12. Vaughn
TWELVE
VAUGHN
I’d wanted to kiss her when she stormed into my office, spitting mad and ready to rage. I’d wanted to kiss her when she softened, when she hesitated, and when she got that glint in her eye at my job offer.
Alba intrigued me. That’s why I’d spent valuable time scouring blogs and forums and social media search results for her, and why my heart had thumped when I’d found oblique references to her from a little over a year ago.
I still didn’t know why she was run off her feet working two jobs when her father was Ted Enders, but at least it made sense why she’d never heard of a lint trap. And it made sense that she knew suiting and tie knots and how to bag an investor. She’d been born into that life, not this one.
My discoveries about her only left me wanting more. Why had her engagement broken down, and was she telling the truth about being relieved? Why wasn’t she already attending galas like Arlo’s every week? Why was she working ?
It was a mystery I wanted to unravel, even though I knew hiring someone I was attracted to was a bad idea.
I could resist attraction. I wasn’t in the market for a new relationship; I’d learned my lesson, and my priorities were my daughter and my business.
Besides, my time with Alba would be spent talking about clothes and appearance and putting on a persona that was uncomfortable and hollow.
My attraction to her was almost certain to fade.
I was hiring her to teach me about everything that reminded me of my father. Everything I strove not to be.
Not only that, but she came from a family that represented everything I despised. She was everything I despised—except she wasn’t, was she? She wasn’t hollow and false and vapid. She was intriguing and unsettling and quick-witted. Raw and real in a way I hadn’t thought her ilk could be.
I finished the task I’d been working on and opened up a blank document. At the top of the page, I wrote JOB DESCRIPTION.
My fingers drummed against the edge of the desk. I stared at the blinking cursor, and then wrote, “Etiquette coaching. Style advice. Image consulting. Any other skills required to not make a fool of myself at the Noble Foundation Gala.”
That was basically it. I needed Alba to teach me how to act so I would seem like I belonged in the rooms where real money was made. It made me feel slightly sick to think about it, but I had no choice. If I wanted to grow my company and provide for my daughter, I had to play the game.
I stuck the paltry job description on company letterhead, added some conditions: that she’d train me in preparation for Arlo’s soirée, and that she’d be available to coach me on any other events and meetings, as required.
I sent it to Alba. Ten seconds later, she replied: “Sure. $500/hour. Four-hour minimum. All expenses reimbursed.”
I couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of me. She had promised me that asking her to name her price was dangerous, and I knew now that I could take her at her word. I liked that about her. There was no pretense, no fakeness.
Thousands in outgoings to an image consultant wouldn’t look good on the company books when Arlo’s team started scouring them. Besides, this wasn’t strictly related to the construction business. I’d have to pay her from my personal fortune. Easy enough.
I answered with one word: “Done,” and then I left the office and headed home.
The next time I saw Alba was the following week. Charlotte was still at her mother’s house, so I booked a private room at a five-star restaurant for Wednesday evening, as per Alba’s instructions. As I checked my watch, I mentally calculated how much this dinner would cost me.
And I smiled.
It wasn’t money itself—or spending it—that bothered me; it was the subterfuge that did.
My father promising the world, then going to my mother, hat in hand, to tell her he’d spent all their savings.
He’d rocketed us from lobster and steak to instability in a blink.
I’d spent my childhood bathed in anxiety and started working as soon as I was able.
Then I kept working, and working, and working.
I wasn’t sure I knew how to do much else.
Alba was the opposite of my father. She had set clear expectations, and she was going to deliver a service. It was clear-cut and direct. I liked that she knew her worth.
The private dining room was warmly lit, with sconces dotting the walls around the table, plush, comfortable chairs, and double wooden doors through which I’d entered.
The table was draped in crisp white linen, and my place setting had multiple utensils, a side plate, and two wine glasses.
I drummed my fingers on the edge of the table with one hand while I rested my chin on the palm of the other.
Then the door opened.
“This way, ma’am,” the waiter said in a deferential tone.
“Thank you,” came Alba’s voice a moment before she appeared in the doorway.
My mouth went dry.
She wore a dark burgundy dress that skimmed her body and moved like water. It was cut high on her neck and had long sleeves. She wore a gold necklace and thin bracelets on top of the fabric, the metal shimmering in the buttery light spilling from the sconces.
The dress highlighted the willowy, curvy shape of her. Her legs were bare, and she wore simple black heels.
It was the first time I’d seen her with her hair down. Blond waves fell down to her chest, framing that face that had plagued my dreams for days.
Suddenly, I was standing, though I had no recollection of getting to my feet. I gulped, blinking rapidly, and said, “Alba.”
She smiled, her lips shining with some subtle makeup. “Good evening,” she said, and nodded to the waiter as he pulled the chair out for her. She timed it perfectly to sit as he tucked her chair, like she’d done it a thousand times before.
This was a different woman from the snarky, opinionated waitress and the furious cleaner. I’d never met this one before. A niggle of disquiet went through me. Was she as real as she’d seemed, or had it all been a lie?
“Who are you?”
Alba arched a brow, a grin teasing at the corners of her lips. “You know who I am.”
“I don’t think I do.”
She took the menu that the waiter handed her, her eyes still steady on mine.
I’d never seen someone so beautiful. It dazzled me to look at her.
She moved differently here than she did when she was at work.
There was subtle tension in her body, but she didn’t look uncomfortable, as if the very way she held herself put walls up around her.
It made me want to lean in and break them down.
She ordered wine and thanked the waiter, then turned back to me when he stepped out after having cleared one of the two wine glasses from each of our place settings. Her eyes were sharp. She was unbelievably beautiful. I couldn’t breathe properly.
“You stood when I entered. That was good.”
“Right.” My voice was a croak. I still hadn’t recovered.
Alba was all business. “Hillary sent me the invitation from the Noble Foundation Gala. It’s a white-tie event this year,” she noted.
The fact that she said “this year” implied that she knew about previous years’ dress codes. Unsurprising, but it still sent a thread of insecurity through me. If this was the type of person I’d be surrounded by, how could I possibly hold my own?
“What will you be wearing?” she asked.
“A tux,” I said, shrugging slightly.
Alba arched a brow. “With an evening jacket, waistcoat, and white bowtie?”
“Sure.”
“The correct answer is, ‘Yes, absolutely.’”
“Yes, absolutely,” I parroted.
She huffed, and I could tell she was holding back from laughing. “We’ll have to have a look at your outfit. And your date will have to be in a floor-length gown, maximum formality.”
“Right,” I said, not mentioning that I didn’t have a date, nor did I know anyone who would be comfortable at that kind of event.
I was out of my depth—again. But I was here to learn.
I watched Alba when the waiter came back. She was unfailingly polite, but she didn’t treat him like an equal or a friend. There was no joking the way customers did at the restaurant where she’d worked.
The waiter showed her the bottle of wine, then opened it tableside. He poured a drop into her glass, let her taste it, then poured mine and topped hers up.
When we were alone again, I took my glass and said, “I don’t know anything about wine.”
Her eyes twinkled with a teasing light. “I can see that by the way you’re holding your glass.”
I looked at the glass, cupped in my right hand. “What’s wrong with the way I’m holding my glass?” I demanded.
“Do it like this,” she said, gripping the top section of the stem instead of the bowl of the glass. “That way you won’t get dirty finger marks all over it.” Her tone was wry, teasing, but it wasn’t mean.
I did as she said. It felt awkward and pretentious. I grimaced.
“Vaughn, holding your wine glass differently doesn’t make you a bad person.”
My eyes snapped up to hers. “You can tell I’m uncomfortable.”
She arched a brow. “I don’t have to be a psychic to know that.”
“This all seems like a lot of bullshit just to have a drink and a meal.”
She tilted her head, conceding. “It is, mostly. But it’s convention, and you’ll stick out if you don’t follow it.”
“How did you learn all this?”
She smiled, eyes flashing. “We’re not here to talk about me.”
In the intimate, low light of the private room, I very much wanted to talk about her.
I wanted to know where she’d gotten that dress, and how she’d learned to move like that.
I wanted to know how she’d grown up that she looked completely at ease here, when I felt the itch of every thread against my body.
“Vaughn.”
I looked up. Alba had set her glass down and was leaning forward. Her hand reached across the table, and her fingertips brushed against the top of my palm. I let out a long sigh at the touch, shaking my head. “I wish I didn’t have to do this.”
“Learn table manners?”
“Play this stupid game. My business is solid. It shouldn’t be a stretch for someone else to see it.”
She hummed.
“I didn’t grow up rich,” I admitted. “I…” My voice trailed off, and my gaze slid to the side.
“My dad always had a new business venture, but most of them didn’t pan out.
All this… It just reminds me of him. He always wanted to be part of this world, and he’d drag us along, but it never felt natural. I feel like I’m playing dress-up.”
“It’s uncomfortable.”
“Very.”
Her fingers brushed my palm once more, and then she pulled away. “What’s your reason for wanting to find an investor?”
“To grow the business more than I’m able to grow it myself.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
She shrugged, an elegant movement. “Why does it matter that your business grows?”
“If I don’t find an investor, I’ll have to sell off chunks of the business. Shrink. We might never grow again, if my reputation takes a hit.”
“But you won’t be destitute.” She arched a brow, and I could see in her face that she’d done her research on me since we’d seen each other last.
“Well. No.” I blinked. “I…” Trailing off, I cleared my throat. “I want to give my daughter everything I never had. I want to provide for her.”
“You can’t do that already?”
“I want her to have the best.”
“That’s what my father used to say, and yet I ended up here.”
I sat up. That was a rare crumb of information about her, directly from her, and it made me hungry for more. “You did. How?”
“We’re not here to talk about my family.” She looked at me. “You need to decide if you’re willing to play this game, and if the discomfort is worth the outcome.”
“You don’t think it is.”
“I never said that.”
“I won’t be a failure,” I said, and it came out bitter and harsh. I felt exposed, like I’d cracked myself open by accident and showed her a part of me that was supposed to remain hidden.
Alba didn’t react. She watched me, cool and aloof.
The doors opened, and our waiter came back to take our orders.
I watched the way Alba acted, how she held the menu, how she moved.
She encompassed everything that made me uncomfortable about the monied class.
Her bearing was all superiority and elegance, and I felt like an ogre in comparison.
I shifted in my seat and tugged at my tie.
“Vaughn,” Alba said, “stop fidgeting.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
She laughed. “Now you’re the one who’s lying.”
I grinned in response, and her eyes lingered on my lips before climbing up to meet my gaze.
She took a deep breath, then gestured to the place setting. “Let’s go over the function of each utensil.”
Alba spoke, and I listened. She showed me how to hold my fork, how to cut with my knife. She instructed me on safe topics of conversation and when it would be acceptable for me to bring up business.
“I’ve broken a million rules in my meetings so far,” I admitted.
“They probably weren’t formal dinners,” she said. “I’m trying to get you up to speed for a white-tie event. Business lunches at Carmine’s are another thing entirely. Those are mostly about bravado and confidence.”
“And avoiding polyester.”
“That’s just a good life strategy in general.”
I laughed. By the time our meal was done, I was exhausted—but I wasn’t uncomfortable.
Alba had managed to demystify some of the table manners that I’d encounter at the Noble Foundation Gala.
I felt incrementally more prepared. I probably wouldn’t fit in, but I might not make a fool of myself in the first ten minutes, either.
We walked through the restaurant and stood on the street. I hailed a cab and opened the door for Alba.
“Thank you for tonight,” I said as she walked around me toward the open door.
“We have a lot of work to do,” she said. Her jewelry glinted under the streetlights between the open flaps of her long wool jacket, her breath puffing in a cloud of white. A few flakes of snow landed on her shoulders.
She looked otherworldly. Untouchable. I wanted her desperately.
Our eyes met, and I cleared my throat. “What’s next on the agenda?”
“Dancing.”
“Dancing?”
“You heard me. You’ll want to take your date onto the dance floor at least once.”
I groaned, and Alba grinned.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” I accused.
“Immensely. Goodnight.” She got into the cab, and I closed the door and watched the car drive away.
And when I closed my eyes that night, I saw Alba painted on my eyelids. Her smile. Her hair. The way she moved in that dress.
Dancing with her wouldn’t be so bad.