18. Adrian
CHAPTER 18
ADRIAN
Jane turns my way, eyelashes flapping like hummingbird wings. “Tomorrow?”
“If that works for you,” I say.
Originally, I was going to take things a little slower, but now that I see how perfect she is, I don’t want to waste a second.
Perfect for the purposes of the hearing, of course.
She frowns, then shrugs. “It’s your show. Are you sure you don’t want to make sure I do well at this ball first?”
“No. That’s just a silly party.” Speaking of… I jokingly smack myself on the forehead. “We totally forgot about Mrs. Dubois.”
Jane grins and we sprint to the elevator, where the peacock-bright modiste is already waiting, along with the makeup and hair teams.
“Hello,” Mrs. Dubois says disapprovingly, her voice laced with a heavy French accent. “Did I get the appointment time confused?”
“I’m sorry,” Jane says, looking strangely crestfallen—perhaps because this is an unwelcome reminder of yesterday’s interview.
Mrs. Dubois eyes her up and down. “Not as sorry as you should be about that outfit.”
What the fuck? Does she think she’s so good at her job that she can be rude to a client? I’m tempted to fire her on the spot, but we’re too close to the event, so I’ll have to settle for putting her in her place, which isn’t hard since all I have to do is channel my late father.
“I thought I was paying your employers for your time,” I say imperiously. “Am I mistaken about that? Doesn’t that include waiting time?”
Mrs. Dubois’s eyes widen as she nods.
“Then you should be aware that if I wished, I could pay them for a year and just have you wait by this elevator the whole time.”
Mrs. Dubois takes a step back. “I didn’t mean any disrespect,” she says, her French accent fading out and a Boston twang creeping in.
“Perfect,” I say. “Do your best with my fiancée, and all will be well.”
“Fiancée?” Mrs. Dubois reexamines Jane, and this time, there’s undeniable respect in her gaze. “She’ll shine, I swear it.”
I look at the others. “Same goes for you, right?”
They all agree profusely, and one of them even gives me a military salute.
Dad would be proud, so I feel shitty.
“Set up shop in the living room,” I say in a kinder tone. “Jane knows the way.” I wink at her. “Meanwhile, I’m going to go take care of some business.”
They all head to the living room, and I go to my studio, where I start working on a new project—an animated movie for when Piper is old enough to want to watch such things.
And yes, I admit it, I’ve been inspired by the conversation with Jane. The plot for the movie is going to be a riff on Freaky Friday , Big, and other body-swap films, only in this version, it’s not a human that the heroine embodies, but a dog. As I type up the script and draw a few sketches of the characters, I enter a state of flow where time flies and the outside world seems to disappear. The heroine is named Piper, of course, and the dog is Leo, which makes drawing them easy: I just picture my daughter a few years older and as a cartoon, and my dog exactly as is.
I’m so lost in the work that when my phone rings, I stare at it in confusion for a second before I answer it.
“I’m all set,” Jane says.
Shit. We have to leave soon.
“I’ll be right there,” I say, and thank the heavens I got a haircut and took a shower back at Jane’s place, so all I really need to do is put on a suit.
Hurrying over to my bedroom, I stroll through my closet until I get to the suit section, which is in the farthest corner because I had my assistant organize the whole thing by frequency of wear.
Once I’m dressed, I head toward the library, but as I pass the kitchen, Leo trots up to me, tail wagging.
“Hey, bud,” I say. “You hungry?”
He wags his tail harder.
If I ever say ‘no’ to that question, I’ll play tug-of-war with a lion, fall on a sword, or eat a chocolate-covered raisin, whichever happens to be the more convenient way to end things at the time.
I feed him and check my phone to see when the newly hired dog sitter is getting here. Turns out, he’s been here for an hour, waiting by the elevator.
I take a dog treat to him to make sure he and Leo click before I go to the library.
Walking in, I realize I might’ve worked on that animated movie for too long because when I see Jane, I feel like I’m turning into a cartoon wolf—my jaw dropping, eyes boggling, tongue lolling, and Yoda rock-hard.
Spotting me, Jane blushes. “What do you think?”
Oh, fuck. I’ve been staring, speechless. “You look magnificent,” I say and still feel like that’s an understatement.
The black dress she has on hugs every curve in just the right way, and the fancy hairdo makes me want to untangle it all and run my fingers through the silky brown strands as I?—
“You look rakish,” Jane states, but I don’t think it’s an insult this time. “And you sound like one too.”
Ah, so maybe a little bit of an insult, after all.
One of the hair people walks up to me, looking sheepish. “Would you like me to style your hair, sir?”
I glance questioningly at Jane.
“He knows what he’s talking about,” she says.
I turn to the guy. “Make it quick.”
As he does his thing, he asks me if my suit is Ermenegildo Zegna and the shoes Scafora, and I tell him that I honestly don’t know—they are whatever my shopping assistant got. All I know is that they were made for me, which involved an annoying waste of time with all the measuring. I’ve been getting the same suit and shoes ever since, to avoid a repeat of that.
“Okay, done,” the guy says after a couple of minutes.
As I glance at the mirror, I don’t really see a difference, but I’m not a huge expert on this sort of thing.
“Thoughts?” I ask Jane.
“Even more rakish,” she says with a sigh.
“Great. We’d better run.” Turning to the crew, I say, “Great job, everyone.” To the modiste, I say, “Can we forget about the earlier unpleasantness?”
“What unpleasantness?” she asks, French accent back in play.
With a smile, I grab Jane’s hand and drag her to the limo, even though my bedroom seems like a much more tempting destination.
“Is the place far?” Jane asks as we ride down the elevator.
I rip my gaze away from her cleavage. “It’s walkable. But since you’re in high heels, we’ll take the limo.”
Speaking of heels, I never noticed how extra sexy women’s butts look when they wear these things, or how much?—
“A limo?” Jane wipes imaginary dust from my shoulder. “Why forgo taking the helicopter?”
I shrug. “The venue doesn’t have a helipad?”
She scoffs. “The scary part is that I’m not sure if you’re kidding.”
“I was kidding. But there is a helipad on my roof, and I do have a helicopter—and I even know how to fly it.”
The elevator stops and I gesture for Jane to get out before she can further chastise me for being a rich cliché.
“You said this ball was a fundraiser,” Jane says when the limo pulls away. “What’s the cause?”
“WSW,” I say.
She frowns at me. “Please tell me you don’t donate to World Series Wrestling.”
“What? No. WSW stands for Whales Save Whales. Uber-wealthy donors, also called whales, donate their money to, well, save the ocean whales.”
“Huh,” she says. “I like whales. The ocean kind.”
The limo stops.
Jane looks at me questioningly. “Are we there already?”
I nod.
She grins. “We really were a walking distance away.”
With a shrug, I get out and hold the door for her.
As she exits, I enjoy the scent of guava with a hint of begonia—and I have no idea if this is something the makeover team spritzed on her, or if this is Jane herself.
“This way.” I offer her my right arm.
“How gentlemanly.” She slides her hand through the crook of my elbow.
As we pass my fellow whales inside the venue, I begin to understand something I previously found abhorrent—shallow billionaires who get themselves trophy wives. Jane is so beautiful that I’m proud to parade her on my arm, even if I don’t deserve any of said pride. Then again, a trophy wife may be a bad analogy here. People stereotypically think they lack intelligence (even though I know that’s not always true—case in point, my mom), but in the case of Jane, she’s the sharpest person I’ve met, and that fact makes me feel even prouder to marry her… or rather, fake-marry her.
“Oh, my,” Jane gasps when we step inside the hall. “This is the closest one can get to a ball from one of my novels.”