Chapter 20 Grayson #2
"Most of it's going back into my business," she says instantly, excitement lighting her voice. "Some new hires, more marketing—you know the drill. I want to reward my current team, too. Maybe a bonus, something to thank them for helping me get this far."
"You already pay your employees a lot."
"Not enough for the amount of work they do, trust me."
I figure this is as good a time as any to ask what's been on my mind.
"Why?" I ask.
"Why what?"
"Why pay them so much? You're offering more than anyone else in your field."
"You pay your employees well, too," she points out. "I saw a few of your job
"Yeah, but comparatively, your package is still better, and I have a feeling we're not doing it for the same reasons."
She pauses, then says, "I've worked my whole life, you know.
Since high school. Middle school, if you count my lemonade stand.
I'd stand out in the heat all day and maybe make fifteen, twenty bucks if I was lucky.
Later, waiting tables through college, I was on my feet all night and didn't earn much more than that.
Meanwhile, the restaurant owner was making millions.
" She shakes her head. "I've never understood that—having so much excess while the people breaking their backs for you struggle.
I believe in letting the wealth go around.
I always knew that when I owned my own business, I'd pay my employees enough to actually live. "
I'm quiet for a few seconds, taking her in.
"You think I'm a na?ve bleeding heart, don't you?" she asks.
"No," I chuckle. "Not at all. I think you're… amazing, actually."
"Really?" she says softly.
"Really."
Something shifts in the air between us—warm, intimate, dangerous. It unsettles me. I clear my throat, searching for a way to break the moment.
"I have to buy a birthday present for a cousin. She's about your age. I was thinking of getting her a purse. Any recommendations?"
She brightens instantly. "Funny you should say that! Yves Saint Laurent just released this new—" She cuts herself off mid-sentence, narrowing her eyes. "Wait. Why are you really asking?"
"Like I said, I need a gift for a cousin."
"Uh-huh… you're not planning to buy me a purse, are you?"
"No," I tell her.
"I don't believe you. Swear it—on the life of your favorite suit—that you're not buying me a new purse."
I laugh. "I swear I won't buy you a new purse."
It's not really lying if your fingers are crossed, I think to myself.
She either believes me, or perhaps decides not to bother arguing about it, and starts chattering about the new Yves Saint Laurent purse. I listen, filing away enough details to know what to get my PA to ask for in the store.
Finally, she circles around to the subject we've both been avoiding.
"So," she says, hesitating. "This thing… you know… we're not doing it again, right?"
The right answer is yes. But the word won't come. Saying yes would be lying—to her and to myself.
"What do you think?" I ask instead.
"Maybe we should just enjoy it while the contract lasts and keep it casual. I mean, it's not like we can sleep with other people, and I have a pretty high sex drive. I think you do too."
"Hmmm."
"So—deal? No-strings-attached sex?"
It's a bad idea. I already feel the pull, the attachment growing under my skin. If I'm not careful, I might actually… what? Fall for her? No. That would be insane. I can't let that happen.
"Deal," I hear myself say.
I glance across the ballroom, watching Jenna mingle effortlessly among the guests. The charity gala is in honor of an old friend, packed with high-society types, and it's our official debut as a couple. I won't lie: I'd worried about how she'd handle it.
I didn't need to.
My fake fiancée is a natural charmer.
Within minutes, she's surrounded by women hanging on her every word.
I understand the appeal. She has a way of making people feel seen—important—when she talks to them. When she speaks, you can't help but listen.
While I'm stuck in conversation with a few investors, I keep an eye on her from across the room, unable to stop watching.
"Your new fiancée is quite the woman, isn't she?" says James Bador, a friend of mine and CEO of a cybersecurity firm.
"She is," I admit, not taking my eyes off her.
"I'm glad it's not awkward."
"Why would it be awkward?"
Then I see her—Anastasia Lieberman—gliding across the room with a cluster of women. Shit.
Ana's an actress I took to a movie premiere a couple of months ago.
It made sense at the time; the film was produced by a client, and Ana was a familiar face on the guest list. There was never a second date, though.
She was too clingy for my taste—and she treated waitstaff like garbage. That was enough to end it right there.
Now she's looking straight at Jenna, eyes sharp, calculating.
"Because," James continues, oblivious, "your ex is here."
"What?"
"Your ex-fiancée. Marina. I saw her at the entrance."
It takes me a second to drag my attention from Jenna back to him.
"Marina's here?"