Chapter 25
Jenna
Oh. My. God.
Grayson's father walking in after we've just finished having sex is basically the second-worst thing that could have happened right now.
The only thing worse would've been him walking in during the act—while Grayson had me bent over and screaming—or maybe right after, when my shirt was still off and my bra askew.
Okay, this is at least a little better than those options.
But not by much.
The air still reeks of sex. The take-out is still on the floor, leaking across the herringbone-patterned walnut, and Grayson's paperwork—along with everything else that had been on his desk—is scattered everywhere.
Anyone with half a brain could tell exactly what we were doing in here. Heat floods my face. I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole. I haven't felt this mortified since the summer my mom and dad caught me in bed with that football player.
"Um…" I clear my throat as I get to my feet—legs still shaky from two very real, very powerful orgasms. "Mr. Wolfe—"
"Dad," Grayson interrupts, stepping in front of me as though to shield me from his father's scorn. "What do you want?"
"I came to talk to you. Your secretary said you were busy, but I had no idea she meant you were busy doing… this." His gaze sweeps the room, taking in the chaos, then flicks to me before settling back on his son.
"Well, to be fair, I was working before I was interrupted."
"Your fiancée shouldn't interrupt your work."
"Actually, it was George's fiancée who interrupted my work. Mine came to the rescue, if anything."
That gives him pause. "Marina? She was here?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"You'd have to ask her. She didn't get enough time to say what she wanted before Jenna came charging in like the cavalry to save the day."
His father exhales, and for the first time I notice the faint weariness in his face, like he's tired of managing his sons' complicated love lives. For a split second, I almost feel sorry for him—then I remember just how much of this mess is his and his meddling wife's fault.
"You should get back to work," he says, backing out and closing the door behind him.
Grayson turns to me. "That went better than I thought," he says, sounding almost pleasantly surprised.
"Are you serious?" I smack his back before covering my face. "How humiliating. Why didn't you lock the door?"
He lifts an eyebrow. "Excuse me, ma'am? You're the one who barged into my office and pounced on me like a wildcat, ravishing me and robbing me of my innocence. Any door-locking duties were clearly yours."
Damn it. That's almost funny enough to make me forget how mortified I am. Almost.
"I guess I should go back to work too," I mumble, though I don't really want to leave.
It's weird—over the past few days I've actually started to enjoy his company, even outside of the sex.
He's smart, and occasionally—like now—he can even be witty and unexpectedly thoughtful.
Taken as a whole, he's turning out to be better company than I ever gave him credit for, even if he is annoying as hell sometimes.
"I guess you should," he says, but he doesn't sound thrilled about it either.
Still, I pick myself up and walk to the door.
"Bye," I say.
"Bye," he answers softly.
"Okay, we're here," I say as we turn left into the cul-de-sac.
It's been a two-hour drive from Grayson's place to my parents' home in Wappingers Falls, a sleepy Hudson Valley town where the biggest excitement is the Sunday flea market. As Grayson pulls into their driveway, I take a long, deep breath.
Here goes.
Today I get to explain to my family that I'm engaged—engaged to a billionaire whose name is constantly in the news. Engaged to a man famous for his terrible reputation as a playboy—the guy the tabloids call New York's most eligible bachelor.
Engaged to someone who, so far as my parents know, I've only ever done business with—and whose name I've never even mentioned in conversation, let alone as someone I was dating.
This is going to take some explaining. I figured it wouldn't go over well by phone.
Not only are my parents not going to believe me, but when they finally do, they're going to be offended that I went and got engaged to a man I hadn't even introduced them to first.
Whichever way I look at it, it's bad.
I sigh as I unbuckle my seat belt and swing my legs around to step out.
Thankfully, we're in what—by Grayson's normal standards—is a relatively normal-looking car: a Mercedes.
Top of the range, sure, but not the kind of thing that makes people crane their necks like his ridiculous Ferrari or the chauffeur-driven Bentley he usually struts around in.
I'd insisted he tone it down, explaining that just like dressing up was the right move when meeting his parents, slumming it a little was the right move now.
Still, even his idea of "slumming it" is a Mercedes S 680 Maybach with two-tone paint and an interior that looks like half NASA Mission Control and half English country gentleman's club.
Even so, we've been getting strange glances from pedestrians and other drivers ever since we turned off the highway into Wappingers Falls.
This area is respectable but not wealthy—it's where hard-working middle-class folks like my mom and dad come to retire.
It's not the sort of place that attracts people who own $250,000 cars.
It took a fair amount of courage to ask Grayson to come at all. In the end, though, when I asked, he agreed that it would look strange for my fiancé to never meet my parents. I thought he'd be apprehensive, but he just nodded and said, "Sure. Why not?"
Now that we're actually here, I can't lie—there's a lump in my throat, my heart's pounding, my stomach's twisted in knots, and I'm more than a little nervous.
"Grayson," I say, grabbing his wrist. "I need to tell you something."
"What is it?"
"My parents…" I pause, trying to find the right words. "They're really nice people, but they can be a little overbearing."
He snorts. "Yeah, don't worry. I've got plenty of experience with overbearing parents."
"No, it's different. They're never rude or anything, but my dad never stops talking, and my mom won't stop trying to shove food down your throat the entire time we're there.
They'll also want to know everything about you.
Since you're only the second boyfriend I've ever brought home, it's going to be even worse. "
He raises an eyebrow. For a second I think it's apprehension, but then I realize it's curiosity.
"You've only had one serious boyfriend?"
I nod.
"Why?"
"Because I was busy," I say. "How many serious girlfriends have you had—like, actual wife material?"
He presses his lips together. "Fair enough."
He gets out of the car and circles around to open my door for me. He's been doing that a lot lately when we drive together. I'm not sure what that's about—he's never struck me as the chivalrous type—but maybe he's changing. Or maybe it's just part of his act.
Or maybe I read him wrong the first time.
Who knows?
"Oh, one more thing," I say before we reach the door. "You can't be rude to my parents. Ever. If you say anything foul or condescending, the deal's off."
Rather than annoyance, I see respect flicker in his eyes. "Noted. For the record, I wasn't planning on being rude to them."
"I know. But you sometimes… forget yourself," I say lightly. I'm not trying to criticize him—just setting boundaries.
"Touché," he says, pretending to wince but sounding amused.
I don't think Grayson means to be rude most of the time; it just sort of happens because he has a naturally abrasive personality, and no one's ever challenged him. Hopefully our little chat will stay fresh in his mind for the duration of our visit.
I sigh again as we walk up the path.
Well… here goes nothing.
When we reach the door, I take a deep breath before knocking. I'm still nervous—not just about my parents' reaction to Grayson, but about Grayson's reaction to them.
There's a reason I never let any of my high-society boarding-school "friends" meet my parents. My mom and dad are simple, down-to-earth Midwestern people. I didn't want them judged or sneered at by rich brats with nothing better to do.
Now they're about to meet Grayson—a billionaire and the literal definition of New York elite.
How will he see them?
It feels like our entire fake relationship hinges on this meeting. Even if Grayson isn't openly rude, if I sense he looks down on my parents, I don't think I could keep doing this. How can I pretend to be in love with a man if, every time I hold his hand, I'm silently calling him "bastard"?
Maybe I could still fake the engagement, but any real friendship we've been building would definitely be over.
I knock again.
From inside, my mom calls, "Beau! Door!"
"Why does it have to be me?" my dad grumbles from the kitchen. "You're closer than I am."
"Yes, but it's probably Mr. Thornton from down the street, and I don't want to get roped into another three-hour discussion about the differences between determinate and indeterminate tomato plants just because you were dumb enough to tell him we're growing our own vegetables."
You know, I'd never realized it before, but maybe my parents are a little rude—in their own way. Or maybe they just underestimate how thin the door is. I doubt Mr. Thornton would've been thrilled to hear that.
Perhaps that's why I've developed such thick skin—one tough enough to survive even the Wolfes.
"It's me," I call out, and I hear my mom and dad scrambling to be the first to reach the door.
It swings open, and there they are—both of them smiling wide.
"My baby girl!" Mom throws her arms open.
"Hi, Momma." I grin as she hugs me, enveloping me in the scent of nutmeg. Dad joins in, too, but I can feel his gaze fixed somewhere above my head—on Grayson.
"And who's this?" he asks.
"Grayson Wolfe," Grayson says, extending a hand. "Very nice to meet you."