An Improper Ever After

by Nadia Lee

  “Oh, before I forget…” He reaches into the letter holder on the corner of the counter and pulls out an envelope. He checks inside, grunts and hands it to me.

  “What’s this?” I say after swallowing a mouthful of cereal.

  “A cashier’s check for twenty-five thousand dollars. That should be enough to cover whatever you owe Grayson.”

  I stare at the envelope. “It’s probably too much.”

  He shrugs. “He can keep the change so long as he leaves you alone.” Elliot reaches over and places his hand on mine. The contact feels so solid and warm, I lean forward, tilting my chin to look at him.

  “You want to deal with him, so I’m not going to stop you. But promise me I’ll be the first to know if you need help. I don’t want you to feel that you have to take care of him on your own. I’m happy to stand by your side.”

  The offer touches me deeply. I can’t remember the last time somebody vowed to be on my side and really meant it. Certainly none of my friends from Lincoln City did, even after talking about being best friends forever and whatnot. The firm tone of his voice and unwavering gaze tell me Elliot will back me up no matter what.

  I can’t help myself. I turn my hand over and squeeze his, leaning closer. He is voiding all the rules I’ve established for myself in the last two years so I could survive on my own. Normally it would freak me out, but right now I’m grateful I have him on my team.

  “Thank you, Elliot,” I murmur.

  “My pleasure.”

  I finish breakfast, our hands linked the entire time. When Elliot finally has to leave to attend to business, I sit at the counter, staring at the envelope that contains the check. Seeing Mr. Grayson is going to be an unpleasant task. But for our sake…for our new start, I need to do this.

  Girding my loins, I call him…and ask for an appointment.

  Why, as luck would have it, he has an hour free today around eleven. Would I like to see him then, at the café where we always meet? It would please him immensely to see how I’m doing.

  His empty words make my skin crawl. Still, I speak as though I’m calm, totally self-possessed. Of course I would. I’m thrilled he’s looking forward to our meeting.

  My hand starts to clench around the check, but I stop myself in time. One more meeting…

  Then I will be free of Mr. Grayson.

  Chapter Twenty

  Annabelle

  The last time I was at this café, Mr. Grayson wanted me to be a stripper to snag Elliot’s interest. He also bought me coffee, since I didn’t have any money back then.

  This time I pay for my own coffee—a latte—and scan the patrons for the familiar ordinary face.

  There.

  Mr. Grayson is in a corner with a cup of coffee himself. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray suit with a neatly knotted blue tie. His dress shirt is white cotton, only a few shades lighter than his office-worker skin. His brown hair is professionally cropped—a cut you could get from any competent barber—and his brown eyes hold neither friendliness nor hostility. His features are even, but nothing stands out as particularly well formed. The overall effect is one of…singular ordinariness. Assessing him from across the café, I can see him as an insurance company clerk doing his job…or a car salesman doing his job…or any other everyday guy doing any other commonplace job. I always thought it was sort of sad that he was so unremarkable, but I now see it’s an advantage. He’s a chameleon. He can pretend to be anybody he wants, and no one will look twice.

  I take the empty seat at the two-person table and place my purse in my lap. He looks me over with a thoroughness that’s almost rude—from my opalescent sheath dress to the platinum chain around my neck and the diamond studs in my ears. I’m glad I took care with my appearance this morning, although I didn’t do it just for him. I have another meeting later.

  His lips quirk mockingly as he takes in my carefully made-up face. The reaction raises my hackles. I know I look good—better than good. I’m no longer the poor girl who depended on him to put food on the table and keep her younger sister away from predators. I remind myself he has every reason to undermine me before we start. How else is he going to get me to do what he wants?

  Without preamble, I pull out the envelope from my purse and slide it toward him across the faux-wood table. “Here. The money I owe you.” I take a quick sip of coffee.

  “I thought I made it clear I need more than money in return.”

  “And I’m making it clear that this is all you’re getting. Sue me if you don’t like it.”

  “You’re entirely too confident.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you mean. What you asked for is illegal anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m certain,” I bluff. I’m only about ninety percent sure. I’d like to think that Mr. Grayson is wrong, but sometimes the law surprises me with what is and isn’t allowed.

  Not even an eyelash twitches as he checks the amount. “Math. Still not your forte. This is too much.”

  “Keep the change,” I say, throwing Elliot’s words at him. “A tip for services rendered. Now listen to me. We aren’t going to see each other again after this.”

  Mr. Grayson taps the envelope once with his index finger, the motion surprisingly decisive. “If you do this, you’re going to sever everything with me. You won’t be able to turn to me for help the next time you get into trouble.”

  “I want to sever everything with you. I don’t want your kind of help anymore.”

  “Why? Do you believe your husband is going to be with you forever?” He sips his coffee thoughtfully. “You’re a pretty girl, Annabelle, but not that pretty.”

  “Think whatever you want,” I say. “You’re not important anymore.”

  He tilts his head and regards me for a moment. “You honestly believe what you have with him is going to work?”

  “I do.”

  “You love him.”

  “Yes.”

  “He doesn’t love the women who love him.”

  “You don’t know anything about him.”

  “Oh?” He laughs coldly. “Tell me something. Does he trust you? If I were to hug you and he were to walk in and see us, would he think nothing of it or would he become furious and accuse you of”—he rolls a hand carelessly—“betraying him?”

  Mr. Grayson’s barb hits home, and I put my hands on the edge of the table to steady them. “He trusts me,” I say, but even to my own ear, my voice lacks conviction. But Elliot must trust me. Otherwise he had no reason to want to continue our marriage without the contract. I’m not letting Mr. Grayson sow doubts in my mind.

  “Sure. I’ve looked into him, and I know things he doesn’t suspect are public.”

  My breath stops for a moment. Elliot asked if I’d told Mr. Grayson about the marriage deal, but I never did. He’s been aware of it from the very beginning. And Annabelle Underhill knows, too. “Do you work for Underhill?” I ask.

  Genuine confusion clouds his gaze. “Who?”

  “Annabelle Underhill.”

  He smiles. “The only Annabelle I know is you.”

  “Julian Reed, then?” Elliot’s father is the next most logical choice.

  “I’ve never even met the man.”

  Squinting, I take in his measure. Mr. Grayson is no open book, but I don’t think he’s lying. “How did you know Elliot needed to marry?”

  “How much is my answer worth to you?”

  I gesture at the check. “The extra not enough for you?”

  “You know I can’t tell you anything without commensurate remuneration.”

  I snort. Commensurate remuneration. “I’m not owing you anything after I just got out from under.”

  “At least you aren’t a complete idiot.” Amusement glitters in his eyes. “You used to be pretty…impulsive.”

  “What I was was desperate, and you took advantage of that.”

  “You would’ve done the same if you were me.” He picks up the check between thumb
and forefinger. “Last chance. You really want to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  He pockets it. “Then we’re finished. Don’t ever contact me again, Annabelle.”

  I blink as every muscle in my body abruptly goes lax. “That’s it?”

  He turns mildly snide. “What did you expect? A drill to the kneecaps?”

  I recoil. He’s closer to the truth than I’d like. Kneecaps weren’t on my list, but I’ve been bracing myself for something unpleasant.

  He laughs. “I’m not in that sort of business. I am, after all, a gentleman.” He stands and starts to walk past, then leans over and whispers, “Don’t come crying to me when things don’t work out with Elliot.”

  I watch him leave, trying to process what just happened. I’m grateful he didn’t get violent or nasty, but he seems awfully confident about me and Elliot breaking up. I shake my head. Of course he is. He wants me destitute again so he can offer up some money and turn me into a puppet. I’m not going to let his poisonous remarks get to me. Elliot and I just made a commitment to each other, and I’m not giving Mr. Grayson that much power.

  I toss the coffee, which has gone lukewarm, and leave. Paige and I have a lunch appointment in half an hour.

  Although we don’t know each other well, she suggested lunch when I called and asked to see her. She chose a venue and texted the info to me along with a note that we have a reservation for twelve thirty. Being Ryder Reed’s wife undoubtedly comes with some perks—mainly getting a table at any restaurant in the city.

  The Italian bistro is pretty, with black wrought-iron gates and a faux-ivy fence around the outdoor seating area. The intricate workmanship evokes an old European feel, and the interior is bright and sharp, with terra cotta walls and tables covered with pristine linen cloths. The chairs are large and padded, and a crisply dressed hostess takes me to a corner table immediately. I glance through the window. It’s pretty outside, the usual fabulous L.A. weather, and there are plenty of empty seats. Then I remember Paige probably doesn’t want to be photographed. As Ryder Reed’s wife, she’s a person of great interest in Hollywood, and often hounded by unscrupulous “media.”

  “Your party isn’t here yet,” the hostess says as she pulls out my chair.

  “I’m early.” She places a leather-bound menu in front of me. Another staff member comes over and pours water. “I’ll just wait until…” I gesture at the empty chair opposite me.

  “No problem.”

  I flash her a quick smile and sip the cold water. The operatic duet coming from the sound system is lovely, male and female voices soaring effortlessly, complementing each other. I browse the menu, flipping through the thick, expensive paper. The script is elegant and moneyed. Everything about the bistro says wealth.

  I’m perusing the long list of salads when Paige arrives. She’s nothing like your usual celebrity type. Her face is pretty in an everyday woman kind of way, and she’s curvy and soft, with a silhouette that reminds me of a voluptuous beauty from the past. She fits in perfectly at the bistro.

  Right now she is obviously pregnant. A teal-blue pleated dress drapes over her rounded belly and stops two inches above her knees. A pair of blue topaz chandelier earrings and a matching necklace sparkle on her.

  “Hi, Annabelle. Have you been waiting long?”

  I put aside the menu. “No. I just got here.”

  “Oh good. I hate it when I make people wait.”

  “Not your fault that I’m early.”

  She grins. “Still.”

  When the server arrives, we order. I was planning on being healthy, but then I spot the angel hair pasta with clams in a truffle cream sauce. Paige gets pizza with fresh mozzarella and prosciutto.

  “I’m surprised you called,” she says after we get our drinks—a pitcher of peach-infused iced tea. “I didn’t think you would.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  She flushes. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem pretty reserved, nothing like what I imagined.”

  “You mean, I don’t fit the stereotype of a brash stripper who also does cake work?”

  Paige’s flush deepens.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Please.”

  “I feel bad because I judged…albeit unconsciously.”

  I wave it away. There’s a bit of a silence, and then I can’t wait any longer. “Paige…why did you tell Elliot what you overheard in the bathroom?”

  She’s spared from having to answer when our food arrives. The kitchen must be working extra fast. I take a bite of my pasta. It’s divine, the clams cooked to perfection so the meat is tender and succulent without any grit.

  Paige nibbles on a slice of pizza, then puts it down. “I told him because I didn’t want it to ambush either of you later. From Elliot’s reaction, it didn’t sound like you’d mentioned it at all.”

  “I didn’t have a chance. At least,” I say, hedging a bit, “not a good one.”

  Her eyes soften. “A good chance never just presents itself. You have to make one happen.”

  I say nothing.

  “Annabelle…can I give you a little advice? Marriage to men as extraordinary as ours can be as demanding as a full-time job. In addition to the usual spouse stuff you deal with privately, there’s scrutiny and judgment—people wondering whether or not we ‘deserve’ men like Ryder and Elliot.” She takes a bite of pizza and chews deliberately before swallowing. “I know what it’s like and how overwhelming it is. And I do not appreciate Annabelle Underhill threatening you that way. She has no right. Nobody does.” Paige’s eyes narrow.

  “I’m sure you figured out she’s Elliot’s ex,” I murmur.

  “I don’t care if she’s Elliot’s soul mate. She doesn’t get to talk to you that way, and you shouldn’t keep something like that to yourself. Elliot should know who’s trying to hurt you. He can help. Surely you realize that.”

  I nod.

  “Lean on him. He’ll take care of you.”

  “I didn’t want to be a user,” I murmur, since I can’t tell her about the whole mess that was festering between us then.

  “Tell me something.” Paige is contemplative as she finishes the first slice and reaches for another. “If Elliot wanted you to be there for him, would you?”

  I answer without hesitation. “Of course.”

  “Have you ever thought maybe he feels the same way?”

  I shake my head. “You know the circumstances of our marriage.”

  “Yes, but Elliot wouldn’t have married you if there wasn’t some part of him that really wanted to. Do you know how long he went around, prowling the strip clubs? If the only thing he cared about was his wife being a stripper, he would’ve found one on the first try.”

  A memory from last night flashes through me. He wanted a new start—a genuine reboot, with no contract hanging over us. He didn’t say he loved me, but he was doing all the things a man would do for a woman he cares for deeply.

  “When Ryder and I got engaged, people said horrible things about me, and there were some who wanted us to fail,” Paige continues. “Instead of turning to Ryder, I told myself I could handle it, but really…I couldn’t. Me trying to do everything on my own almost drove us apart. There’s no point in having a relationship with someone if you’re going to be on your own anyway when it matters the most.”

  “You are wise, Mistress Yoda.”

  She gives me the voice. “Want you to learn the hard way, I did not.”

  I laugh. “Thank you.”

  Last night, when I agreed to do away with the contract, I was apprehensive that I was setting myself up for a bigger heartbreak and pain. But now I’m hopeful…

  Hopeful that Elliot and I can make this work so long as we both want it badly enough.

  * * *

  Elliot

  Elizabeth’s photographers come through. I get an email with access information to all the pictures taken at the charity dinner.

  Seated in my office, I go through them meticulously. All I nee
d is a couple that can help me spin a good story, but I don’t dare assign my assistant to this. He’s good, but he doesn’t know everything about my ugly background. And I’d rather not hash it out with him.

  The photographers captured several shots with Belle and me together. She’s smiling in every one of them, but her eyes…they are either empty or in pain. I remember her telling me she didn’t feel well. Regret unfurls as I study her expression. It’s all my fault. Next time we go out in public, I plan to have her glowing. She deserves that.

  Finally, I spot the perfect photo. Annabelle Underhill and I are together, her hand over my chest. Her eyelashes lowered and her mouth parted, she looks coyly sexual. My lip curls with distaste. Some would find the expression seductive; to me, it’s approximately as enticing as a turd—which is about where she ranks in my world.

  With this picture, I have the final piece I need. My ex’s biggest error is assuming that I actually give a fuck about her feelings. My next move will ensure she never makes the same mistake again.

  I put the picture with the others I’ve gathered and type up some notes. They’re concise, sticking to verifiable facts. Facts alone are sufficient to provide drama.

  I hear the door open outside. The clock on my computer reads three thirty-six. Belle must be home.

  Hurriedly, I finish the document, attach it and the photos to an email and hit send. This should be enough to get the vultures excited.

  Just when I close my laptop, Belle knocks on the door and sticks her head in. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Nothing’s more important than you.” I gesture for her to come in, unable to do anything but smile at the lovely flush on her cheeks. She’s beautiful in a shimmery sheath dress that hugs her gorgeous, curvy body just right, accentuating every mouth-watering line. Her loose hair frames her face like silk spun from rubies, and her green eyes are sparkling brighter than the diamond earrings she’s wearing. Maybe her meeting with Grayson went better than expected. I hope he tripped and broke both legs. “What’s up?”

  “I got a call from Jana!”

  I stop for a moment, trying to place the name.