Under Wraps

by Louisa Keller

  Even at the fanciest restaurant in town, we were still in the Pacific Northwest.

  “Good evening,” said the host, grabbing a couple of menus and weaving between tables as he led Ainsley and I to a plush booth.

  “Do you have anything a bit more…secluded?” Ainsley asked, glancing around at all the people seated nearby.

  My heart flip-flopped in my chest.

  Why the hell am I so excited about getting him alone? I asked myself. This is ridiculous.

  Except it wasn’t, really.

  Because this was the first time in years that I could remember wanting someone the way I wanted Ainsley. The rasp of his voice, the controlled way he carried himself, the hurt that was so stark on his face even as he tried to hide it…I was captivated by all of it.

  The server nodded curtly and said, “We just had a cancellation for our private dining room.”

  I opened my mouth to say that we didn’t need that much privacy, but Ainsley was quicker.

  “That sounds lovely, thank you.”

  And all at once—wham, bam—we were sitting at a table for two in a tastefully-decorated room away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the restaurant.

  Let me break this down for a second.

  Like the rest of Mangeons, the private dining room featured a polished concrete floor and exposed pipes on the ceiling. But there was also an exposed brick wall, artfully rugged and unbelievably aesthetic, plus goddamn candles burning away in sleek holders on the walls.

  The table itself was covered in candles as well, flickering intimately in the dimly-lit room. There was no other word for it: this was mood lighting.

  And fuck.

  I was about to spend an hour sitting across from Ainsley in the most romantic room I had ever seen.

  Things like this never happened to me, you know?

  My life up to that point had been fairly average, save for the catastrophe that ravaged my entire world eight years earlier. If I had to summarize my experiences, I would have to say they stayed fairly neutral.

  I was okay with that, really.

  But it made this whole situation with Ainsley feel kind of…disconcerting.

  “Have a seat,” Ainsley said, pulling out my chair for me.

  Jesus Christ.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled, sitting down and smiling nervously at him.

  He took his own seat across from me, and we accepted menus from the server.

  “Can you have the sommelier recommend something for us?” Ainsley asked.

  “Of course,” said the server. “Red or white?”

  Ainsley glanced at me, quirking an eyebrow. “Your choice, Carson.”

  “Oh,” I said, caught off guard. “Uh…white I guess?”

  “Excellent. I’ll be back to take your order once you’ve had a chance to look over the menu.”

  And then we were alone together, Ainsley and I. Alone in a fucking candlelit room that was probably going to cost a fortune.

  I glanced down at the menu and was bombarded with a barrage of French food.

  Cue my mouth watering.

  “I had no idea you could get French cuisine in Ponderosa,” I said, flicking my eyes up in time to see Ainsley smiling.

  “That makes two of us,” he replied warmly. “I must say, it has been quite a while since I have treated myself to a meal like this.”

  “Oh?”

  Somehow, I had been assuming that his entire life was comprised of a string of glamorous meals, prestigious galas, and rubbing shoulders with New York’s socialites.

  “I generally don’t have time,” he elaborated, “what with all my work obligations.”

  “What does your work involve?” I asked, suddenly burning with curiosity.

  “All sorts of things,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “I run a philanthropic foundation that provides aid to communities around the world that fall prey to natural disasters and acts of mass violence.”

  My right hand went automatically up to my left shoulder, rubbing at it absently as I took in his words.

  “So, you give money to people who need it?” I shook my head, barking out a little laugh. “God, I’ve never met a generous billionaire before. Well, actually, I’ve never met any billionaire before.”

  Ainsley’s face did something complicated, like a dozen different emotions were chasing each other around, fighting for dominance.

  “Money is only as meaningful as the good it can do for those in need,” he said at last. “I came into an inheritance at eighteen, and the only way I could live with myself was to turn that money into something good. I simply couldn’t bear the thought of keeping it for myself.”

  Well, fuck.

  Now I was even more hopelessly attracted to him.

  “And your job is to manage that money?” I prompted him.

  “Well, not quite. The first thing I did when getting my foundation off the ground was to hire people who were more knowledgeable about finances than I am. Beau and I found people to do all the jobs we were incapable of doing ourselves, and then we divided up the remaining work. I focus on international affairs, approving requests for aid, checking in with project managers, sometimes I even have the opportunity to go visit the communities we are helping. Beau does the same thing within the United States.”

  “Holy shit,” I muttered. “That’s, like, insanely cool. You know that, right?”

  He looked me right in the eyes, his gaze piercing and honest.

  “It is the best way I can think of to use my wealth and privilege. That’s all.”

  Generous and humble, not a typical combination.

  And god, he was everything I had never dared to even imagine wanting.

  I wanted to lean across that table and reel him in for a kiss, consequences be damned.

  I wanted to tell him that nobody had lit me up from the inside like this in my entire goddamn life.

  I wanted to be the person to make that tension in his shoulders melt away.

  “Ainsley…” I trailed off, not even sure what I was trying to say.

  He leaned forward, his fingers brushing mine, and said, “I would rather hear about you than talk about myself.”

  I blinked at him.

  “Me? I’m really not that interesting.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, shaking his head. “I refuse to believe that.”

  There was a pause while I tried to think of something to tell him, some aspect of my life that could possibly interest this incredible philanthropist.

  “I, uh, work at a used bookstore in Seattle,” I told him.

  “I love bookstores,” he said with a smile. “Particularly the ones where you can truly lose yourself in shelf-upon-shelf, just really get absorbed.”

  Which was exactly how I felt as well.

  “Right,” I went on, “I’ve always loved that. Ever since I was a little kid, you know? My dad used to take me to this little used bookstore every Saturday, just the two of us, and we’d pick out a book together. When I was really little it was stuff like The Berenstain Bears and Amelia Bedelia, and when I got a bit older I was really into Goosebumps and Animorphs. Ever since then I’ve been obsessed with bookstores, and when I finished college and moved to Seattle with my friends, I started visiting this quirky little shop all the time. I was there so often that they offered me a job.”

  “You must have a formidable book collection of your own, spending so much time around used books.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, thinking of the cramped shelves in my bedroom. “I’m a sucker for anything leather bound, so I tend to buy those before they even hit the store’s shelves. My boss doesn’t really mind as long as I pay up, and he gives me a pretty hefty discount.”

  “That sounds like a wonderful place to work,” Ainsley mused. “It’s so lovely to have a good relationship with your employer.”

  I nodded, my chest feeling full and warm.

  “I’m really lucky, I have a lot of great people in my life. My friends, my boss, Sydney…n
o matter what else is going on, I have an incredible support network.”

  “I envy you that,” Ainsley said seriously.

  “Oh, come on, you must have friends, right?”

  He made a noncommittal noise, and my heart sank.

  “My work is all that I need,” he told me. “I start working before the sun comes up, and I stay at the office past dusk.”

  “You don’t have days off?” I pressed.

  He let out a humorless laugh.

  “When I take a day off, that is one more day a community has to wait for aid. I see Beau a few days a week, and my assistant is in the office nearly as often as I am. But I would rather be working, making the world a better place, than fostering relationships with people who may or may not bother to stick around.”

  His words sat between us on the table, cold and heavy.

  “God,” I murmured, “you’re a literal billionaire and you’re the loneliest person I’ve ever met. I guess money doesn’t actually buy happiness.”

  And just like that, his expression softened.

  “My money buys happiness for other people. That is good enough for me.”

  I ached for him.

  “You know it doesn’t have to be one or the other, right?” I offered. “You can help other people and still make time for your own happiness. You deserve that, Ainsley.”

  “I deserve that?” he asked bemusedly. “You have only just met me, Carson. How can you say that with such certainty?”

  “Because…I can just tell, okay? I look at you and I see someone kind, someone who cares deeply about others, even though others haven’t always cared for him. I’m a great judge of character. Believe me when I say that you deserve good things, okay?”

  He pursed his lips, thinking it over.

  At long last he whispered, “I will try.”

  Which was the moment when I tumbled past the point of no return.

  It was clearly such a big deal for him to even consider believing that he was worthy of good things, or love and affection and companionship.

  All at once, it became my mission: help Ainsley to see his own worth.

  Our eyes locked once more, and my pulse sped up.

  God, I was fucking gone on him.

  Flashback

  There’s a look that doctors have on their faces before they deliver bad news.

  It’s a mix of professional detachment and sympathy, and it saturates the entire room, thick and cloying, until you can’t breathe.

  I saw that look three times that day, each time on a different doctor’s face. Grouping them together in a sentence like that, it minimizes the blow that occurred each time. Let me rephrase.

  At 12:57 pm, I saw that look on a doctor’s face.

  “Despite all of our best efforts, we were unable to resuscitate him…”

  At 3:22 pm, I saw that look on a doctor’s face.

  “She succumbed to the full extent of her injuries…”

  At 9:38 pm, I saw that look on a doctor’s face.

  “She has fallen into a permanent vegetative state, tests show minimal brain activity…”

  They all thought they were delivering the worst news of my life. And they were right.

  The first time someone you love dies, it is the worst feeling in the world. When it happens again two and half hours later, that horrendous layering of grief far outstrips the original pain of the first death. And six hours on, the third blow…well, that was the worst of all.

  Because dead is dead, there’s nothing you can do.

  But an irreversible coma leaves you with choices, terrible choices you should never have to make for someone you love.

  There’s a look that doctors have on their faces before they deliver bad news.

  And it will haunt you for the rest of your life.

  6

  Ainsley

  When I was thirty-three I met the woman of my dreams. Callie was optimistic and funny, adventuresome and courageous, everything I wanted in a partner. Our love burned bright and hot, and for one shining year, I knew what it was to be half of one whole. In the end, of course, my work got in the way. As much as I wanted to be home with Callie, or treating her to fairytale date nights, I simply could not justify taking time away from the office. People all around the world needed me, and I was unwilling to put my desires above their needs.

  Things ended amicably enough, though Callie and I both knew that I had hurt her deeply with my neglect. I vowed at that point never to take advantage of another woman’s patience, never to lead another woman on when I was incapable of prioritizing her over my work. For twelve long years, I had never wavered. And then I met Carson.

  Sitting there in the private dining room at Mangeons, staring across the candlelit table at this gorgeous, compassionate man, I remembered why I had taken a chance on loving Callie in the first place. Sometimes, a person enters your life and takes hold of your heart right off the bat, refusing to let go. They draw you in and give you life. And it always happens when you least expect it, out of the blue, stunning you like a frying pan to the temple. Carson—I couldn’t specify exactly what it was about him that made my pulse race, but he was extraordinary in every way. I knew it on a cellular level.

  I suppose I should have been fretting over the fact that he was a man. Not because there was anything wrong with two men being together, but rather because I had never realized that I had the capacity to fall for a man. I didn’t have a carefully-hidden history of sleeping with my roommate at boarding school or dragging anonymous men into the backrooms of elite New York City gay clubs. I had spent most of my life pushing away romance altogether, allowing myself the pleasure of one-night stands with nameless women, but nothing more. Only Callie had ever managed to tempt me to give a relationship a try. Until my first evening at Abshire Manor, I had no idea that I was attracted to men.

  But dear lord, was I ever attracted to Carson. His sweet smile, all straight white teeth and a hint of laughter in his eyes; the expanse of tan skin covering his body, unblemished and beautiful; the way he held himself, exuding a confidence that combined with his short, stocky build to make him look strong, determined, worldly. Most importantly, his words were carefully chosen, disarmingly honest, and unwaveringly genuine. I wanted to spent the entire week picking his brain, asking him question after question just to hear what he had to say. These feelings had lain dormant within me for years upon years, but rather than feeling overwhelmed, I found myself relaxing into the tide of emotions. The permeating rightness negated any potential fear.

  I got caught up in the moment, barely registering the pause as we ordered our meals, or the interruption of the sommelier bringing in the wine. Carson was the only thing I could see.

  “How’s your…uh…whatever that is?” he asked, gesturing toward my plate with his spoon.

  My eyes flicked down to the food, as if confirming what I had actually ordered. “It’s coq au vin.”

  A devilish smirk settled over his features. “Cock, huh?”

  “Don’t be plebian,” I teased him, spearing a bite on my fork and holding it out to him. “It is chicken that has been cooked in wine. One of my favorite French dishes, and they have executed it perfectly. Try a bite.”

  I expected him to take the fork from me. But Carson, lovely Carson just leaned forward and opened his mouth. I slid the bite of chicken into his mouth, watching transfixed as he closed his eyes, letting out a little moan of satisfaction. Too occupied with admiring him all evening, I had barely tasted my own meal, but if his reaction was anything to go by, it was exquisite.

  “That’s the best thing anyone has ever put in my mouth,” he sighed, and to my utter embarrassment, my cock perked up. There I was, a dignified businessman, getting hard at the dinner table watching a man seventeen years my junior enjoy a bite of food.

  “Is it better than your meal?” I asked hoarsely, praying to any deity that might be out there to keep Carson from noticing that I was unraveling.

  “You tell me,” he
said, scooping up a spoonful of his bœuf bourguignon and feeding it to me. Again, I am quite sure that it was magnificent, but I hardly tasted it, distracted as I was by Carson’s expression. His eyes were locked on mine, intense as anything, and all at once I just knew. He wanted me as well.

  “Delicious,” I managed to get out, and he smiled beatifically, as if he had cooked it himself.

  “My dad used to make bœuf bourguignon for Christmas Eve every year. My sister and Mom and I would all gather around to watch him light the stew on fire, the bourbon turning blue…it’s kind of seared into my memory, you know?”

  “I can imagine,” I said softly, having no such memories of my own family at the holidays. “It sounds lovely, Carson.”

  He looked wistfully up at me, an edge of bittersweetness, and I remembered that he had told me in the barn about losing his family. I was not clear on what had happened—perhaps they kicked him out? Or had they passed away? It was not my place to ask, not at that point, and I had no desire to ruin our dinner with painful memories.

  “Ainsley?” he said, peering up at me with a gentle smile.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for inviting me out to dinner.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” I told him honestly.

  “Well,” he said, his eyes glinting with mischief, “maybe not all yours.”

  “Carson—”

  “Can I say something?” he interrupted. “Something that might be way off base?”

  “You can say anything to me,” I replied, my heart rabbiting in my chest.

  He placed his hand carefully on the table, just an inch away from one of my own. I would feel him, even with that tiny bit of space between us. It was like our hands were shooting off static electricity, brushing each other without even touching.

  “I might be reading this wrong,” he began, “it might all be in my head. So, like, feel free to tell me that I’m completely out of line or whatever.”

  You are not reading this wrong, I thought fervently.

  But what came out of my mouth was, “Try me.”

  A smile curled around his lips.