Chapter 49
forty-nine
Listen, I’m not proud.
If you asked a therapist how I wound up on Fifth Avenue ten days before Valentine’s Day, I’m sure they’d have all kinds of theories.
Maybe this sort of thing is a holdover from my childhood; when an endless parade of nannies attempted to buy my favor with their Everett charge cards. Or something more primitive— the intense urge to prove I can be a worthy provider for the one woman I can’t stop thinking about.
Who the fuck knows why… but here I am. Telling myself I’ll stop after the next store. Or the one after that.
The décor in here is insufferable. Crepe paper hearts, shimmering streamers. Pink and red splattered over every display.
That skirt would look good against my bijou’s skin, though. Maybe with some matching rubies around her throat…
Jesus.
What have I become?
I lie to myself, coming up with all sorts of practical reasons for the pile of bags that Bergdorf’s is about to messenger to my condo.
She’s working at my place until after midnight every night before riding all the way back to Queens. It’s ridiculous for her to go home just to turn around and hike back to Manhattan seven hours later. She’ll get more rest if she just stays over. That means she needs work clothes to keep at my apartment.
And underwear.
Maybe a watch.
Or two.
Okay, fine . I’m into the thought of dressing my gorgeous girl. So, what?
Is that a crime ? And even if it is… do I care? I’m basically a criminal anyway. What’s one more store ?
I usually just spend money on myself. It’s refreshing to think about someone else for a change. And I’ve always appreciated fashion. Colors, lines, textures. It’s art, in its own way. Just like Jules herself.
The more I shop, the more I find I have a pretty clear sense of her style. At Bendal’s, I select enough pieces to build a basic capsule wardrobe. Mostly skirts with slits up the back and blouses I look forward to unbuttoning.
Agent Provocateur provides a selection of bras, panties, and some negligees. By the time I walk out of there, I’m practically salivating. Damn . I can’t wait to see her in all of it. And out of it.
I know it’s time to stop, but my feet carry me further down Fifth. Until I find myself loitering outside an iconic store, balefully eyeing the Valentine’s-themed window displays under their classic marquee.
Tiffany & Co .
Hell, I could use a new tie clip. Or maybe a chain to wear on my suit vests.
Or a Valentine’s Day gift .
The thought stops me cold, right in front of a case of sparkling diamonds.
Damn the subliminal power of advertising. I spent the whole morning in a sea of red and pink—and now I’ve well and truly lost my shit.
I can’t get her jewelry from Tiffany’s, I tell myself, hovering over the nearest display. She’ll claw my eyes out.
But the thought only makes my suit pants tighter. Because I love her claws… and would it really be so bad? Some earrings or a?—
Fuck me .
It is beautiful. Perfect.
A sales associate notices my interest. Her eyes work down my body, noting my Blancpain watch. Interest lights her gaze. “Something you’d like to see, sir?”
I don’t mean to point, but my hand doesn’t feel connected to me anymore. “That one.”
She pulls a velvet tray out of the case, placing a selection of sparkling rings in my line of sight. My fingers clasp around the one that caught my eye, bringing it closer for inspection.
“She’s a beauty,” the girl chirps. “Three-carat center stone, five total. Emerald cut with a cushion and pave band. I have the papers for it, if you’re interested.”
Yes .
But, unlike my thoughts, my mouth actually makes sense. “I’m not really in the market.”
That isn’t “no,” though, and the saleswoman sees her opening.
“The setting is platinum, of course,” she goes on. “Virtually indestructible.”
Like Jules .
I balance the ring in my palm, weighing it. Heavier than it looks. Even more exquisite up close, too. The center stone glimmers as I twist my hand, reflecting its fire at me.
I’m only planning for the future. This is pragmatic curiosity. No harm in asking… “How much?”
The woman’s smile turns coy. “Does it really matter?”
No .
If I’m going to buy Juliet a ring—which I’m not , because that would be insane —I’ll pay any price for the right one.
For this one.
My heart pounds against my ribs while tingles spread over my scalp.
All manner of lame explanations run through my mind. All sorts of logic and justifications to keep from having a stroke when I hear myself say, “I’ll take it.”
I stash the ring in the office safe, not trusting myself to have it close at hand in my apartment.
Clearly, I’ve lost my goddamn mind.
Who knows what I’ll do if she flashes me that beautiful smile one too many times?
Or gets on her knees for me again.
Luckily, the ancient safe at Everett Alexander has a combination no one but my father and I know. Though when we change the code every year, he refuses to write it down and always winds up asking me to unlock it for him the next time.
While I’m in there, I help myself to the stack of documents on the bottom shelf. Most are boring, standard fare. Insurance shit, some tax returns, licenses. I slip them all into my inside jacket pocket, figuring I’ll review them to get a better sense of what I need to procure for G&C. Then, I hide the little blue Tiffany’s box behind some gold bars and lock the whole thing up.
My father catches me coming back down the hall. He’s tucking his shirt into the back of his pants and glancing behind him, where his secretary is busy rearranging her necklace.
Jesus . The old man could at least attempt some level of discretion.
When he spots me, he falters. “Graham. You were in the safe?”
“Yes.” Pointedly, I flick my gaze from him to his secretary. You don’t want to piss me off, Dad . “I bought a new watch and it needs to be sized at the repair shop three blocks from here. I’m storing it in the safe overnight so I can take it in tomorrow.”
Mollified by my blatant lie, he nods. “I can never remember the damn combination,” he mutters, glancing nervously behind him. “Anyway. Dinner this week?”
Knowing our days are numbered, I say, “Yeah, why not? Seven on Friday?” Then, just to be a dick, I add, “I can pick Christian up if you want to include him.”
As far as Dad knows, his second-born is at NYU, studying. He has no idea Chris is actually in rehab in Chelsea, three days into opiate withdrawals. Still, he grimaces. “Eh, leave the kid at school.” He punches my arm. “Grown-ups only.”
I stare at him. The motherfucking asshole who sleeps with his twenty-year-old assistant during lunch and then has the nerve to call himself an adult.
For one insane moment, I picture burning his entire life to the ground… just because I can. And it feels great .
Clenching my jaw, I swallow my rage and grit, “Fine.”
But as I picture sitting across from him for another cordial meal, I realize I won’t be able to do it. Not this time—not with Chris in the state he’s in.
Not without help.
“I’m going to invite my girlfriend,” I decide on the spot. “Assuming that’s all right with you.”
Dad’s features fill with bemusement. “Your girlfriend ? I’ll be damned. Is this the same woman we discussed last week?”
I tug at my shirtsleeves, focusing on the black paisley pattern so he won’t see the hatred burning in my eyes. “The very same.”
He leans closer, intrigued by my ambiguity. “Anyone I know?”
“No.” Thank God . “She’s an attorney—from Queens.”
I add the last part as a test. He fails.
“ Queens ?” His disapproving inflection turns the word into an expletive. “How did you meet an attorney from Queens?”
My skin itches. Outrage bubbles in my blood. “She works in the city.”
I can’t say any more. If he knows we met in a meeting, he might ask which one. If I tell him she works at Stryker & Sons, there’s a chance he’ll mention it to Grayson’s father the next time they cross paths. Then Mr. Stryker will tell Grayson.
Goddamn it .
Jules and I are going to have to come up with a fake meet-cute story. Assuming she deigns to attend the dinner at all.
She’s going to be so pissed .
She’ll already be mad about the new clothes. Now this. I picture her tossing her hair back and lifting that stubborn, pointed chin at me. I nearly twitch, equal parts furious and aroused.
My father observes me carefully. His expression takes on a wary note. “All right… well, I’ll be happy to meet her, I suppose. Haven’t heard you call anyone your girlfriend in years.”
I try to remember when I’ve ever given another woman that distinction, but come up blank. Maybe he has me confused with Christian.
He settles his hand on my shoulder in a paternal gesture. My stomach seethes when he leans closer, muttering, “Little tip, Graham—Valentine’s Day is next week. Let me know if you need help picking out a gift.”
The irony of this man giving anyone relationship advice brings a sardonic smirk to my face. I remember the rock in the safe, then dismiss the thought instantly. “I’ve got it handled.”