Chapter 11 #2
"About time," I say, trying to keep my voice level and friendly, as if nothing happened earlier, but he doesn't look at me. Both his face and body emit an invisible tension.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"You ate already?"
"Yeah, I was hungry, so I started. But then I thought I'd wait for you after all. I have a lot left on my plate. I can still eat with you if you want."
"It doesn't matter," he says as he sits, and I wonder if it's my imagination or if he looks more upset than he did earlier.
I watch him as he transfers a big lobster tail into his plate, then another.
He's not being antagonistic per se. He barely says a word to me as he starts slicing into his lobster, but his facial expression tells me that something's not right with him.
"Where did you go?" I ask to break the awkward silence.
"I had a call."
"Business?"
"No." He doesn't say anything else. It's a blatant "drop it" signal, letting me know that I'm skating on very thin ice.
"We're going to breakfast with my parents in the morning," he says.
I raise my eyebrow. "So soon?"
He nods slowly. "It's about time we get this show on the road."
"I have a meeting at seven a.m."
"Cancel it."
"I can't just cancel a meeting at your whim."
He shoots me a piercing look. Now is not the time to push me, it says.
"Fine. I'll move it to noon."
That's what I thought, his eyes say, and he goes back to eating.
I drum my fingers on the table. His emotions seem to have transferred to me, and I've lost my appetite.
I want to leave. The air is uncomfortable, but I just have to sit here and take it.
Oh well, I guess it's good practice for pretending I can stand him while I'm being paraded in front of his parents tomorrow.
I sigh and pick up my fork again, stabbing fitfully at some potato dauphinoise.
His sharp eyes catch the movement, and he frowns.
"Don't eat like that at breakfast tomorrow."
Here comes Mr. Controlling. "What, you want me to use a fork and knife and hold my pinkie up?"
He doesn't chuckle at my joke. Instead, he narrows his eyes. "Proper table manners are important to my mother. It should be important to you, too."
I smirk. He's clearly taking me seriously. "Show me."
"What?"
"Show me how to eat like an aristocrat."
He cocks an eyebrow. "Well, first of all, your fork is in the wrong hand. The fork should be on the left and the knife on the right. Then, you slide the potatoes on like this, on this side of the fork. You don't stab the suckers like they owe you money."
I smirk. "You mean like this."
I execute the described action perfectly, scooping an acceptable amount of potatoes to the back of my fork and bringing it to my mouth. Once I'm done, I return the fork and knife to the right position and dab my mouth elegantly with the napkin.
I almost laugh at the expression on his face.
"You know I went to a high-class private school, right?" I say. "I may have been a scholarship girl, but the etiquette classes were still compulsory. Even if they weren't, I would have taken them anyway, for my job."
He rolls his eyes. "Well, why didn't you just say so?"
He sounds so disgruntled that I can't help it. I laugh.
And then the strangest thing happens. He cracks a smile.
It eases his entire demeanor as he shakes his head.
"I don't eat the way I do because I don't know how to act like you rich folks. It's just more comfortable for me." I glance at his fork. "You should try it one day."
"I'm good," he says.
After we finish eating, he shows me around the rest of the condo, including the very well-equipped gym and gorgeous sauna, which I already know I will be spending an obscene amount of time in.
No private swimming pool, but apparently there's a small but very well-appointed one on the floor below that is open to all residents and is barely used.
The doorman introduces himself to me as Alvaro. He brings up the rest of my luggage from earlier.
"Thanks," I tell him, but he turns down the tip I offer and winks at me.
"Mr. Wolfe's already covered it, ma'am. Welcome to the neighborhood," he says as he returns to his post.
Grayson shows me to my room, which is on par with any five-star hotel room I've ever seen, complete with a balcony view of Central Park West and the New York skyline. Sunrises are going to be incredible from there. I can hardly wait to see it.
"Sleep well," Grayson advises when he drops me off. "It's going to be a wild ride tomorrow."
The drive to Grayson's parents' house is more nerve-racking than I expected.
I've been calm for most of yesterday and this morning, but for some reason, as soon as I get in the limo with him, a knot forms in my belly.
Maybe it's because of the argument we had earlier.
He thought I should wear a horrendously expensive but to my mind deathly boring, white sleeveless minidress by Chanel that's one of the many items we'd bought in Saks, but I'd chosen to wear my favorite pink pantsuit from an online catalog retailer that I'd scooped up a couple of years ago.
It's a lovely shade of pastel pink, with wide-cut pants and matching jacket, and it looks very classy, worn with a simple white vest top under the jacket.
At a sticker price of $275 but reduced to just $100 in the sale, it was one of my best-ever bargains, and I love it to bits.
Despite its age, it's still the go-to power suit that I wear when I want to feel at my most confident.
"You remember the story of how we got together?" he asks, as the car rolls in front of a mansion with tall wrought-iron gates that open automatically.
"I remember," I tell him.
The story is, we met while I was planning an event for his company.
We started dating in secret for a few months, recently got engaged, and now he's ready to introduce me to his family.
It works because it's simple, and because it's as near to the truth as we can get, at least in terms of how we actually met, if not in anything else.
I recite it in my head once again, as our limo comes to a gentle, purring stop. My heart is jumping out of my chest as our driver opens the door for me.
"Thank you," I tell him, and then, before I can draw a breath, Grayson takes my hand, leading me swiftly up the steps. He pushes open the solid oak door and strides in, with me beside him.
Grayson's parents live in a landmarked, Fifth Avenue Beaux-Arts mansion.
One of the few such properties remaining on the street in these modern times.
It has that mausoleum hush: classical statuary along the entry and a sweeping staircase into an open gallery, with old-master paintings, vintage décor, and an understated, elegant palette.
Grayson seems to know his way around. He leads me to a dining room that could fit my entire apartment, where an older man and a woman are sitting in separate Louis Quinze armchairs surrounding an enormous fireplace, drinking tea and reading journals.
They both look up when we walk in.
"Who is this, Grayson?" his mother asks immediately, without greeting.
"This is Jenna, Mother. She's my fiancée. Jenna, this is my mother and father."
The air in the room ceases. You could hear a pin drop.
"You cannot be serious, Grayson," his mother says.
"Of course I am," he says. "That's why I arranged this breakfast, so I can finally introduce you to her."
His parents seem flabbergasted, and his mother levels a steady gaze on me, her piercing blue eyes wide and disbelieving.
"It's lovely to meet you both," I say with my best smile. "I'm Jenna."
"Oh, absolutely not," his mother says. She goes back to her journal and flips her hand in the air dismissively. "It's a ‘no' for this one. Send her away. We'll find you someone else. Someone more… suitable."