Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
JORDAN
Sabrina and I walk into the great room of Sherry Wolf’s Hamptons beach house and come to a full stop.
Sabrina lets out a quiet gasp next to me. “Holy shit,” she whispers. “This is incredible.”
“I know,” I murmur back.
The floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the back wall, overlooking the pool and what feels like a mile of sand in both directions. The space is massive without being gaudy. It’s undeniably classy.
And I get to help design her remodel.
I’m ecstatic.
My pappoús’ place in the Hamptons isn’t small. Nearly five thousand square feet and sitting on two acres, just steps from the beach. It’s old, but luxurious in every way. Matt’s penthouse is jaw-dropping, and so was the one I grew up in.
But this?
This is on an entirely different tier. Seventeen thousand square feet. Five acres. Extravagant in every way.
Sherry’s footsteps echo through the foyer. “Sorry about that,” she says, shoving her phone back into her purse.
“Sherry, your place here is stunning,” I say.
Her smile is warm and genuine, and her southern accent has me smiling just from how damn charming it is. “Why thank you, Jordan. You ready to see the kitchen?”
“Yes. I’m dying to.”
Sabrina and I follow close behind like she’s our tour guide in a foreign city, our heads swiveling, taking everything in as we pass.
“Do you ladies want anything to drink? Water? Tea? Coffee?” Sherry asks, pushing through the double doors that lead into the kitchen.
My jaw drops.
Oh. My. God. It’s everything.
Vaulted ceilings. Endless cabinets. Bay windows that flood the space with light. It’s gorgeous. Slightly outdated, sure, but there’s so much potential. Butterflies kick up in my stomach. This is a dream. I’ve remodeled some big kitchens, but this will be the largest project I’ve ever touched.
I take it all in, letting my eyes wander, scanning every corner, nook, and cranny.
“Some tea would be great,” I finally say.
“I’d love a water,” Sabrina adds.
Sherry disappears around the corner, and I pull out my phone, already taking pictures of the space while Sabrina walks around, oohing and aahing.
A moment later, Sherry reappears, rolling in a tea cart, her smile stretched wide. She gestures to the twelve-foot table, and Sabrina and I both take a seat.
“I can’t wait to get started, ladies.” Sherry hands Sabrina a bottle of water and sets a teacup and saucer in front of me. “Jordan, help yourself.” She leaves the cart beside me and slides into the chair across from me.
She clasps her hands together. “So, where do we start?” Her gaze settles on me. “Matt just raved and raved about you, Jordan. I’m so glad he connected us.”
Wait—what?
I had no idea Matt referred her. I didn’t even know she knew Matt. She never mentioned it, only that she’d seen my work and loved it.
And Matt never said anything either.
No wonder he remembered her name.
My pulse picks up, heat flooding my chest. Not in a good way, but in that tight, claustrophobic kind of way.
I’m grateful for this opportunity. Truly, I am. But now I’m questioning if I actually earned it, or if he simply talked her into hiring me.
I shove the thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. I’ve got a client in front of me with money to spend and a kitchen begging to be brought back to life.
I smile. “Me too. Matt’s a great guy.” I take a sip of my tea. “Now, let’s talk about your vision for this space.”
I push open the door to my pappoús’ beach house and lug my suitcase up and over the step.
Sabrina follows, then lets out a laugh. “Oh my God, girl. This is no Sherry Wolf house, but Jesus Christ. You’re rich.”
I roll my eyes. “My family is rich. Not me.”
I ditch my suitcase by the stairs, and Sabrina trails me into the kitchen, plopping our takeout onto the counter.
“Still,” she says, “you have a rich family. I won’t get shit when my people start dropping off. I’ll probably inherit someone’s debt.”
“Is that even a thing? Doesn’t debt die with a person?”
She shrugs. “No idea. But one thing’s for sure, you aren’t getting stuck with any.”
Yeah. Just my own.
“I won’t get money when my pappoús dies,” I say, grabbing two glasses and filling them with filtered water. “It’ll all go to my aunt.”
“What about your mom?” she asks.
“My mom’s parents died a long time ago,” I say. “My pappoús and yiayiá are my dad’s parents.”
“Really?” she asks, surprised. “Okay. So what about your dad then? Wouldn’t it go to him, too?”
“No,” I say simply.
Sabrina pauses. “Why not?”
I hesitate. I haven’t talked about my dad in years. I don’t tell people about him, but I’ve known Sabrina a long time. I trust her.
I shrug, reaching for my glass. “Because he spent everything that was ever meant for me. And then some.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was an addict,” I say. “Drugs. Gambling. One bad decision stacked on top of the next. Embezzlement. Tax fraud. You name it.”
I pull my salad from the bag, needing something to keep my hands busy. “He went to prison when I was in high school. Blew through his inheritance. My trust fund. We lost everything. All sense of security I once had was gone. Including a lot of my self-respect.”
“Oh my God,” she breathes. “I had no idea.”
“It’s not really something I talk about,” I say lightly, like it doesn’t affect me anymore.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s fine.” I shake my head. “It was a long time ago. I wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t trust you. You’re my friend. Honestly, I’m a little surprised it hasn’t come up after all these years.”
Sabrina peels the lid off her chicken bowl. “So where’s your dad now?”
“In Florida.” I stab at my salad. “With his twenty-five-year-old girlfriend. He got out of prison when I was in my late twenties. Started some company with a buddy. Makes a shit ton of money, but spends it like it’s going out of style.”
I may take after my dad in more ways than one.
And that’s always scared me.
“But your mom…” she says carefully. “Doesn’t she live with your grandparents?”
I nod. “Yep. That’s probably the most fucked-up part of it all.
” I take a bite, chew, then wash it down with water.
“My mamá doesn’t come from money. My yiayiá didn’t like her at first, but my dad has always been rebellious in his own way.
After I came along, my mamá won her over.
Or maybe I did. But my yiayiá knew if she didn’t take care of us after my dad went to prison, my mamá wouldn’t let her or my pappoús see me.
So she moved in with them while I went abroad to finish high school in France.
I guess I was sort of used as leverage.”
I take another bite, swallowing it down as I hear it all out loud.
Jesus Christ. It sounds like a daytime television drama.
But there’s no point in holding back now.
“My mamá and yiayiá cared about appearances and social standing more than anything else. The Greek community had a full-blown heyday with it. It was the juiciest story they’d heard in years.
My mamá and dad stayed married to minimize the gossip. ”
I take another stab at my salad. “He travels to Florida for”—I make air-quotes—“business.” Except he actually lives there with a revolving door of girlfriends young enough to be my sister. He flies in every once in a while to keep up the charade.”
I shovel in another bite, wiping dressing from the corner of my mouth.
Sabrina just stares at me. “You cannot be serious.”
I cock my head. “Right?”
She lets out a low whistle. “That’s some real Desperate Housewives shit right there.”
“I know.”
“So… do you ever see him?”
“Who?”
“Your dad.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I try not to, anyway. His choices ruined my life for a long time.”
He broke everything good in my life. Took everything. School. My reputation. Friendships. My relationship with Matt. The last of my childhood was ripped right out from under me.
“The last time I saw him was…” I look up, thinking. “Four years ago, maybe? But even then, I didn’t really talk to him.” I stare blankly at my salad. “We used to be close, too... when I was younger.”
The weight of my trauma settles around us like a thick fog.
“And here I thought the rich always had it easy,” she says with a teasing grin. “But holy shit. I don’t think I’d trade my poverty-stricken childhood for yours.”
I huff out a laugh. “Grass is always greener, right?”
What I don’t tell her about is the darkness. The depression. The loss of autonomy over my own life. The emotional instability that followed me like a shadow. The years of therapy and mental health battles I had to fight just to feel like myself again.
“I guess,” she says, taking a bite of her food.
We chew in silence for a moment before she asks, “So where was Matt in all of this? Weren’t you friends back then?” She pauses, rolling her hand in a vague gesture. “Or… whatever you were. Are.”
“Yeah. He was there,” I say, nodding. “He’s probably the only reason I made it through with any sanity at all, actually.”
Not probably. Definitely.
Matt took me to therapy appointments before I left for Europe.
Swept me away for weekend getaways out here in the Hamptons.
Visited me while I was in France. He even did his own therapy sessions while I was in mine.
Secretly. He doesn’t think I know about that, but I always did.
Figured if he wanted to talk about it, he would.
He never did.
But he’d been going there long before I ever was. Thank God for that. Because he had his own shit to deal with.
“Speaking of Matt,” I add dryly, pushing my salad around. “And drama. We’re getting married on Friday.”
Sabrina’s eyes go wide, brows shooting up. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Yep. Can’t make this shit up.” I blow out a breath. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Girl,” she says instantly. “You know I can.”
That’s a relief.
I spill it all.
I tell her everything about Nate, Cole, the custody mess, the fake marriage. The no sex agreement. Her shock slowly fades as I get into the funeral and how I told everyone we were already married without exactly… clearing it first.
“I just want this to work out for him, you know?” I say near the end of my very long-winded explanation. “But at the same time, I’m afraid I didn’t think this all the way through.”
She arches a brow. “You think?”
“Like this account, for example. How am I supposed to keep up with work when I’m flying back and forth to Chicago?
” I don’t even wait for her to answer. “I mean, it’s technically only weekends.
That should be fine. Except now I want to go to Switzerland.
But then, how do I manage that? And is that even a good idea?
” I let out a sharp breath. “Me. In Switzerland. With Matt?”
She just sits there. Still. Staring at me.
It’s not shock. It’s a very clear what the hell is wrong with you? look.
Finally, she laughs softly. “Friend, out of all that, you’re worried about Switzerland?” She shakes her head harder. “Were you even in the same room as me for that story? Did you hear yourself just now?”
I grimace. “It’s that bad, huh?”
“Worse.” She points her fork at me, then laughs. “Damn. I’ve never appreciated my humble upbringing more than I do in this moment.”
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “It’s… a lot.”
She looks at me, sobering. “I’m having a hard time processing all this. You’re really going to marry Matt? Your childhood best friend. Your on-again, off-again, what-the-hell-even-was-that for the last three decades.” She squints at me. “Matthew Grayson?”
“The one and only,” I say, forcing a smile.
“And then,” she says slowly, like she’s digesting it in real time. “You’re going to get a divorce?”
I shrug. “That’s the plan.”
She gapes at me. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you get divorced?” Sabrina says, blinking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
She leans back in her chair, curls framing her face as she scoffs.
“Jesus, Jordan. Matthew Grayson asks you to marry him? You fucking marry him. And you stay married. That man is hot as hell, and he’s about to become a billionaire—you said it yourself.
And let’s not forget that he’s completely obsessed with you. ”
She takes a slow sip of her water, eyes never leaving mine. “You don’t plan to divorce a man like that.” Her mouth curves into a smile. “No. If you’re already doing something this crazy, you go all in. You find a way to keep him.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart stutters anyway.
“It’s not like that,” I say cautiously. “I care about Matt. And yeah, he cares about me. But this is strictly a business agreement.” I pause, choosing my words.
“He’s done a lot for me. This account, for example.
I only landed Sherry because Matt referred her.
” I gesture between us. “Having her as a client is going to be huge for my career. So if marrying a hot billionaire for a few months—your words, not mine—’ I add, pointing at her, “is my way of saying thank you? Then yeah. It’s the least I can do. ”
Sabrina stands, pushing her chair back in. “Yeah. Okay.” She clears her trash and walks around the counter, tossing it into the garbage. “You let me know how that works out for you,” she teases. “And for the love of God, please have sex with the man. For all our sakes.”
I straighten, crossing my arms, lifting a brow as my grin stretches wide. “That won’t be happening. But I appreciate your concern.”
She puffs out a breath that’s halfway to a laugh. “I need a hot shower after all that.” She heads down the hall toward her suitcase, then pauses at the stairs. “Oh, and Jordan?” she calls.
“Yeah?”
“I can’t wait to hear about the sex.”
“We’re not having sex!” I shout after her.
There will be no sex.