Chapter 25
Megan
As it turns out, what I “need” is an engagement ring that features a diamond capable of being seen from outer space.
As soon as we finish our breakfast, Jameson receives a text from Clara, then informs me that we have an appointment downstairs. Then he leads me there, holding my hand, while I quietly freak out. Since we’re now “engaged,” I should really get used to the hand-holding and the killer smiles.
Quickly.
Lest I pass out in shock as all the blood rushes to my loins every time he does it.
All he tells me, or all I really hear, is “The jeweler will have security in the room. They’re here to guard the rings?—”
“Jeweler?” Rings?
I have so many questions.
They’re all answered when I find myself in a meeting in Jameson’s living room with a local jewelry designer and her assistant. Apparently, she’s a friend of the Vance family, and her rings are, according to Jameson, “worn by many celebrities.”
I can see why.
The one he helps me choose from the small selection on offer, after some low-key bickering, is stunning. The others all feature clear diamonds, other than one that’s blue, in various shapes. This one has one large, round, slightly pinkish stone. It’s a simple solitaire style, classic, and I love it.
I would’ve been content with a much smaller diamond, but this is the smallest one Jameson will allow me to get. The ones he suggests at first are way too intimidating. He tells me the fiancée of a billionaire would wear a more expensive diamond, I tell him I’d be scared to walk around wearing the ones he picked out without an armored cage around me, and he finally relents.
I’m told by the jeweler’s assistant that this one is an Argyle Light Pink Champagne diamond from some famous Australian mine. Twenty carats.
I have no idea, really, what he just said. All I heard was fucking expensive.
The way the sunlight sparkles off it is nothing short of dazzling. It’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. Next to Jameson Vance, of course.
Somehow, that makes wearing it as his fiancée utterly perfect.
“It goes so well with your light eyes,” he remarks, finally coming around to how awesome this ring is, when he slides it onto my finger.
I melt right there.
If I have to wear an attention-grabbing ring to sell this whole engagement-to-a-billionaire situation, it won’t be a hardship to do it with Jameson looking at me like that.
Unfortunately, I don’t get to wear it. The jeweler takes it with her when she leaves, to have it properly sized for me, along with Jameson’s demand that it be returned “before five o’clock.”
As soon as the jeweler’s team clears out, we meet with a man from Jameson’s bank who’s come to his house on a Sunday to go over paperwork with me for the account Jameson is opening in my name.
With two million dollars in it.
My fiancé works fast.
Was he up at four in the morning setting up all these meetings?
After the man from the bank leaves, I don’t follow much of what Jameson says to me. It must be all the ringing in my ears. An allergic reaction to the close proximity of rare diamonds and multimillion-dollar bank statements.
I manage to catch something about how we’ll want to close the joint account I still have with Troy. And how, if necessary, Jameson will fly the manager of that bank out to meet with me in person to take care of it.
Then he mercifully leaves me to reteach myself the ability to breathe for at least the dozenth time since meeting him, when he heads upstairs to get ready for his lunch meeting. He passes me off to Clara, and I gradually get the feeling back in my extremities as she goes over her lists with me. The woman has lists coming out of her ears.
First, she wants to know my “housekeeping preferences” and what I require in the way of personal items, toiletries and the like.
Then she wants to know if I’d like her to make me some appointments with Mr. Vance’s personal trainer and masseuse, and with a hairstylist and manicurist. I say yes to all. Why not? “If it’s okay with him,” I tell her, because I have approximately zero dollars on hand for any of those things.
To which she says, “He’ll be pleased.”
She also wants to know if I need a dentist and a doctor referral in the city. To which I also say yes.
She then passes me along to Chef, who wants to know all my favorite foods, any dietary restrictions or concerns, and my meal preferences. As if I have any. Getting fed by a professional chef on a regular basis so I literally don’t have to think about it sounds like paradise to me.
Then Locke—the behemoth with the neck tattoos—takes over. He wants to go over my schedule with me in detail, though I tell him I really don’t have much of one. And he wants the names and numbers of all my “approved contacts,” for his “security purposes.”
I gather from this that he means to run some sort of security check on my friends and family.
When I ask him if he did a security check on me, he simply says, “Not so far.”
I wonder what that means.
But Locke is clearly finished with me, and doesn’t love questions. He hands me off to a sweaty man wearing work clothes and a tool belt, who introduces himself simply as “the handyman.”
This man walks me down the long hall to Jameson’s private wing, where I’m surprised to find men, some of them delivery guys, moving in and out of a side entrance in a steady stream. Like worker ants, they carry boxes in and pieces of furniture out, under the watchful eyes of two more security staff, one of them Rurik.
I follow the handyman into the sitting room off Jameson’s office, where we toasted our engagement just last night, to find it completely altered.
The attached bar is still there in the corner, as is the fireplace, but the Vance family photos and the furniture have all been removed.
I gape as the workers move around me.
A sleek new desk has been set in the middle of the room, along with a comfy chair that looks like it has incredible lumbar support. A cushy, velvety chaise longue and an ottoman have been set up under the window that overlooks the garden.
Boxes from an office supply store and a bookstore form ever-growing stacks in one corner, and a couple of men are setting up a computer on the desk.
The handyman wants to know where I’d like my bookshelves set up.
They’re in pieces, leaning against one wall.
He shows me the options of where they could go, and I must pick one, because he sets to work.
I watch, stunned, for a long moment.
Then I dip my fingers into one of the open bookstore boxes, peeling back the flap and peeking inside. I lift a few books, glimpsing the titles.
Books on writing and publishing.
Wilderness survival guides.
Postapocalyptic fiction.
Before I can pass out from sheer shock or maybe fall in love with my brother’s best friend on the spot, Clara fetches me from the room that is obviously my new office and takes me back to the living room. I feel like I’m in a daze, a lovely, dreamlike nonreality wherein Prince Charming himself is trying to spoil me rotten.
Clara tells me there’s a delivery of flowers—for me. It’s a lovely exotic bouquet, and it’s massive.
It’s from Jameson.
The card simply says, Enjoy your day.
I’m reading it when he walks in, breathtakingly masculine, elegant and alpha all at once in a navy-blue three-piece suit. He comes straight for me across the living room, where I’m helping Clara put my flowers in a giant vase of water at the bar.
“You clean up decently. What a nice suit,” I force out in panic, so I don’t say something much worse. Like Let’s get married. At no point have I ever seen him unclean, but damn; the man was made for a suit.
The smoldering look in his eyes makes me squeeze my thighs together as he leans in—and presses a soft kiss to my forehead.
It’s the first time he’s kissed me, and I’m paralyzed as warm honey pours through my veins.
His lips are on my skin.
“Be good,” he says gruffly, his low voice a promise of sex.
But I must not be hearing well.
I want to thank him for everything, especially the office—and the books; my heroin—but the words stick in my throat as I watch him walk away with Locke, his ass like sculpted granite in that fine suit.
Greek gods would be envious of that artistry.
I swallow.
Wanty.
My pupils must be huge right now.
“The styling team is ready. I have them all set up in the guest wing for you.” Clara interrupts my staring, and I blink at her.
“Pardon?”
“I got them set up while you were talking to Locke. They’re ready and waiting.”
I follow her as she heads up the hall to the guest wing, still unclear.
“Styling team?”
“Your wardrobe. Mr. Vance expressed his concern that you haven’t brought a lot of clothes with you.”
“Oh.” Of course he did.
Is there a thing I could possibly need that he hasn’t already thought of?
I almost giggle hysterically when I glance at my cell phone and realize it’s not even eleven-thirty in the morning. I must make a weird sound, because Clara gives me an uncertain look.
“He mentioned that you’ll need clothing for every occasion. From enjoying the pool to black-tie events. Is that correct?”
“Uh… well…” I stammer. He’s not wrong. Even after unpacking my things, my side of the closet is utterly empty next to his. “Yes. I guess that’s right.”
* * *
“Oh, I love this one,” I gush. I’m alone, talking to myself in my old room in the guest wing. Today, it’s my dressing room.
I take a selfie, which I’m terrible at, trying to get the whole dress I’m wearing in the shot. I’ve been getting Nicole’s opinion on the outfits I try on all afternoon. She’s thrilled about my “life upgrade,” as she calls it. When I told her yesterday I was going to accept Jameson’s proposal, she practically shoved me out her apartment door.
When I send the pic of the dress to her, I find she’s sent me one, too. Of Jameson at a restaurant table with a bunch of other handsome men in expensive suits. Three of the men I don’t recognize, but one of them is Jameson’s brother Damian.
I looked up his siblings’ names after he left for lunch, in a panic about meeting them tonight.
In the photo, Jameson’s wearing the same suit he left the house in today.
Me: Do you have eyes on my fiancé right now? You stalker.
Nicole:That dress is HOT.
Nicole:I’m not stalking him in person dummy. I have a Google alert for that. Here.
She sends me a link that takes me to some Instagram account about the Vancouver “scene,” where I see the same image, with the caption: Dane Davenport, Brandon Ellis and Trey Jones lunching with the Bayshore Billionaires at Nightingale. How do we get an invite?
Weird.
At least it’s late afternoon now, and the photo was posted only twenty minutes ago. He’s probably not still at that restaurant.
Me:I wonder if he knows someone took a picture of him eating his steak and salad and now it’s online.
Nicole:Of course he does. It’s a power meeting. If it was meant to be private, it would be in private.
Right. He said that himself. That he’s in the media because he wants to be. Marketing and all.
Me:Do you know who those men are?
Nicole: My girl Dani knows Brandon Ellis. He’s not into me. I tried. (crying laughing emoji)
Nicole: But if Google tells me the other guys are single, your fiancé better hook a girl up.
Nicole: Also, you should set up an alert. Keep an eye on your man.
Me:Gross. I don’t even want to look at his Instagram.
Nicole:That is the craziest shit I’ve ever heard.
I laugh under my breath.
Me:It’s about trust, my friend.
Nicole: Oh? Days ago he’s the big bad billionaire who can’t be trusted and now he’s golden? Please tell me he slammed some sense into you. Against his headboard.
She’s right. I’m acting way too weird today—happy—but I don’t want to get into it right now.
Me:I have to go.
I toss my phone aside, ignoring the alert as she responds, and take another look in the mirror.
I’ve been back and forth to the room across the hall constantly, where the two stylists Jameson brought in have racks of clothing set up for me to try on. It was weird for the first outfit or two, being the object of their attention, but over the course of the afternoon I’ve settled into the rhythm of it. And I’ve tried on so many items I’ve fallen in love with. Like this dress.
It’s the dress; the one I’ll be wearing to dinner with the Vances tonight. I know it as soon as I put it on. It’s perfect for an elegant dinner with a table of billionaires and my new fake fiancé at my side.
It’s a pale amber-ish color in a silky fabric that sparkles all over. Fitted, with long sleeves and a slight V neckline that gives an alluring hint of cleavage without being pushy about it. Like my new diamond ring, the color is similar to the lightest tone in my eyes.
It goes perfectly with the ring.
I wonder if Jameson will notice.
I intend to gush all over the stylists about how much I love it, but when I open the door, there’s a big body in my way.
I stop in my tracks.
My brother stands in the hallway, fist raised like he was about to knock.
“Cole,” I breathe, startled.
He drops his fist, his eyes raking over my new dress. His jaw is weirdly stiff, and there’s a vein popping out in his neck. “Clara said you’re getting a bunch of new clothes,” he growls.
He’s breathing way too hard, like he just sprinted here all the way from California.
I swallow. For some reason, I feel guilty. Maybe it’s the way Cole is looking at me.
Like I’ve done something wrong.
“I am. It was Jameson’s idea. Come in, okay?” I take his arm and draw him back into the room with me. “We should talk?—”
“He’s dressing you up? Why?” He scans the three different bras that I left on the bed with distaste. “I thought you were staying with Nicole.”
I take a breath and plunge. “He asked me to be his fiancée.”
“I know. He told me.”
“I… Shit. Cole… we should’ve told you together. So you didn’t have to worry about me…”
At that word, together, his eyes burn into mine. “I fucking knew it,” he mutters, his voice low and tight. “I knew something was up. He’s been acting strange as fuck. I fucking knew he was into you.” He starts pacing as he talks, like a caged gorilla… and I flush hot with mingled anger and embarrassment as my brother jumps to all the wrong conclusions.
“So… you flew here from Santa Cruz? Right now?” He was supposed to be hanging out with one of his hockey player friends in California. For two weeks.
“Tell me right now,” he demands, jaw rigid and muscles flexing, “if I need to intervene here. I will kick his ass if needed.”
Damn.He meant that.
“He just asked me to be his fiancée,” I repeat. “Very respectfully. And he’s not into me. His brother Graysen wanted him to get engaged.”
“Uh-huh. And since when do you want to get engaged to a guy you just met?”
I hesitate. There’s no easy way to put it. But my brother’s inner caveman is staring me down right now and it’s making me irritable. “Since he made me an offer I can’t refuse.”
He chews on that for a long, dark moment, like he’s trying to swallow broken glass. “When did this happen?”
“Like two weeks ago. I said no,” I add, fiddling with the diamond bracelet I’m wearing, the one the stylist picked to go with this dress. “Then I said yes. Last night.”
Cole stops pacing, absorbing that. He scowls at the dress. “And now you’re, what, dressing up for him?”
“He’s taking me to dinner with his family. And he mentioned some travel. I think he just wants to help me feel comfortable when he takes me out. You know I didn’t bring much?—”
“So this is how you get out of Crooks Creek? Hook up with my best friend so he’ll pay your way?”
Oh, now I’m pissed. “It’s not like that, Cole.”
“It looks exactly like that to me.”
“You don’t need to come charging in here to protect me from myself, or from him, okay?”
He raises an eyebrow at the diamond earring I’m now fiddling with. “So you bought all this yourself?”
“Don’t judge me,” I grit out. “You got out of Crooks Creek because you played hockey. They weren’t exactly handing out hockey scholarships to girls in our hometown, Cole.”
“Mine didn’t get handed to me either. I worked for it from the time I was old enough to put on skates.”
“Yeah. Because Dad was a loser who never did anything with his life except pin all his hopes and dreams on his little boy becoming a hockey star. He put everything we had into you.”
Cole huffs out a frustrated breath. “And I’m sorry about that. But it’s not my fault. I was an innocent kid in that situation, just like you were. I didn’t know how badly he neglected you.”
“Because you weren’t there.”
He scrapes a hand through his hair, frustrated, and starts pacing again. “You want to punish me for things in the past that I can’t change. Things that were never even my fault to begin with.”
“I don’t want to punish you.”
“You do. Deep down, you do. And I don’t blame you. Because you can’t punish him.”
Ugh. He’s right about that.
You can’t do anything to affect someone who just doesn’t care, and our dad doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t even care about Cole.
Cody Hudson only cares about himself.
Narcissists are like that.
“He has no fucking conscience about any of it,” he growls. “I know that. He doesn’t give a shit, because he’s not capable of it. He’s a sick fuck. And that’s not your fault or mine.”
I take a deep breath, trying damn hard not to take my daddy issues out on my brother. Is that really what I’m doing?
“You’ve taken care of them both, I know,” I tell him. He bought both Mom and Dad a house once he was making money playing hockey, and he always made sure Mom had what she needed, in a way that no one had ever done for her before. “And you know I appreciate what you’ve done for Mom. But I don’t need you to take care of me.”
He fires me a look. “So you’re letting Jameson take care of you instead?”
“It’s not like that. He’s not just giving me a handout.”
“No. You’re putting out for it. Am I right?”
What the fuck.
“You just called me a whore, Cole. What do you think Mom would think of that?” I adjust the dress self-consciously, trying to cover more of my cleavage.
He stops pacing and swipes a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. That was way out of line.”
“He hasn’t even touched me. If it makes you feel better.”
“Megan.” My brother’s tone softens. “Fuck. It’s not even my business. You’re both adults. Shit. I’m sorry I assumed something bad was happening. I just don’t want to see you get hurt anymore.”
Yeah. I can see that. He flew here to intervene because he obviously thought he needed to.
And I love him for it.
But I don’t need him to.
“You think that’s all he could possibly want from me?” I ask in a small voice.
He chews on that for a minute. “I fucking hope not. You’re worth way more than that.”
“He asked me to be his fiancée. Not his fuck toy.”
“Jesus, Megan.”
“He’s a good man.” Damn. Here I am, defending my new fiancé now, when I barely know him.
Cole doesn’t miss it. Maybe because I didn’t exactly express any fond feelings toward the man when we’d all had dinner together that first night, which was the only time Cole has seen us together.
“You don’t even know him,” he challenges.
“So, what are you saying? You’re telling me if I came to you and told you I was interested in him, you’d advise me against it?”
He rubs a hand over his mouth and down his neck, obviously deeply uncomfortable with this whole conversation.
Too bad. He started it. And we’re finishing it.
“Are you asking?”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” he admits. “Jamie’s a good guy. I told you that already. And I know he’d never hurt my sister on purpose.”
“You’re right about that. Maybe I don’t know him well yet, but I can tell, he has huge respect for you. He’s treated me with respect. He gave me a choice and he won me over.”
“How?” he asks, like he doesn’t want to, but he’s morbidly curious to know.
“Well, let’s see. He asked several times. Nicely. He offered me jobs, a home, money. All of which I turned down. Until he gave me a new suitcase.”
His eyebrow creeps up. “A suitcase?”
“Did you see that broken thing I arrived with?”
“Yeah. I saw.”
“He’s thoughtful. He pays attention. He asks my opinion on things. He’s smart and he’s courteous. And… he’s gorgeous. I find him attractive, okay?”
Cole seems skeptical. “He was ‘gorgeous’ when you quit the gardening job and took off to Nicole’s, too. What changed? Don’t tell me it was just a suitcase and his blue eyes.”
“Maybe it was.”
He gives up a ragged sigh. “Megan. You said he’s not into you. And he explained it to me like this was some business arrangement between you two. What are you telling me now? You like him?”
I swallow the painful reminder that this is a business arrangement with some difficulty.
Fuck, am I in trouble here or what?
“Of course I like him.” Too true. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be playing along with this, no matter how badly I need rent money. I am not whoring myself out to your best friend, okay?”
My brother just stares at me, his hands resting on his hips. He shakes his head, apparently at a loss for words.
I’m just growing weary of this argument. “Look, you’ve really made something of yourself, Cole. But it wasn’t always a smooth ride. You’ve had plenty of bumps in the road. How can you sit in judgment now of the path I’m taking?”
“I’m not judging.”
“You are. When have I judged you, challenged you on your decisions like this?”
“Maybe you should’ve,” he admits.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
We stare at each other.
“It’s just so damn fast, Megz. You were with Troy for almost eleven years, you ran out on him in the night, and like two weeks later you’re engaged to my best friend?”
I can see how he’d be concerned. Of course I can.
“Yeah, I just went through a brutal breakup. And when I called you, in tears, so lost… I desperately needed a change. I needed to reset my whole life. And you didn’t hesitate. You offered me a lifeline. I need to thank you for that. But I don’t owe you anything else.”
“You’re right. And you don’t have to thank me. It’s the least I can do.” He goes over to the bed and sits down, tossing the bras aside. “I know I was never there for you, over the years…” His jaw flexes and that angry vein pulses in his neck as he seems to bite back what he really wants to say. “I should never have let you stay with Troy. I should’ve come, packed you up, and taken you away, long ago. I should’ve kicked his fucking ass.”
“I love you for saying that. And I get that you’re trying to make up for it now. That you’re trying to protect me in ways you couldn’t before. But no one could’ve made me leave Troy. My friends tried, believe me.” I sigh. “Mom tried. But apparently I had to hit rock bottom myself, then sink through the mire under that, and fucking drown.”
“No. I should’ve been there to protect you. I’m your big brother.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. You had a life to live that didn’t exist in that town. You got out, like everyone dreams of. You made it. You don’t owe me anything either.”
“Still. I should’ve protected you. If I knew it was that bad…”
“How could you know? I never told you.” I sit down next to him. “I never really told anyone. I was his ride or die. That was what I thought. I would’ve done anything for him, at a certain point. Even stay, at the cost of my own happiness.”
Cole gazes at me. “Because you’re loyal. You’re selfless and strong. You’re everything Dad never was. I wish I were half as strong as you.”
I laugh shortly. “I’m a mess, seriously.”
“You’ll be okay,” he says, with conviction. “You’re away from him now.”
“You mean Troy or Dad?”
“Both,” he says soberly.
“Yeah. So let’s just move forward, okay? I’ve spent so much time regretting all the moments in the past I wish I could change. But I can’t change them. The fact is, I fell in love with an extremely charming guy, too young, who turned out to be incredibly messed up. But I left him. It’s done. I’m the last person who wants me to repeat the same mistakes all over again, believe me. I just want to move on. You need to let me. In whatever way I decide is best for me.”
“Yeah. Okay.” My brother sweeps me into a crushing hug. “I’m sorry, Megz. I just want you to be safe and happy.”
“I know. Have you seen Jameson’s security guys? I’m definitely safe.”
He snickers grudgingly.
As for happy… the more time I spend with Jameson, and the more time passes without another word from Troy, the outlook just gets better and better on that.
The first week, Troy texted and called nonstop.
His attempts to get a response out of me, without success, finally petered out a few days ago.
As Cole releases me, I ask him, “So, what’s Jameson’s family like?”
“Terrifying. Why?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He gives me a contemplative look. “Not really.”
Great.
“Well, I’m meeting them tonight. Jameson wants us to tell them in person.”
“Jesus. So it’s really official? You’re going public with this, just like that?”
I show him the ring on my finger he probably didn’t even notice. The jeweler’s assistant returned with it just after three o’clock, security guard in tow, to slip it onto my finger. It now fits perfectly, and I still can’t quite believe it’s mine.
“Well, fuck.” Cole yanks my hand to him and examines it. “He seriously bought this for you?”
“Thanks.”
He releases my hand. “Shit. I meant?—”
“I know what you meant.”
“No. You don’t. I just meant I never thought I’d see the day that Jamie gets engaged. To anyone. He hates marriage.”
I don’t know why that stings so much.
Jameson told me himself that he’s not getting married. And Nicole rattled off a lot of gossip about him to me, mostly the names of famous women he’s been spotted with in public. And I’m not dense. It’s pretty clear my fiancé is a playboy.
Or he was, before he got engaged to me like two seconds ago.
I’d let the whispers of his past all just slide off, though. He’s not with other women now, so what does it matter?
But it hits differently, hearing that he “hates marriage.”
It really shouldn’t.
He already told me there would be no fairy-tale wedding at the end of this engagement. In one year, we go our separate ways.
I’ll be a millionaire, he’ll still be a billionaire, and we’ll both be single.
It’s so unromantic… the glitzy diamond on my finger suddenly feels colder and weirdly cheaper than it did before.