Chapter 16 #2
"You know I'm right about the showcase," she says.
"You can either put on a black and white, wholly forgettable affair, that tells everyone you're exactly who they fear you are, or you can show off your good side—always assuming you can find one, that is—and make all the people who work for you and with you look good by association. "
She raises an eyebrow, waiting for a response.
I can't help the smile that goes across my face. "Yeah, you definitely should never be a model."
She shakes her head and glances down at her iPad.
"You have a very narrow view of models. Have you ever thought that maybe you just have shallow tastes, and the strong-willed, ambitious ones with a bit of maturity to them and some sense in their heads just aren't attracted to you?"
I smirk. "Maybe," I say in a voice that expresses my deepest skepticism.
"Anyway, you never answered my question." She looks back up, leaning forward. "Have you always been this austere?"
"I guess," I respond. "Growing up, I've never really bothered with fashion.
My mother was very into it, and she overwhelmed all of us with it, to the point that when I was a teenager and getting dragged to fashion shows against my will, to watch ridiculously thin models parade up and down in even more ridiculous so-called clothing that nobody n their right minds would ever wear outside of a weird bondage party, or something.
That was when I finally decided that I was done with fashion.
I know what I like, and I stick with it.
What I like… well… it's simple, it's honest, and it's not pretentious. "
"Interesting," she says. "What if I asked you just to try and wear something, nothing major, maybe a light blue cufflink at one point?"
I raise an eyebrow. "No."
"Aw, come on. It's been years. You don't know what you might like if you don't try."
"And since I'm not willing to try, I guess we'll never know.
She smirks. "How about we make a bet?"
I cock my head, intrigued. "I'm listening."
"I'm going to get your mother to like me," I say. "Then you're going to wear whatever I want for a week straight."
"Ridiculous. Out of the question"
"Oh I see." She grins at me. "So you're scared of losing?"
"No, I'm more worried about how delusional you actually are. You think you can get my mother to like you?"
"Isn't that the point of this whole fake engagement?"
"No. I said she had to tolerate you, to accept you, but I'm not stupid enough to actually hope for her to like you."
"Why? What's wrong with me?
"It's not about you. It's about her. Have you actually met that woman?
She doesn't do "like". It's hard enough for her to even tolerate anyone, especially people who aren't from her social class.
The only way she'll like you is if you magically transform into one of her country club set buddies, and tell her you're going to be a stay-at-home wife, who attends the ballet when there's something nice on, and occasionally helps out at the better quality charity events. "
She sighs. "What's her problem, anyway?"
"She's traditional. Very traditional. It's how she was brought up." There's some truth in that. We're all a product of our upbringing, even my self-made father, Michael. There's a little more to it than that, for sure, but that's all she needs to know for now.
"What about you?" Jenna asks. "Are you traditional too?"
"Hardly," I say. "I don't mind if my potential wife wants to be a full-time mother or full-time shoe-shiner, although I will admit, I've always been more attracted to ambitious, career-oriented women.
In any case, don't worry about getting my mother to like you.
It won't happen, and it's not a requirement for our engagement anyway.
" Fake or real, I don't need my mother to like my fiancée.
I just need her to be convinced it's real, so that my father will also be convinced.
Speaking of my father, I have a meeting with him this morning. I already have an idea of what it's about. It's almost certainly going to be about my relationship with you.
"So," Jenna continues. "Since you're so sure I'm going to lose anyway, there's no harm in betting on it, is there?"
I smirk. "Fine. But you get something if you win. What about if I win? It's only fair that I get something in return."
"What?"
I muse on it. "I don't know yet, but I'll figure something out."
"No, no, no, Grayson. You can't just leave the terms open-ended. That's dangerous."
"Fine. I'll give you two entire months in which to make my mother like you, and if—or rather when—at the end of that time she still cannot stand the sight of you and you have lost, you'll have to call me by endearing pet names during any conversation we have around other people for the next entire month straight. "
Her eyes widen. "Are you serious?"
"As a heart attack."
She chews her lips. I can tell this is difficult for her, and I almost want to ask what she has against pet names.
"Of course, if you don't want to take the bet, you don't have to–"
"No," she says, holding up her hand. "I accept. It's a deal."
"Really? You have to say it like you mean it. No sarcasm."
She swallows, but puts on a brave face. "It doesn't matter, because I'm going to win."
I watch her as she chomps on her bacon determinedly. She really is something else.
After breakfast, I head down to my father's private office building in Brooklyn. I breeze right past his secretary with a nod, opening his door without waiting to knock or be invited in, as I usually do.
"Hi, Pops, sorry, I'm–"
The words die on my tongue. My father's not alone. Seated across from him is a familiar, dark-haired man. He's lounging in a leather swivel chair, looking for all the world like he owns the place, and he looks a lot like me, only a few years younger.
"George!"
"Hi, brother. It's been a long time."