Spring Romance

by Bailey, Tessa

  After coaching, which I was sure would be extensive, I’d sit for an initial interview with the board of HBHC. If I passed, a more extensive interview would be held just before the party celebrating Royce’s new position. It would be lavish and extravagant, and the event of the year.

  If I was approved, Macalister would announce his son’s engagement to me during his toast that evening.

  I saw my opening for a momentary escape when Delphine came in and began to clear the untouched desserts. I set my napkin on the table and seized my plate. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  My legs wobbled as I pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, and the plate clattered as I set it beside the sink. Delphine followed right behind me. Did she know? Did she have any idea my parents were in deep financial trouble and she could be out of a job very soon? Her questioning look was too hard to stomach, and I fled into the empty sitting room.

  I shut the door and sank back against it, closed my eyes, and cupped a hand to my forehead. I fought my trembling bottom lip because I was on overload, but I refused to succumb to my emotions. I didn’t want to face them again with a blotchy face and give them the upper hand, plus crying wasn’t going to solve anything.

  And it certainly wasn’t going to undo what had been done.

  Holy shit, I said I’d marry Royce. Until now, I’d spent my life obscured in Emily’s shadow and I liked it that way. There would be nowhere to hide once I became the princess of Cape Hill.

  Deep breaths.

  You might not make it that far.

  If I couldn’t win the ridiculous approval of the board, at least I’d bought some time to get my parents’ finances in order. With a plan of action drafted up, the helplessness inside me dimmed just enough so I could straighten, press my cool fingertips to my warm cheeks, and calm down. I turned, pulled open the door, and buried my face in a dress shirt as I collided with a hard, male chest.

  Royce’s hands clamped down on my shoulders.

  My gasp had no impact on him. He drove me back into the room and pulled the door closed behind us. His expression was . . . off. He had the audacity to look concerned.

  “Are you all right?”

  I blinked. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “If it helps, I have about as much say in this as you do.”

  “No, it doesn’t help, and that cannot be true.” My shoulders tensed. Even though he was no longer touching me, the warmth of his palms lingered against my bare skin.

  Frustration was an interesting look for him. The spoiled rich boy probably didn’t have a lot of experience dealing with it. He always got whatever he wanted. Royce brushed back the sides of his suit coat as he rested his hands on his hips. It showed off his trim form and the curves of his powerful arms.

  Stop looking at him like that.

  “Believe what you want, but it’s true,” he said. “I do what I’m told because there’s no alternative. Everything is planned or scheduled. I don’t get to make decisions because my entire fucking life has already been scripted.”

  I didn’t want to believe him, but it echoed true. Macalister’s controlling personality was everywhere. My father had told me a story once how his boss had dictated what each staff member would wear during an audit.

  Royce’s expression warmed unexpectedly, and his voice dipped low. “But you and me? I was . . . hoping for this outcome.”

  Did he think I was stupid? “You literally said ‘either Northcott girl is fine.’”

  “I said that to protect you.” His tone was sincere. “It was a lie, Marist. Like I told you last year, I’m not interested in your sister.”

  At the memory, the room seemed to grow smaller the longer Royce and I stood alone in it. “Protect me from what?”

  He gave a pointed look, as if the answer were obvious.

  He was protecting me from his father. I sucked in a breath and matched his gentle tone. “Why?”

  “I don’t have time to explain right now. I need your phone. I told them we were exchanging numbers.”

  I begrudgingly dug it out of my dress pocket and passed it to him. “Right. Because you should probably have your fiancée’s number.”

  He ignored my sarcasm and typed in the new contact, then texted himself from the phone. When done, he held it out to pass it back. Only he used it as an opportunity to jerk me close. His free hand slipped onto my cheek, forcing me to meet his intense gaze.

  He was so close, a kiss threatened, and although our lips hadn’t touched, it was powerfully intimate.

  “You’re not my fiancée, Marist. Yeah, you made the deal out there, but I haven’t asked you to be my wife.” His gaze roamed across my face, like he was memorizing each detail, before finally ending on my lips. His whispered words brushed over my sensitized skin. “Not yet.”

  Was he talking about proposing?

  Or kissing me?

  He carried out neither threat. Instead, he abruptly released me, and my body was bereft in his absence. Everything was off-balance. And like he’d done last time we’d been alone, he turned on his heel and was out the door before I could utter a word.

  * * *

  Numbness took up residence in my heart that afternoon after the Hales left.

  Emily cried as she told our parents she thought she was pregnant, but her shame at disappointing them shifted to fear as they confessed how much financial trouble we were in. I emulated Royce and sat eerily still on the patterned couch in the front room, an emotionless expression slathered on my face like the makeup I’d been asked to wear.

  It was the first time I’d seen my father break down, and it was unnerving. Once again, I didn’t want him to surrender so quickly. Why didn’t he fight or defend himself?

  Horror splashed across Emily’s face as my mother explained—in between her choked sobs—the deal I’d made with Macalister to try to save us. My sister leaned across the couch and seized my hand in a vise-like grip. “Marist, no. You can’t marry him.”

  My voice was detached. “Sure, I can.”

  My lack of emotion only increased hers, and panic flooded her face. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She glanced at our parents before returning her focus to me. “You don’t love him, and he’s a Hale. They can’t love anyone but themselves.”

  Was that true? Was Royce capable of loving another person, or was he Narcissus? In the myth, he’d refused all others and wasted away staring at the only thing he’d been cursed to love—his own reflection.

  “There are worse things than marrying Royce Hale,” I said.

  “Like what?” she snapped.

  I lost the reins on my emotions for a moment. “Oh, I don’t know. Being pregnant and homeless?”

  Her eyes went white from the pain I’d inflicted, then filled with tears.

  “Shit.” Shame poured onto my shoulders, weighing me down. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  Emily shook her head, silencing me as she brushed the tears away that had collected in her eyes. I didn’t want to be mean. I understood everyone was fragile, but we didn’t have time to sit around feeling sorry for ourselves. My parents had squandered that time just as they had their money.

  Thanks to Royce’s cruel comment about me while I was in high school, I’d survived on the fringe of high society. I was certain the rest of my family wasn’t strong enough to do the same.

  If our name was all we had left, then—fuck—I’d do everything in my power to keep it.

  Chapter Seven

  Diamonds and sapphires glittered in the glass box in front of me, and the modern crystal chandelier overhead sparkled, radiating rainbows down on the carpet. The store was decorated in creams and grays so it wouldn’t compete with the breathtaking gems on display. I was at the back, waiting patiently on the edge of my seat for the owner to meet me. For once, traffic had cooperated and the drive into Boston had only taken forty-five minutes, which meant I had arrived early for our appointment.

  It forced me to stare at t
he jewelry locked in the case before me. The gorgeous diamonds were so clear, they looked cold and heavy. Was that how it would feel when Royce slipped an engagement ring on my finger? Like an anchor? I swallowed a breath and tucked a lock of my doomed green hair behind an ear.

  “Ms. Northcott?”

  The warm, male voice caused me to turn in my seat. “Yes. Sorry, I’m early.”

  “No, you’re fine.”

  The owner was in his fifties with thinning hair on top, but I liked how he’d buzzed it close rather than grow it long and comb it over. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a jet-black suit that fit him perfectly.

  “I’m Richard Costolli. It’s so nice to meet you.” When I pushed to my feet, he smiled. “Please, keep your seat. I was honored when your mother called.”

  “She planned to come, but something came up,” I lied. “It’s just me. I hope that’s okay.”

  The truth was my mother found this too difficult. It made our dire situation “too real.” My blood had run hot through my veins. I was doing everything in my power to bail them out, and I was pissed that still, I was the only responsible one.

  “Of course. I hope everything is all right.” Mr. Costolli took the empty chair beside me, put one elbow on the glass case, and leaned forward. His expression was full of anticipation.

  “Oh,” I said, glancing around. “Do I . . .”

  “Right here will be fine.” His eyes gleamed just as much as the jewelry we were surrounded by. “I’m dying to see it.”

  I bent down and pulled the blue, leather-bound case from my purse and set it on the glass counter. He ran a hand reverently over the top of the lid, trailing appreciative fingers over the embossed silver logo.

  My mother had done the same this morning before handing the box to me, only her fingers had been forlorn, and her eyes filled with unshed tears.

  “May I?” he asked, motioning to open it.

  I nodded.

  There was a sharp intake of breath as he lifted the hinged lid and gazed at the necklace seated on velvet. His voice dropped to a hush. “It’s stunning.”

  “Thank you,” I said, my throat tight.

  He was absolutely right. The diamond wreath necklace resting below the Harry Winston logo was the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’d ever seen. I’d never worn it, other than the few times growing up when my mother let me try it on.

  The diamonds were set so they looked like vines covered in exquisite, faceted ice.

  I didn’t know why I felt compelled to tell him, but the words tumbled from my mouth. “My great-grandfather surprised my great-grandmother with it to celebrate their twentieth anniversary. She nearly had a heart attack because I’m told he was . . .” I lowered my voice, “well, a cheap bastard.”

  Mr. Costolli laughed, and I gave a forced smile, not wanting him to see how hard this was.

  It must not have worked because he turned serious. His solemn expression said he understood whatever figure the necklace appraised for, its sentimental value to my family would far exceed that.

  “My mother only wore it once, on the day she married my father,” I added.

  Emily and I had both hoped to wear it on our wedding day. I didn’t want to sell it, but we were strapped for money, and insuring a necklace that appraised in the six figures was one of the many expenses we had to cut. I needed to soften the fall for my family if I failed to hold up my end of Macalister’s insane deal.

  “This is a very special piece,” Mr. Costolli said quietly. He pulled out a jeweler’s loupe and examined the stones while I retrieved the envelope from my purse that contained all the paperwork he’d need to hold the necklace while it was prepared for auction.

  When it was done, I took a final look at the necklace. I tried to ignore the pang of sadness lining my heart as I climbed to my feet. I said my goodbyes to Mr. Costolli, shouldered my purse, and headed for the entrance.

  A whisper of something caught my attention. I turned and glanced at the case closest to the door. The rows of engagement rings glinted back, mocking me. I paused then changed course and went to the case.

  The settings ran the gamut. Some were simple and understated, and some had no center stone set in them yet. Others were enormous or encrusted with jewels in elaborate designs.

  Ever the salesman, Mr. Costolli’s tone was light, but hopeful. “See anything you like?”

  “Just looking.” I gave a vague smile.

  I wasn’t about to tell him the display filled me with dread. Besides, what I liked was irrelevant. I had no doubt Macalister would have a say in the ring I’d be forced to wear.

  * * *

  After rinsing the dye from my hair, the stylist sat me in his chair and swiveled it away from the mirror, wanting to give me the “grand reveal” when he was done. He’d been blowing out my hair for at least thirty minutes, and every now and again I’d get a flash of a newly-dark lock before it was brushed out of my line of sight.

  “I’m sorry, Marist, but this is a mess.” Alice Hale stood across from me, clutched my phone in her hand, and used a manicured finger to scroll through my Instagram profile. Each swipe she made only deepened the crease in her forehead. “It’s all mythology stuff and random pictures of food. This tells me nothing about you. What’s your color story?”

  “Color story?” I repeated over the incessant hairdryer.

  Alice was classically beautiful. Her look was timeless, with her long blonde hair, big doe eyes, and skin that glowed. I’d swear she had a filter, like I was constantly viewing her through an old timey camera lens. She was luminescent.

  Macalister’s second wife was ten years younger than he was, barely in her forties, and although she looked like a trophy wife, Alice was anything but. She was the vice president of marketing at HBHC, a creative genius, and one of the few people at the company who didn’t cower in fear of the boss. It helped she was sleeping with him.

  But being married to Macalister came at a price, and she often searched for it at the bottom of a bottle of vodka. Her last stint at rehab seemed to take, though. She’d been ‘on’ and focused the whole time we’d been at the salon, and it had taken a while to cut and color my hair.

  “Are you ready?” the stylist asked, but I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to Alice. In any case, he didn’t wait for an answer. The chair spun and, as I found my own gaze in the mirror, my lips parted on a deep breath.

  “Well?” his voice teemed with pride. “What do you think?”

  Alice glanced at my reflection, scrutinized his work, and nodded her approval. “So. Much. Better. Thank you, Sebastian.” She leaned over my shoulder, bringing her face beside mine in the mirror. “Now you look like—”

  “My sister,” I interrupted.

  “What?” Alice turned and peered at me with new eyes, considering my statement, but shrugged it off. “No. You look better than her.”

  I had no idea how to feel about that.

  Now that my hair was done, the makeup artist on standby stepped in like a surgeon waiting for the patient to be transferred to their care. She discussed palettes with Alice, and the women found the perfect day-to-evening look for me, all without having to address me directly. My input was not needed.

  I wasn’t a tomboy. I liked dresses, and makeup, and feeling feminine, but there was no joy in this unwanted makeover. It wasn’t just my appearance, it was my whole persona they were determined to manipulate. To manufacture. I’d had to give her access to all my social media accounts so she could rebrand them.

  It left me powerless as she stripped away one thing after another that made me unique. That made me, me. As Alice’s personal shopper arrived with bags of dresses to try on, each one too sexy, or bold, or edgy . . . anxiety needled up my spine.

  If I wasn’t careful, I’d become a Stepford wife. My personality would be hollowed out to make room for their brand, and I’d exist as a shadow of a real woman.

  No.

  I was determined to play this game until I found a way to beat i
t.

  * * *

  It wasn’t all that warm outside for late May and there was a breeze, but I was already sweating as I walked up to the restaurant and put a clammy hand on the door handle. The air conditioning slammed into me as I stepped inside and caused a shiver.

  Or perhaps it was the man waiting in the foyer for me.

  Royce had his back to the door, but he sensed my arrival. He turned, and his intense gaze swept down over my frame, taking in the new, repackaged me. My hair was now back to my natural shade, the color of dark chocolate, and had been curled into soft waves. My eyebrows had been waxed into perfect arches.

  Other parts of my body were still pink and raw from wax as well, but they were hidden beneath my lace skirt.

  I couldn’t tell from his expression if he liked my new look, or if his smile was fiction. “You look nice,” he said simply.

  “Thank you,” I parroted back. “You too.”

  He had on a navy sport coat and a check-patterned shirt over his blue jeans. Business up top and casual below, but at the same time, he looked like he could exist in both worlds without any effort. Maybe Alice had helped him find his day-to-evening look too.

  Every pair of eyes in the restaurant was on us as we were led to our table for dinner. Probably not every pair, but God, it felt that way.

  “Is it just me,” I asked over the top of my menu, “or is everyone staring at us?”

  Royce was indifferent. “They’re staring at you.”

  His statement rattled me. “Why?”

  “Because you’re here with me.” His gaze never lifted to mine, like he couldn’t be bothered. “Or more likely, because you’re fucking gorgeous. Who knows?”

  Breath halted in my lungs. “You can’t just say shit like that.”

  The leather-bound menu holder dropped onto the table with a thud, and I was met with the full power of Royce’s irritated stare. “That you’re beautiful? You are. Get over it.”

  Dismay twisted my lips into a frown. “Please, don’t. I don’t need bullshit lines from someone like you.”

  “It’s not a line, and . . . someone like me?” More annoyance darted through his eyes, but intrigue too. “What’s that supposed to mean?”