Chapter 9 #2
"I mean yes — when we're alone, I'll respect your three-feet rule, and of course it applies both ways. But when we're in public — say, visiting my parents — we'll have to act like a couple in love, which means doing what couples do."
"Such as?"
"Holding hands. Kissing goodbye. That sort of thing."
"My, oh my, you've thought this through, haven't you?" He opens his mouth to reply, but I cut him off.
"All right, fine. I suppose it's what I'm being paid for. But only in public. Otherwise, three feet at all times, Mister."
He sighs, like I'm a difficult child he's been saddled with. "Got it."
"Now… why do I have to move in with you?"
"Because I said so."
"Not good enough."
"For the same reasons I already mentioned," he replies evenly.
"If this is going to work, we have to look real.
Real couples live together — or at least spend most of their time together.
You can go home sometimes, but for the majority of the time, you'll be living with me.
My apartment's on the Upper West Side, and weekends we'll stay at my place in Upper Saddle River. "
He sees my expression and mistakes surprise for annoyance. "Don't worry, you'll like it. It's beautiful out there, and the house is huge. You can have as much of your own space as you need."
Yeah, of course he has two homes — probably more. Billionaires can afford as many as they want. I just hadn't really pictured it until now.
"But before that," he continues, "we need to buy an engagement ring and do some clothes shopping. It's going to be a busy evening."
"Clothes shopping? I have plenty of clothes."
He smirks. "Not the right types of clothes." His eyes travel slowly up and down my body.
Ugh. His condescension is infuriating. "So you want me to buy designer stuff?"
"I'm buying," he says, matter-of-fact. "And it doesn't all have to be designer — just high-end, quality pieces that look less…" His gaze drops to my blouse. "…cheap."
Cheap? Did he just call me cheap? What a bastard.
I glance down at my lime-green blouse with its pearl hem and flared sleeves. Sure, it's a few years old — okay, three — and it's been on heavy rotation, but it's still serviceable. People have complimented me in it. What's his problem?
Breathe, Jenna. Just breathe.
"You may think so, but I think I look good as I am," I tell him. "Not everyone has money to waste on couture."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it. Don't tell me you buy knock-offs because it's all you can afford. You live in an upscale two-bedroom in the heart of Manhattan. You're doing fine."
"I'm not broke," I snap. "But I only just break even.
Every cent I ern goes back into the business.
I share my apartment with a roommate, and yes I buy good clothes because in my profession I have to look the part, or no one will hire me.
But I only buy what I need, and I always buy them in the sales.
I can't afford to spend my hard-earned money on a pair of shoes or a handbag, just because it's got a designer name on it and I happen to like it. "
He shrugs. "Then don't. Spend mine instead. But it has to be done. My mother and sister would instantly smell a rat if I said I was engaged and you weren't properly dressed."
Properly dressed? Who does he think he is?
I might have been tempted by the offer if not for the barbed comments. But he's got my dander up now, so I dig in.
"What exactly is your problem with what I'm wearing?"
"Too much color and fluff."
I shrug. "So I like whimsical pieces. Sue me."
"You might not like it so much after you're humiliated at a country club by a woman with a smile sweet as sugar and a tongue sharp as glass."
It takes me a second. "You mean your mother."
He nods. "Her and her equally judgmental friends."
"Yeah, I'm not worried about that."
Both Grayson and Steph talk like their mother's the second coming of Monster-in-Law — a woman who chews up girlfriends and spits them out. They think she'll have me in tears.
They underestimate me.
The Beverly Hills Brat's mother had been no walk in the park either, but she'd still given me a fat tip in the end—because I got her to appreciate me, even if she didn't exactly like me.
No matter how tough Grayson's mother is, I'm sure I'll win her over. But what if I don't? Big whoop. I'm not actually marrying her son, so her opinion means nothing. I won't break down crying over a few snide comments.
"I'm not letting you dress me up for the duration of this contract," I tell him. "I want to present myself as my authentic self. If I look and feel like a caricature, it'll be harder to pretend, and we'll get caught."
He rubs his chin. "Is that your final decision?"
I nod, though my stomach knots. Please don't let this be a deal-breaker.
"Suit yourself," Grayson says. "You going to sign?"
I blink, surprised. I hadn't expected him to back off so easily.
"Okay," I say, and just like that, I've signed the single largest contract of my entire life by far—one million dollars, payable in cash, to a bank account I nominate, in six months' time.
Just so long as I keep my mouth shut, pretend I'm his goddamned fiancée, and act like a good little girl at all times.
Can I manage it?
For a million bucks?
Yeah, I think I can manage it. I sign with a flourish and hand Grayson back both copies of the contract and his flashy, Louis Vuitton pen that probably cost twice as much as all the furniture in my apartment combined.
He steps closer, but I automatically retreat, the signed contract offered out to him at arm's length. He arches a brow. My face heats, but I hold my ground. "Three feet apart."
Any closer and my brain starts misfiring, replaying how perfectly his body had fit tightly against mine. Having him here makes it worse.
I'm suddenly aware of how much space he takes up, the quiet power of him. His eyes travel over the paintings on the wall and the thrift-store knick-knacks on our coffee table. Cynicism flickers in his gaze, but before he can speak, I raise a hand.
"Don't say a goddamn word about my décor. Not all of us are billionaires. Some of us have to appreciate what we can afford."
"What makes you think I wasn't going to say something nice?" His voice is low, smooth as honey, sliding over my skin as he countersigns the contract and hands me one copy, retaining the other for himself. He carefully replaces the cap on his pen and tucks it away into his suit jacket.
I laugh. "When have you ever said something nice?" I cross my arms, trying to ignore the charge of simply having him here. "So, explain again—why do we have to move in together?"
"Because we're engaged."
"So? Engaged people live apart all the time."
He sighs. "Look, I'm a billionaire with a sought-after penthouse on Central Park West, overlooking the park, and a mansion in Upper Saddle River that would make half of Europe's royals jealous.
I'm not boasting—just stating facts. You, on the other hand, share an apartment in Chelsea with another working woman.
If we were really engaged, of course you'd move in with me.
If you don't, my family will know something's up. "
I exhale. Honestly, if I'd known this was part of the deal, I might've thought twice. Living with a man I loathe—and can't stop wanting—is going to be torture.
Or maybe not.
It depends on the setup. We both work long hours; maybe we'll rarely cross paths except for appearances.
From the sound of it, his homes are enormous.
No conserving hot water so we both get a shower.
No thumping neighbor music at two a.m. No suspicious smells from the ancient AC unit we can't afford to replace.
The thought gives me hope. "So we won't have to be around each other except when we're ‘on duty,' right?"
"No. You'll have your own space. We'll just leave some of your things in the master bedroom, mixed with mine, in case anyone looks."
I rub my chin, thinking. He watches me with those unreadable eyes. Then a thought strikes. Better make this crystal clear.
"Just to reiterate, this arrangement doesn't involve sex—so don't even think about it."
He smirks, and my stomach drops. Images flash behind my eyes: me on his desk, begging for more, the heat and power of him driving into me; the night on the dance floor, his hand sliding between my legs, teasing me until I forgot my own name.
A flush sweeps through me. I fold my arms to hide the evidence on my chest.
Yeah. Don't lie, Jenna—you'd enjoy the hell out of it.
But I still won't do it. Not for money.
I stamp the thought firmly in my head. I do not want to have sex with Grayson Wolfe. Maybe if I repeat it enough, it'll be true.
"No sex," he says, triggering equal parts relief and disappointment. "It even says so in the contract. Rest assured, this isn't a sexual arrangement. I make it a rule never to sleep with the same woman twice."
"I—" Whatever I was about to say dies on my tongue. "Wait, never?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he glances at his watch. "We have to go. Pack. I'll wait."
Then he strolls over to the couch, sits, and stretches his long legs like he owns the place.
"The way you just order people around like that is kind of annoying," I tell him, my patience snapping. "Who do you think you are?"
He smirks. "The guy giving you a million dollars, that's who."
I sigh and head to my room.
As I pack some essentials, I set my text-to-speech app to read the contract aloud. Most of it sounds fine, except I have to agree to attend any events or gatherings he requires, no exceptions. That's a problem. I can't risk my business falling behind.
Another issue: Once we're seen together at these events, everyone in the city will assume we're dating. Questions will start—how I got to plan the gala, what my connection is to him. People will probably think I slept my way into the job.