by T. K. Leigh
“So how did one wedding date turn into a career of empowering women, as you like to put it?” I ask, not wanting to dwell on my recent breakup with Trevor.
“Not long after that weekend, I started getting other requests to accompany more women to important events, mostly weddings. Now, over fifteen years later, it’s evolved into more than accompanying them for a weekend wedding. Some women hire me for a month at a time to help them through a difficult time in their lives. As you’ve found out, you can’t run an Internet search and book me. It’s all by referral. My clients require a certain level of privacy, as do I. What keeps me in business is the fact that the only people who know who I am are my clients. To everyone else, I’m simply an old friend of the family or wealthy donor to whatever cause the family is championing at the moment.”
“And no one’s put the pieces together?”
“I do believe that’s another question, Miss Fitzgerald.”
“No. Simply a necessary follow-up.”
There’s a lightness in his tone when he answers. “I like you. I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy talking to you.”
“So you agree to do the story?”
“I swore I’d never do this, but there’s something about you that intrigues me, so yes, I’ll agree.”
“And I can publish what you tell me?”
“Unless I tell you it’s off the record. And I’ll require strict approval before it’s printed. This is non-negotiable. Under no circumstances are you to reveal any information that may allow people to figure out my true identity. My anonymity is all I have, the only thing that keeps me doing this.”
“Absolutely. Not a problem.” I can’t help but beam, my eyes lighting up. I want to dance, shout, tell the world I was somehow able to get August Laurent to agree to have a story written about him. I have no idea what angle this will take, but from this brief conversation, I get the feeling he’s interesting enough that any angle will have women flocking to read the article.
“On that, I’ll let you get on with your day. I always say to leave on a high note. And I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as the smile on your face right now.”
A warmth spreads through me at his words. It takes me a minute to grasp the hidden meaning. When I do, I shoot up, my heart racing as I feverishly scan the crowded coffee shop for any man on his phone.
“Have a good day, Buttercup.”
“Wait!” I beg, but my plea is met with silence. I look at my screen to see the call’s been disconnected. I hastily gather my things, shoving them into my bag, when a woman wearing the café’s uniform approaches.
“For you, miss.” With a smile, she places a white plate containing a chocolate hazelnut pastry on my table. “Enjoy. It’s our most popular item.”
I frown. “I didn’t order this.”
“A gentleman did. Requested it be sent to you.”
“Who?” I ask frantically, my voice bordering on desperation.
She stands on her toes, trying to peer over the heads filling the busy coffee shop. Then she inhales a breath, pointing toward the doors.
“That’s him. Right there. Brown hair. Sunglasses. Gorgeous suit.”
“Thank you!” Adrenaline pumping through me, I sling my bag over my shoulder, dashing through the coffee shop, trying to keep him in my line of vision. When I step onto the sidewalk, a body slams into me, causing me to lose my balance, propelling me forward onto my hands and knees.
“Watch where you’re going next time, lady. Fucking tourists.”
“I’m not a tourist, asshole!” I shout, getting back on my feet, no thanks to anyone walking by. Dusting myself off, grateful the only injury is to my ego, I scan the bodies passing, not one of them matching that of the man I observed leaving the café.
Frustration fills me. I was so close to unmasking the August Laurent. Still, I know more about him than I did an hour ago. But now I’m desperate for even more information, to find out what makes him tick, why he feels the need to hire himself out as a companion. He says he empowers women. That’s a reason they hire him. I want to know his reasons, too.
As I’m about to head toward Central Park to see if he went in that direction, even though I know it’s probably futile, my phone pings with an alert. It’s not unusual. I get dozens of emails every hour. But something makes me pull my phone out of my bag and open my email.
To: Evie Fitzgerald
From: August Laurent
Subject: Special Place in Hell
Dear Miss Fitzgerald,
You do realize there’s a special place in hell for people who walk away from the Steam Room’s famous chocolate hazelnut pastries. They are quite…sinful.
Kindest regards,
A
Smiling, I type a reply as I walk, no longer frantic about finding him now that I have his email address.
To: August Laurent
From: Evie Fitzgerald
Subject: Already Going
Dear August,
I’m already going to hell. I figure either go big or go home. So I’m going big, starting with leaving that pastry on the table. In my experience, delayed gratification only heightens that first taste.
E
I hit send, unsure what came over me to act so bold. I suppose we all feel a level of power behind the safety of a computer or, in my case, a phone, which pigs again.
To: Evie Fitzgerald
From: August Laurent
Subject: Deal with the Devil
Dear Miss Fitzgerald,
Now I’m intrigued as to what you’ve done to have earned a ticket on the proverbial Highway to Hell. And even more intrigued by your interest in delayed gratification.
I hope you have a productive Monday. I’ll be in touch soon and we can continue our conversation…speaking of delayed gratification.
A
Damn. He’s smooth.
Chapter Seventeen
My eyes are transfixed out the window of the town car on Wednesday as Julian’s driver, Reed, maneuvers along narrow streets where the wealthiest members of society play for the summer. High hedges and security gates prevent the outside world from peeking in, but it doesn’t stop me from gawking at the sprawling estates that pop up every quarter-mile. The closer to the shore we get, the larger and more impressive the properties. This is some serious money.
When I don’t think the houses can get any more extravagant, Reed pulls off the main road, stopping outside a secure gate. After punching in a code, the impressive steel gates open, allowing us entry. My heart thumps in my chest as he continues up a long, stone driveway.
I haven’t seen Julian since Friday. Hell, I haven’t even spoken to him since our conversation Saturday, apart from an email from his assistant telling me that his driver would pick me up today at ten in the morning. At first, his curt tone left a sour taste in my mouth. Maybe it’s a good thing. I’ve already felt myself wanting to blur some of the lines I insisted we draw. How much longer will they remain if he continues to flirt with me?
As the house comes into view, my jaw grows slack. It’s a sprawling three-story, shingle-style historic home that’s obviously been updated and taken care of rather well over the years. The pristine exterior has a sweeping lawn out front, the grass greener than any I’ve seen recently. Then again, I’ve been living in New York for the past several years. The only grass I see is when I visit Central Park, which isn’t often. It’s amazing how much you take the little things, like grass, for granted until they’re no longer part of your daily life.
Reed brings the car to a stop, then hurries to open the door for me. Immediately, a woman in her fifties or sixties rushes out of the front door, hustling along the stone walkway. She wears a dark suit dress, her hair pulled into a tight bun at her nape. Her kind blue eyes are filled with joy as she approaches me.
“You must be Guinevere.” She holds her hand out toward mine, shaking it excitedly. “I’m Camille, the head of staff.”
“Head of staff?” I repeat.
“You mean there’s more than one person?”
She laughs merrily at my question. “Of course, dear. At least during the summers. Someone must ensure the household runs smoothly, particularly during parties. But the rest of the year, it’s just me keeping his Manhattan apartment in order. Reed will bring your things up to your suite while I give you the tour.”
With wide eyes, I follow her up to the front door, unable to mask my complete awe and amazement when she pushes it open and we enter a grand foyer, the ceiling over thirty feet high with a stunning crystal chandelier. It’s a circular room with a single round table holding a floral centerpiece of red roses, white lilacs, and blue orchids, tying in with the Fourth of July theme of the weekend. I step closer, the familiar aroma of powder-fresh flowers floating through my senses.
Camille leads me past a curving staircase and into an open living area. The cream-colored walls have wood and stone accents, the high-end furniture made of heavy wood. It’s a stark contrast to the tiny room and pull-out couch I’ve been sleeping on, which seems ready to collapse if I breathe too hard.
“This is the living and informal dining area.” She brings me to an expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows lining the eastern wall and I take in the panoramic views of the pool deck overlooking the ocean. I find it a bit of overkill to have both an ocean view and a pool, but what do I know?
“Wow.” It’s all I can manage.
I’ve seen places like this in the movies or online, but never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined being here myself. It’s crazy to even consider that this will be my life for the next two months. I wonder if this is how Cinderella felt when Prince Charming whisked her away to his castle after he finally found her. Did she realize her life would be forever changed when she called her Fairy Godmother and went to the ball? Is my life about to be forever changed, too?
“It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?” Camille comments.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so…majestic.”
She places a hand on my bicep, her smile warm as she meets my eyes. Her soft-spoken and caring demeanor reminds me of my grandmother. “Wait until tomorrow morning.”
“What’s tomorrow morning?”
“Sunrise. I checked the weather report. It’s supposed to be a clear day, which means the sun coming up over that horizon…” She points out the window, “is sure to be fantastic. If you want to get up early to watch, I’ll make sure to have coffee prepared. If you like coffee, that is. I’ll need a list of any allergies and food preferences, as well as any other items you’ll need on hand during your time here.”
“And you’ll get them for me?”
“Of course,” she answers, as if it’s no big deal.
“So if I say I like to snack on apples dipped in peanut butter, you’d get them?”
“What kind of apples? And do you have a preference for brand of peanut butter?” She withdraws a notepad from her suit jacket and proceeds to jot down notes.
I blink repeatedly at her proficiency. The closest I’ve ever been to this level of pampering was the one time I’d ordered room service. I thought having someone bring food to my hotel room was magical. That’s nothing compared to this.
“I… It was just an example.”
With a warm smile, she returns the small notepad to her pocket. “It’s Mr. Gage’s desire that you have everything to make your stay comfortable. So anything you need, please let myself or any of the other staff members know. Okay?”
“Okay.” With every second that passes, I feel more and more like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Well, if she weren’t a prostitute. Still, there are similarities, like the way she gawks at his lavish lifestyle, not used to anyone waiting on her. The way she’s confused about which fork to use. I can completely sympathize with her struggle there.
I continue to follow Camille as she shows me the formal dining room, library, theater room, game room, and even a gym. I want to ask for a floor plan of the house so I can find my way around. Or at least a bag of breadcrumbs.
Finally, we head up the staircase and down a long hallway lined with what I assume to be expensive artwork, coming to a stop outside a wooden door. When she opens it, revealing a large bedroom, I step onto the lush carpet. The aroma of fresh air mixed with the sea breeze flows in from an open window, and I walk to the far wall, the views of the ocean just as breathtaking up here.
“There’s a balcony,” Camille offers as she strides toward a pair of French doors, pushing them open. “Right out here.”
I follow her out onto a large wrap-around balcony. A pair of chairs sits in front of the windows to my room, a small side table placed between them. Another pair is placed several hundred feet down, as well, in front of windows to what I assume to be another bedroom.
“That’s Mr. Gage’s suite,” she explains, gesturing toward the end of the balcony to the north. Then she nods in the opposite direction. “And those are additional guest bedrooms, but will not be occupied during, well…during your little arrangement.”
“Our…arrangement?” I repeat, making sure I heard her correctly.
“Yes, dear. Don’t worry. I’m the only one aware of the truth, other than Reed, of course. It was my idea, after all, although my motivation may not have been completely innocent.”
I square my shoulders as I face her. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been on the household staff longer than you’ve been alive, dear.” She smiles. “Even longer than Julian’s been alive.”
There’s a familial affection in her tone as she caresses his name, like a mother would her child. It’s the first time she’s referred to him as Julian instead of Mr. Gage. I can’t help wondering if their relationship is more than employer and employee.
“I see things. I hear things. Mr. Price’s children are still around, and they like to make things difficult for him, unduly influencing people who can help him. It’s been several years since Mr. Price’s passing, but no thanks to his children, who like to perpetuate the rumor that Mr. Gage took advantage of an old man, people still view him as a billionaire playboy, a passing fad who will end up blowing his fortune. Regardless, being around so long, you hear things. Many people’s biggest criticism is that he’s thirty-eight and isn’t married. So I suggested he finally date someone.”
“Well, I guess he must really look up to you since he took your suggestion.”
She bursts out laughing as she leads me back into the room. “He certainly did not. Much to my dismay, he shot me down right away at the mere mention of him dating anyone. So I suggested he purport to date someone instead. He was hesitant at first, but he eventually figured it was worth a shot. At the very least, it would get the social clingers off his back for a summer.”
“Camille?” I ask as I follow her past the four-poster bed, the sheer material draped over the sides billowing with our movement. Everything about this room is peaceful and serene. I’m not going to want to leave at the end of the weekend.
“Yes?”
“What is this project he’s working on that appears to be so important to him?” I lower my eyes. “Or at least important enough to ask a complete stranger to pretend to be his girlfriend?”
She avoids my eyes as she continues toward a door just past the sitting area. “Oh, he never discusses his business plans with me.” Her response comes fast and shaky. “They’d go right over my head anyway. Dana, Mr. Gage’s stylist, has already been by to organize all the clothing she’s selected for you. It’s all here in the closet.” She doesn’t even pause to take a breath as she changes the topic, opening another door along the far wall.
I want to push and find out what the big secret is, but I’m rendered speechless at what she referred to as a closet. I have to stop myself from laughing. If Chloe and Nora could see me now, they’d piss their pants. This “closet” is bigger than my old apartment. Instead of only a handful of items for me to choose from over the course of the next few months, the walls are lined with a wardrobe suitable
for any occasion imaginable, along with several dozen cubbies filled with shoes.
“Mr. Gage provided Dana with a copy of your itinerary for the summer,” Camille explains. “She’s taken the guesswork out of everything.” She heads toward a table in the center of the room and opens a binder. “Each article of clothing is labeled with a number that corresponds to an event in here.” She points to the first page in the binder. I see today’s date, the event, followed by a list of numbers, indicating what I’m to wear. “Sometimes things come up, so in the back are a handful of outfits in case of an emergency.” She closes the binder as she faces me, her stare harsh and direct. “Under no circumstances are you to wear the same outfit twice. Do you understand?”
I’m overwhelmed as I take in everything. The house. The staff. The clothes. When I’d agreed to be Julian Gage’s fake girlfriend, never in a million years did I expect it to be like this. Rules about what to wear and when. But the planner in me appreciates it. There are no surprises. I find comfort in that fact.
“Perfectly.”
“Wonderful.” She clasps her hands together. “Well, I’ll leave you to get situated. Can I bring you anything? I’m sure you’re hungry after the long drive.”
I place my hand over my stomach, which is in knots. “Actually, I had a big breakfast,” I lie.
“Okay, dear. Just dial 2111 on the house phone if you change your mind. I’ll be back to check on you a bit later.” She begins to retreat.
“Camille?”
“Yes?”
I pinch my lips together, unsure what I even want to ask. Perhaps I’m feeling a little out of my element and want someone to tell me I didn’t make a colossal mistake in agreeing to this.