Chapter 13
FIRST CLASS PROBLEMS
HARPER
Four hours after the boutique incident, I'm standing in Victor's guest room—my room—staring at myself in the mirror and wondering if it's possible to die from nervous anticipation.
Outside, November darkness has fully settled over Manhattan—an early winter night where the city lights feel both festive and vaguely threatening. The temperature dropped to forty degrees this afternoon, and now there's that brittle cold that makes your breath visible and your fingers numb.
Inside Victor's temperature-controlled penthouse, I'm warm. Too warm.
The pale lavender dress fits perfectly. Simone had included jewelry—delicate gold earrings, a thin bracelet, nothing too flashy—and I'd done my own makeup because having someone else do it felt too much like admitting this was real.
My hair is down, falling in soft waves past my shoulders. I almost never wear it down for events. But something about tonight feels different.
Everything about tonight feels different.
Because four hours ago, Victor Kade kissed me in a boutique fitting room, and I kissed him back, and now I have to stand next to him in front of cameras and pretend that kiss was just... what? A mistake? A rehearsal?
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
MARGOT: Good luck tonight! You'll be amazing.
MARGOT: Also Amelia wants to know if you're going to kiss him in public.
MARGOT: I told her that's inappropriate but now I'm also curious.
AMELIA: It's not inappropriate it's RESEARCH
AMELIA: For my toast at her eventual real wedding
MARGOT: Amelia there's not going to be a real wedding.
AMELIA: That's what YOU think
I type back quickly before they can badger me any further.
ME: No public kissing. This is a professional appearance.
AMELIA: Boring
MARGOT: Appropriate
AMELIA: Still boring
ME: I have to go. Victor's picking me up in 10 minutes.
AMELIA: "Picking you up" like a DATE???
ME: Like a colleague providing transportation.
AMELIA: Worst liar ever
I pocket my phone and take one last look in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me is someone I barely recognize. Polished. Elegant. The kind of woman who belongs on the arm of a billionaire CEO.
Except I'm not that woman.
I'm Harper Beaumont, who thinks in recipes and imagines different ways of making poutine at midnight and talks to her plants and once cried during a particularly emotional episode of Queer Eye about a guy organizing his garage.
I'm about to face-plant into a full panic attack when there's a knock at my door.
"Harper?" Victor's voice, muffled through the wood. "Car's here."
I grab my clutch—also courtesy of Simone—and open the door.
Tall, muscular, and regal, Victor kade is standing in the hallway in a tuxedo that could double as a cautionary tale.
I've seen him in suits. I see him in suits every day. But this is different.
His tuxedo is James Bond levels of formal, all sharp lines and perfect tailoring, complete with a brand of devastating elegance that makes my tongue forget how to work.
His broad shoulders are the picture of masculinity, filling out the dark fabric. Dark hair sleek and styled, his gravel-gray eyes are more blue than usual. And they’re doing that thing where they see way too darn much. And he's looking at me like—
Like he did in the boutique.
My body answers before my mouth does.
"Hi," I exhale.
"Hi. You look..."
"Appropriate?" I supply, because clearly I'm still bitter about earlier.
His mouth twitches. "I was going to say beautiful."
Oh.
Oh no.
"Thank you," I say, trying to ignore the way my heart just did something acrobatic. "You look very... tuxedo-y."
"Tuxedo-y?"
"It's a word."
"It's not."
"It is now."
We stand there in the hallway, both of us barely breathing, the ghost of our kiss still lingering in the air between us.
“You were right. Earlier,” Victor says finally. “You said we should talk. I agree.”
But my heart is beating too hard to stand, let alone talk.
I lick my dry lips. “I thought Rachel said no talking tonight? Just smiling and appearing in love."
"Harper—"
“Maybe after? Maybe when we can both think clearly."
"Can we?” Those gorgeous hazy irises of his harden. “Think clearly, that is.”
It's the same question I wondered myself just hours ago. And I still don't have an answer.
"Car's waiting," I say instead, because if we stay in this hallway any longer, I'm going to do something stupid. Again.
Victor steps closer—not touching me, but close enough that I can smell that warm cedar-and-something scent that’s becoming all too familiar.
"This conversation isn't over," he says quietly, his voice dropping to that bossy low register of his.
My pulse kicks. “I know."
"After the event. When we get home."
Home. There's that word again.
"Okay," I breathe.
His eyes drop to my mouth for just a fraction of a second before he steps back, offering his arm with infuriating formality.
"Shall we?"
I take his arm, and we head toward the elevator. But I can still feel the heat of Victor Kade’s—my boss, the man who holds my career in his hands—gaze on my lips.
And I know tonight is going to be a very, very long night.
* * *
The Grandview Hotel is in Midtown, all glass and steel and sweeping luxury. The opening event is in the penthouse ballroom, and by the time we arrive, the place is already packed with Manhattan's elite—investors, tech executives, society types who consider "casual Friday" an abomination.
Victor's hand is on the small of my back as we enter, the touch professional and possessive at the same time.
I can feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of my dress, and I'm trying very hard not to think about how those same hands pulled me against his hard body and cock mere hours ago.
"Remember," he murmurs low as we approach the receiving line. "We're happily married. Whirlwind romance. The gaming chapel was charming and quirky."
"Got it. Lie convincingly."
"It's not lying. It's tailored truth-telling."
"That's literally the definition of lying."
"Harper."
"Victor."
A photographer approaches. "Mr. Kade! Can we get a photo of you and your wife?"
Victor's hand tightens slightly on my back, and I paste on a smile.
"Of course," he says smoothly.
We pose. His arm around my waist. My hand on his chest. The heat between us fiery enough to light a few of the nearby candles on tabletops.
"Beautiful!" the photographer enthuses. "Can you look at each other? Like you're in love?"
I turn toward Victor, and he’s already looking at me.
For a moment, neither of us are acting.
The camera flashes.
"Perfect! That's going to be gorgeous."
The photographer moves on, and Victor and I are left standing too close, looking at each other, pretending this is all fake.
"Drink?" he asks.
"God, yes."
He steers me toward the bar, and I'm grateful for the movement because standing still next to him is dangerous.
The bartender—who clearly recognizes Victor—has our drinks ready before we even order. Champagne for me. Whiskey for him.
"Perks of being you," I huff out.
"Perks of being a major investor in this hotel."
“Easy to say when you’re an adult Richie Rich.”
"I prefer the term 'successful entrepreneur.'"
“Richie Rich is more fun to say."
"Is it?"
“Rich-ie Rich.” I test the word, smacking my lips. "Definitely more fun."
He's fighting a smile again. I'm getting better at making that happen.
"Victor!" A voice cuts through the crowd. A woman approaches—late fifties, long-sleeved dress, a quiet confidence that comes from never being told no. "Congratulations on the marriage! Quite the surprise."
Victor's expression morphs into something more guarded. "Patricia. I didn't know you'd be here."
Patricia. As in Patricia Franklin. The board member who—from what I hear—isn’t too fond of our shared CEO.
Clearly, this is about to get interesting.
"Wouldn't miss it," Patricia says, her smile not reaching her eyes. "And this must be the famous Mrs. Kade. The one from the video game chapel."
The way she says it makes it sound like an insult.
"Harper Beaumont," I say, extending my hand because I was raised with manners even when dealing with assholes.
Patricia shakes it, pulling her grip away a tad too fast. "Charming. Tell me, how does one go from hosting a cooking show to marrying the CEO? That's quite a career advancement."
The implication is clear. And insulting.
Victor's jaw tightens, but before he can say anything, I smile wider.
"Actually, I married Victor because he's terrible at making regular coffee and I felt sorry for him. The CEO thing is just a bonus."
Patricia blinks. "I—what?"
"His espresso machine has forty buttons. Forty. Who needs forty buttons to make coffee? It's a cry for help."
Victor makes a sound that’s half-scoff, half-laugh.
Patricia looks between us, clearly trying to figure out if I'm serious. "Well. That's... unconventional."
"We're an unconventional couple," Victor says, his hand finding mine. “Now, if you'll excuse us, Patricia. We should circulate."
He steers me away before Patricia can respond, and once we're out of earshot, he leans down to murmur, "Forty buttons?"
"I counted."
"It's a professional-grade espresso system."
"It's a monument to overcomplicated masculinity."
“I hardly think—Actually, that's accurate."
I laugh, and his expression softens in a way I've never seen before. God, he’s handsome—tall and gorgeous and deep-voiced, a testament to sensual masculinity the world over.
“I guess I should be thanking you, Beaumont,” he says quietly.
"For what?"
"For handling Patricia. She was clearly trying to provoke us."
"I know. That's why I went with absurdist humor. It's disarming."
"It worked."
"I have many skills."
"I'm noticing."
The way he says it makes my stomach do a version of the Macarena.