7. Dani
DANI
There’s a phone by the hostess stand. I noticed it when we came in.
I can head to the bathroom then crouch behind the wall to screen the servers from the dining room.
I bet there’s a side door to get into the service side of the hotel.
I saw them in the kitchen taking room service out another exit.
I’ll duck out, call the police, tell them that Graham freaking Richmond kidnapped me and has my dog and my phone prisoner.
Then I’ll be back home on my couch-bed this evening.
“Danielle! Is that you, dear?”
“My word, you look a state. Your mother did say she thought you were acting rather odd lately.”
“Sorry, worked all night,” I tell her, tugging at my pants.
“Did you? Whatever for?” She taps me lightly. “Forget that office-girl nonsense. You need to marry that billionaire that you finally decided to bring out into the open and live your life of luxury.”
“Oh, Bitsy.” Mrs. Goodwin comes out of the restroom. “It’s the twenty-first century—women should have their own money. Don’t be reliant on a man, Dani, even one as good-looking as Graham Richmond. Besides, he’s a self-made man. He doesn’t want a mooch,” she says pointedly to Mrs. Prescott.
It’s a snub. Mrs. Prescott’s daughter is a stay-at-home wife, while Mrs. Goodwin’s daughter works at Van de Berg Insurance.
“It’s a bit different when one’s husband is a billionaire and not a salaried VP.”
Oof. Shot off the port side. Mrs. Prescott married into big pharma money. Mrs. Goodwin’s mouth flattens.
“The Summer Harbor Garden Charity Party is this April,” Mrs. Prescott reminds me. “Now, I know you and your parents are going, and your mother bought an extra ticket since Colette said you were seeing someone. I assured her it was refundable, of course, since you don’t like to listen to gossip.”
“No need—” I squawk out.
“No need indeed!” She nods approvingly. “And don’t forget to tell your Graham that there’s a charity auction. We’re taking credit cards now.”
“Thank you for the reminder. We’re looking forward to it.”
“Oh, and Danielle.” Mrs. Prescott’s voice lowers. “Saks has some lovely dresses out from some new designers.” She gives me a pointed look.
I nod. “Yep. I’ve heard from my mother.”
“Well, she’s right, dear. If that man is dragging you out to breakfast with his family after you worked all night, you should have him buy you something nice.”
“I’ll be sure to wear a new hat and sundress.”
“Whatever you feel most comfortable in, dear. Ta-ta!”
My teeth grind as I crouch down and peer over the ferns into the dining room.
Mrs. Goodwin and Mrs. Prescott are talking to Mrs. Thornton, who was in a sorority with Colette’s and my moms—and oh look, she’s on her phone.
Great. In twenty minutes, everyone on the Upper East Side is going to think I’ve been dating Graham Richmond and have been keeping it a secret for some weird reason.
Mom is going to be pissed when she realizes I lied about dating and that I got kidnapped by him instead.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
What am I going to do?
I mean, I can’t let them know I’m single, that’s for sure. So I just need to find a fake boyfriend to show up after my dramatic kidnapping rescue and say he’s been so worried about me and he loves me and he’ll never let me out of his sight.
I chew on my lip. Aside from the obvious problem of, you know, finding this mythical boyfriend, how am I going to explain to everyone why I told Mrs. Goodwin and Mrs. Prescott I was dating Graham if he kidnapped me?
Ugh! Why am I such a people pleaser?
“Ma’am?” one of the servers asks me.
Great. Now I’ve graduated to “ma’am” and still no boyfriend.
“I promise I didn’t have too much to drink,” I tell him, standing up and dusting off my pants. “This isn’t what it looks like. See? Sober.”
Another lie.
“Would you like me to bring you some ginger ale?”
“Just keep the mimosas coming.”
He offers pointedly, “I can ask the bartender to make you a ginger ale mocktail. He can even put it in a champagne glass if that’s more amenable.”
Great. I’ve been cut off from the bar, and it’s like nine forty-five in the morning.
“Sounds amazing. Thanks.”
I duck into the bathroom and splash water on my face. Try to get my bearings. I don’t even have my phone to dissociate, because the kidnapper, Graham, took it.
One of these waiters has to be a starving actor for hire. Maybe I can bribe him to be my new fake boyfriend. Except I don’t have my purse. Would they take an IOU? Maybe. That one with the mohawk looks desperate.
“Who am I kidding?” I groan, rubbing my face. I’m screwed. My life is over. Everyone is going to make fun of me, and my mom is going to be so appalled.
I could fake a mental breakdown. I could move to the West Coast. Or one of those farms that lets you grow potatoes for room and board.
You don’t like being outside.
I also am sick and tired of being a disappointment to my family—well, really just my mom. Gran and Dad think I’m cool. Jeremy has no thoughts, which is why he’s marrying Colette. So who cares what my brother thinks.
I think about it—really think about it. All the press, the insanity, the police, the FBI, when I go and tell people I’ve been kidnapped.
I know from my time as an analyst that there is such a thing as bad publicity.
A few well-placed social media videos can kill a company.
Or someone’s social status. Mine is precarious; I can’t be making waves.
Or maybe I’m just doing my part to prop up toxic masculinity.
Or maybe I’d rather be kidnapped and locked in a penthouse than have to admit to everyone that I’m a pathetic loser who lies about being in a relationship.
Graham is visibly shocked when I walk back to the table. He stands up abruptly—like we’re in some Jane Austen novel—so he can pull my chair out. His siblings rib him, but he doesn’t seem to hear them.
I wave to Mrs. Prescott’s elderly mother and aunt. They’re craning their necks to get a good look at Graham.
Yeah. Graham Richmond. Tech billionaire. Single. Catch of the freaking century—and who lands him?
Moi.
Sort of.
Lands him for now.
I stare at him. He brought me out to brunch. He says he wants a girlfriend—no, needs a girlfriend. Sounds about as desperate as me needing a boyfriend.
A boyfriend, huh… I stare at him.
He side-eyes me and leans away.
If I stay kidnapped, would he take me to the Tuesday engagement party?
Graham’s eyes narrow.
“Sorry I took so long.” I smile at him as I cut into my salmon. “I ordered another drink.”
“See, Dad, she got another drink,” one of Graham’s sisters complains to Frank.
“We’re supposed to be paying,” Claire says, exasperated.
“Oh, don’t even worry,” I assure her. “Graham always pays. I don’t even bother to bring my purse when I’m with him.”
“We stan your energy so hard.” Bridget makes a heart with her hands at me.
Graham explodes when we’re alone back in his car. “You are the fucking worst.”
“Seriously? Your family loved me,” I slur, holding my to-go pastry.
“Why did you even come back?”
I take a big bite of the lemon-filled croissant. Crumbs spray all over the car. Graham curses.
“You have my dog, remember?” I stuff another bite in my mouth. “God, those fancy places never give you enough to eat.”
“What’s your deal? What are you up to?” He’s suspicious.
“Drive.” I point.
Graham swears again.
“The server guy was right—I have had way too much to drink. The mimosas were really strong.”
“Really, the mimosas? You’re sure it’s not the cognac you dumped into your ginger ale slushie? It smelled revolting, by the way. That was expensive cognac.”
“Then you should have swung those big billionaire balls around and made them bring me more mimosas.” I hiccup.
“You had too much to drink. I can’t have you drunk around my parents. They already didn’t like you.”
“What?” I screech at him, crumbs spraying all over his suit. “Your parents liked me. Parents like me. I’m the good girl. The one they know their sons aren’t going to get pregnant.”
“Why—because the thought of touching you is so off-putting?”
I feel like I’m going to vomit. Right. The fake relationship brunch. The way he pulled out my chair and helped me into my coat and kept his arm possessively at my waist. Fake. Because guys who look like Graham Richmond can have any girl in New York they want. And he doesn’t want me.
He’s tense.
I cross my arms. “Just take me home.”
He’s quiet. The corners of his mouth turn down. “I can’t do that right now. Not yet.”
I squint at him.
“Then where are we going?”
“Back to the penthouse,” he says quietly.
Oh. Right. Because that’s his home and my prison.
Clouds are blowing in—when we get back, I can see them from the massive windows in the penthouse living room that overlook Central Park.
“I’ll show you to your quarters,” he states.
I look longingly out the window.
“I should care that I’m about to be locked back up in your closet and never see the sunshine again,” I tell him, trying to swallow the champagne burp, but I’m so drunk that I don’t even care right now.
“You need to get what you need out of there, because I’m probably going to puke. I’m not feeling so hot.”
“You’re not staying in my closet.”
“Oh, is the kidnapper rewarding me for good behavior?”
His hand tightens on the banister. “I just don’t want you in my space anymore.”
Alarm cuts through the alcohol fog.
“You’re not locking me up in a cellar, are you?
” I yelp. “I am very much an indoor kid. I do not like damp, wet spaces—there are centipedes and spiders. Wait, how do you even have a cellar in a penthouse? Oh! They used to smuggle alcohol in this building. I remember from elementary school. I mean, I guess I could get down with a Phantom of the Opera-type thing—”
“Do you ever shut up?” He turns to me abruptly, and I crash into him. Lulu crashes into me.
“Well, I’m the fat, funny friend, so I’m just doing my job.” I do a little hoedown jig. Even my dog looks disgusted.