by Tara Leigh
I hear Eva’s quick intake of breath, the tap of her heels as she crosses the room. “Just so you know, the announcements and invitations went out this morning. Try to look a little . . .” Eva’s voice trails off and I look up, a flicker of annoyance tightening the cords in my neck. “Happier. This will all be over soon.”
She slips out of my office then, the door closing behind her with an efficient click, her parting words ricocheting around the room, thudding against the walls and windows until finally slamming into my chest.
This will all be over soon.
What if I don’t want it to end?
Not the actual wedding planning, of course. I don’t have time for tuxedo fittings and ring shopping—I have a company to run. But I’m definitely not ready to let go of Nixie. Not yet, maybe not ever.
Then again, am I ready to let go of the lifestyle I embraced before I ran into an alley after a tiny slip of a girl who is as spirited and gutsy as anyone I’ve ever met? Being Nash Knight isn’t a bad gig. I’m a player at the highest tier of the global financial markets. I have access to corporate secrets, limitless capital, and endless sexual favors. For the past decade I’ve triumphed in boardrooms all over the world, and in bed with international beauties after hours. Steamy one-night stands, brief but torrid affairs, illicit encounters in luxe bathrooms and dark corners of high-end bars. I’m a card-carrying member of the mile-high club and several of the more risqué, clothing-optional establishments across the globe.
Looking back, though, I barely remember faces, let alone names.
Nixie is like a tiny missing chip that somehow fills a chasm I didn’t even know existed. But does she fit into my cutthroat Wall Street world?
The upper echelon of international finance is a place where only the fittest survive. Don’t let the Botox and blowouts fool you—Wall Street wives are the ultimate gladiators. Here, regardless of gender, thick skin and a Machiavellian mind are fundamental elements of the dress code.
Nixie is not cunning, or ruthless. Despite personal tragedy, and an ornery spirit, there is a sweetness to her. A sweetness I’d hate to see diluted.
Circumstance has forced us from the starting block to the finish line without ever making our way around the track. She needs this marriage as much as I do . . . but what will we do afterward? Say our vows and then retreat to our separate corners until we can obtain a quiet divorce?
Is this . . . infatuation just a temporary thing? Will it only take another indiscriminate fling to get Nixie off my mind?
So many questions, and there’s no spreadsheet I can consult, or data I can analyze. Just me and Nixie. The blind leading the blind.
Chapter 18
Nixie
My phone lights up with a FaceTime call just as I’m getting into bed. “This is new,” I say to Nash when he appears on my screen. “I don’t think we’ve ever FaceTimed before.”
He must be calling from his computer, because I can tell the the camera is further away than his hand could reach. “We don’t have to. I can come over.”
I sigh. “It’s late. I’m already in bed.”
“Even better.”
“You think sex will make everything better?” I snap angrily. I hate that my body still craves Nash like an addict. Lying here, in a bed I know he’s shared with countless women, I shake and tremble—with desire and jealousy—my hand creeping between my legs as I recall, in excruciating detail, every lick and taste and touch.
Who is Nash having sex with now? Has he gotten another hotel room, or is he bringing women back to his penthouse apartment these days?
“Well, it can’t hurt.”
Kismet, hearing Nash’s voice, jumps onto the bed. When she doesn’t find him, she lies circles a few times and then lies down next to me with a disappointed sigh.
“What hurts is that you dug into my past while sharing next to nothing about your own. That’s really shitty, Nash.”
“Hold on.” Nash moves off screen and I recognize the view through his windows. He must be in his apartment. When he returns, he’s holding a baseball glove. “As a kid, I was pretty good at T-ball. I’d walk right up to home plate with my little bat, and the ball would be waiting for me, right on the tee. I’d swing, and connect every single time. Thought I’d get signed by the Yankees.”
He chuckles. “But then, I moved onto Little League, and my first game, I didn’t hit a single pitch. Not one. There was something about the ball not being right where I knew it would be. The unpredictability of having to adjust to a pitch in seconds—I’d swing too soon, or too late, or my aim was off.”
There’s a rough edge to Nash’s voice as he looks down at the glove in his hands, rubbing at the leather with his thumbs. “This was Scotty’s. After that first game, he took me to the park and I swear he must have thrown the ball to me a thousand times, until I finally got it. I connected. And then, he must have pitched a thousand time more, to make sure it stuck. Muscle memory, he told me. He made me keep at it until my muscles knew what to do on their own.”
He looks back at me, a wet gleam in his eyes I’ve never seen before. “When you saw the article I was reading about you, and you didn’t want to talk about your parents, I understood. Thinking about 9/11 hurts enough, but talking about that day, about my brothers . . .” He swallows. “Not talking about any of it became a habit, like muscle memory.”
I’m silent for a few minutes, taking in what he’s said. It makes sense. Perfect sense. “And how do you feel now?”
“Talking to you . . .” He bites on his lower lip, thinking. “It hurts, but not in a bad way.”
“What else do you remember about Scott?”
“He was the one who taught me how to make pancakes. Said that one day, he’d be out of the apartment and I needed to know so I could make mom her special Mother’s Day pancake breakfast.”
A sad smile trembles on my lips. “My parents always made me special birthday pancakes. Every time I eat them, it takes me back.”
“So when I made you pancakes that first morning . . .”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Some triggers are good, though. I don’t have many memories, but pancakes are a good one.”
“You have bad memories?”
“No. Not really. I mean, they’re not actual memories.” I shake my head. “There was so much coverage of the attack that it was impossible not to hear things. I’d have nightmares about my parents burning to death. Or jumping out of the window and landing on the street. I’d wake up screaming, seeing them covered in blood.”
“Is that why you fainted in the alley?”
“I think so. Probably. Or maybe it was just the culmination of that day. I think my body just shut down.”
“Do you still have nightmares?”
“Rarely. They finally stopped a few years ago.” My nightmares were one of the reasons I went to a local college and commuted from Pappi’s house. I was too embarrassed to move into a dorm. And, at the time, I was still so in love with Derrick. It was him I turned to at night to keep the monsters at bay.
Until he turned into a monster, too.
Misinterpreting the reason for my frown, Nash says, “I think that’s probably enough time in the past for tonight. I won’t keep you any longer.”
I resist into the urge to ask him to stay. Resist the even stronger urge to ask him to come over. He’s only a few blocks away. He could be here in minutes.
I’m not mad anymore. This is what I needed from Nash. An open-hearted conversation. A glimpse inside his mind.
“I’m glad you called, Nash. I know our wedding is just for show, but it’s only going to work if we both know what we’re getting into. No more secrets, okay?”
Staring at my reflection, I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me. For one thing, she’s wearing a wedding dress. The most beautiful wedding dress I’ve ever seen. Yards of silk and lace stitched together by hand, the overall effect ethereal and elegant.
“It’s a good thing you fit into the sample sizes. I
can work miracles, but even I can’t create a dress like this in your time frame,” Marcella Velasquez, owner of the eponymous Madison Avenue wedding salon, says with a discreet glance at my belly before bustling out of the dressing room. I can guess what she’s thinking. Most brides who buy their wedding dresses with just weeks to spare are probably pregnant.
Of course, that’s not the case in my situation. I’ve had sex with my fiancé exactly once, and he used protection.
She returns bearing a delicate tulle veil with intricate beading sewn into a jeweled headpiece that could have been worn by a Windsor princess.
Maybe it has. Her salon is so exclusive it isn’t open to the public. Potential clients are vetted before they’re allowed to make an appointment. And even then, permission to walk down the aisle in a Marcella dress isn’t a given . . . Unless you’re marrying Nash Knight, of course.
I bend my knees and Marcella pushes the tiny combs through my hair, arranging the long veil over my shoulders before bringing one of the translucent layers forward. With the tulle covering my face, my reflection is softer, the edges blurry. Better.
Behind this exquisitely woven veil, I can almost believe my own lies.
In a matter of weeks, Nash and I will vow to love, honor, and cherish each other— till death do us part.
A promise we have no intention of keeping.
“Well, now,” Marcella says, looking me up and down approvingly. “Don’t you just look a princess in a fairy tale. ”
Oh, I’m living a tall tale, all right. What would Marcella think if she knew the four letter word that starts with l and ends in ove has never even crossed Nash’s lips? Or mine. Our union is a solution to my problems.
The ultimate marriage of convenience.
But at least Nash and I are on speaking terms again. I’m glad he FaceTimed me the other night. And the next night and the night after that, despite being away on a business trip.
The downside to our late night chats is that my guard is slipping, as precarious as Madison’s pink princess tiara. And I need to remember that there won’t be a happily ever after, ride-off-into-the-sunset kind of ending for me. No matter how many times he’s come to my rescue, Nash isn’t Prince Charming, certainly not my Prince Charming.
He flew back to New York this morning. And tonight, we’re going to dinner.
A business dinner, apparently. But still, there are butterflies in my stomach when I think about seeing him face to face again.
Which I’m actually trying not to do right now. Because Eva, who clearly subscribes to the keep-your-friends-close-and-your-enemies-closer school of thought, is circling me, taking in every detail of the dress. She’s jumped into our wedding planning with a passion. And despite knowing her true motivation, I don’t mind. Having her around is just one more reminder that this wedding is merely an elaborate production. An act.
I need to remember my lines and play my part. This will all be over soon, and I’d like to exit the stage with my heart intact.
“I think this is the one,” Eva declares. “Definitely.”
I do, too . . . except for the price tag. It’s absolutely insane to spend fifty thousand dollars on a dress and veil I’ll only wear for a few hours at most, to celebrate a marriage that might not last until spring. “Eva, maybe I should wear something a little, um,” I struggle for a word to replace the one I want to say—cheaper, “simpler?”
“Why would you want to do that?” Eva sounds genuinely perplexed.
“I just think maybe we should keep things, you know, understated.” Even though our wedding is just a sham, it feels wrong to be walking down the aisle without my parents to witness it, or even Pappi. Getting married is supposed to be a momentous occasion, and I only know a handful of people on the guest list, including the man I’m marrying.
Her full-throated laugh fills the spacious room. “A Christmas Eve wedding. Profiles in the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, New York Post. A guest list that includes three hundred of the wealthiest, most successful financiers and socialites in Manhattan. Understated went out the window the second Nash put that rock on your hand.”
I glance at the ring encircling the third finger of my left hand, rubbing my thumb over the stunning whiskey-colored diamond surrounded by smaller, darker diamonds. It, too, is outrageously expensive. And meaningless. Nash didn’t even give it to me himself, sending it via messenger to the hotel, and highlighting the fact that our engagement and wedding are just one big charade.
A fake engagement. A sham of a wedding.
A lie dressed up in diamonds and lace . . .
Is still a lie.
“I will have the seamstress come in now, yes?” The almost imperceptible edge of impatience in Marcella’s tone brings me back to reality. Her list of clients includes Hollywood celebrities, New York debutantes, daughters of powerful politicians and European nobility. She doesn’t have time for indecisive brides.
Eva lifts my veil. “Yes?”
For god’s sake, just follow the damn script, Nixie.
I give a shaky nod. “Yes.”
As if they were waiting right outside the door, two tiny women dart into the room, hair pulled back from their faces in severe buns, sewing kits clutched in their hands. Speaking a language I don’t recognize, they kneel on either side of me, muttering quietly to themselves and pushing pins through the excess fabric at my waist as I hold my breath, anticipating the sharp sting of a needle with each inhale.
Marcella backs out of the room, promising to return with “lingerie guaranteed to make your husband refuse to leave your honeymoon suite.”
I don’t even know if we’re going on a honeymoon.
I certainly wouldn’t mind a repeat of the afternoon we shared in Bermuda, though. Thinking about it now, even surrounded by Eva and two seamstresses, Marcella coming in and out with frothy lace concoctions, has my heart thudding inside my chest, pounding against my ribs like it knows I’m driving downhill in a car with no brakes. No safety equipment at all.
The sharp stab of a pin draws me back to the present, and I lock eyes with Eva in the mirror. She’s sitting in the in the settee behind me now, her long legs crossed, phone held loosely in a perfectly manicured hand.
“You know, you really are going to make a beautiful bride,” she murmurs, the nostalgic tone to her voice slipping beneath my skin. “It’s really too bad we won’t be seeing each other after the wedding. I’m sure you’ll want to move far away from here once all the financial details get worked out with your parents’ will. Had circumstances been different, we might have become friends.”
Reading between the lines, Eva’s telling me to get the hell out of Dodge as soon as the deed is done. She needn’t bother. I’m as eager to leave as she is to see me go. Nash said he wouldn’t get back together with her, but I don’t believe him. Even without considering Madison and Parker, Eva is beautiful and poised. She fits into his world seamlessly.
Staying in New York will mean worrying about bumping into the happy insta-family around every corner. Logically, Eva is the best match for Nash. I know that. But the thought of actually seeing them together . . . it’s too much for my heart to bear.
Too late, I wish I’d swept the veil back over my face. “Eva, you don’t have to stay with me, I’m sure you have much more important things to do.”
“Nonsense. The twins’ school isn’t far from here and I have to pick them up in an hour or so anyway.”
“Oh.” I manage a half-hearted attempt at a smile. “That’s great, then.” One hour. I can do that.
I don’t really know what to say to Eva.
Thanks for letting me marry the guy you want for yourself. I promise I’ll give him back soon.
That doesn’t exactly seem right.
Thanks for helping with my fake wedding, I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.
Better, I guess. But what I really want to say is something like, Back off, bitch. Nash might not know it yet, but he’s mine.
Except that he’s not.
Although Eva was blunt to the point of rudeness during our solo breakfast in Bermuda, her reasons for wanting Nash make sense. He’s the closest thing to a father her kids will ever have, and he already loves them as if they’re his own. I know only too well what it’s like to grow up without parents. How can I, of all people, be so selfish as to put my desires above two of the cutest four-year-olds I’ve ever met?
And Eva is right about me, too. I’d rather run from my problems than face them head on. What kind of wife will I be to Nash?
A terrible one.
No. No matter how much I wish things could be different, I need to remember that I’m a mere placeholder. Nash is my fiancé, but he isn’t mine. And he never will be. He deserves better. Or, at least, better-suited.
Eva’s phone pings as we walk out of the shop. Holding a finger up, she whispers, “must be about the kids” and puts it to her ear. A brief exchange follows and when she ends the call, there’s a worried look on her face. “Parker seems to be having a reaction to this supposedly all natural Play-Doh the teacher brought in. Do you mind if Jay brings me to the school to pick him up before taking you wherever you need to go?”
The Navigator is parked right outside the door to the shop. “Of course not.”
Jay slips out of the driver’s seat and comes around the bumper to open the door. Eva quickly explains the situation and jumps into the backseat. I nearly follow her, stopping just a second before my foot leaves the curb. “Actually, I think I’m going to window shop along Fifth Avenue for a little while.”
Jay’s face darkens. “Boss won’t like that.”
I gesture at the crowded sidewalks, the sunny sky. “Tell Nash I promise not to rush into any dark alleys, okay?”
From inside the SUV, I hear Eva pick up her phone again. “Madison has the rash, too? Yes, yes, I’m coming. Be right there.”
“Jay, I’ll be fine. Eva needs you much more than I do right now.” The look on his face makes it clear he’d much rather stay with me than help Eva deal with dual allergy attacks, but he gives a resigned nod and shuts the door, jogging to the other side of the car.