid bliss around me and all is right with the world. I can literally feel the stress melting out of my brain and floating away in wisps along with the steam.
This is one of the luxuries I’ve missed in my current apartment. I used to have a lovely tub in my old place. Now I’ve got a tiny shower stall that makes me want to wash at lightning speed. That’s where I’ll be going back to. But it’s OK. I’ll be taking my integrity and values with me. I won’t be selling out myself and falling into a black hole in a distant, messed-up part of the universe where Grayson Fairfax II is a decent guy. I’ll be in my zone. Where it’s comfortable and safe and predictable. Where everything is black and white and straightforward.
I get lost in a novel and soon the water’s turning lukewarm. I feel so much more relaxed than when I slipped in. I get out and wrap myself in a towel. I don’t want to change back into my old clothes. They’re full of stress. I stare at them on the floor, and it’s like they pulse with it.