Chapter Forty-Three
Huxley
Something’s wrong with my wife.
She’s been tense since the lunch at Sebastian Jewelry. I thought maybe it was due to my only getting her the emeralds—she might’ve wanted some diamonds, too—but that doesn’t seem to be it. I told Jared to let my wife grab whatever she wanted before leaving.
I arrange for a spa and facial for her before we head to the art auction. Perhaps that will cheer her up. Then I recall how she asked me to start showering in the evening and surreptitiously sniff myself. I only smell the soap from the shower I took earlier. Have I started to smell, somehow? That’s…weird. Nobody’s ever complained.
“Why are you sniffing yourself?” Emmett asks.
“Just to see if I smell like anything,” I say, puffing a cigar to decompress before the art auction.
Sebastian, Emmett, Grant, Nicholas and I are on a large patio, complete with tables and chairs, at the spa where our wives are getting dolled up. We’re ready in our tuxedos, but of course the women are taking longer, running late as usual. The place operates in its own time zone because nothing ever ends on time. But Lucie and Molly love it, so here we all are. The things we do for our women.
At least the spa provides free liquor to waiting men.
“It’s the cigar,” Emmett says, sounding extra superior and all-knowing. “It probably makes her want to puke. Women are sensitive when they’re pregnant.”
“I don’t smoke cigars at work.”
“What?” Nicholas says.
“Grace has been asking me to shower every evening,” I explain. “I think she’s upset about something, but not sure what.”
“You could just ask,” Grant says.
I scowl. “I don’t have to ask. She said she doesn’t like the way I smell after work.” She’s also shown an exceptional interest in the kind of projects I’m managing, especially with Madison. If she’d shown any hint of being bored or tired with her employment at the foundation, I might think she wanted to work at 4D.
“If you’d bought her some extra jewelry on top of those emeralds, she wouldn’t have noticed your old-man smell,” Sebastian says.
“Right. Because that’s what all women want,” I say sarcastically.
“Some want books more,” Nicholas says.
Seb sips his Dom. “Embed diamonds on the covers and she’ll want them more.”
“Amy loves diamonds, but she prefers to wear them,” Emmett says. “But I really doubt Grace is upset over emeralds, unless they were small and cheap.”
“Sebastian Jewelry doesn’t do small and cheap,” Seb says.
“Maybe she got upset because the shopping was cut short,” I say, thinking out loud. “I should’ve driven her back to her office instead of Madison.”
Grant winces. “You had Madison drive her?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Unless Grace is blind, she knows Madison has the hots for you.”
Here we go again . “How many times do I have to say it? She does not. Even if she did, she’s too professional to show it.”
Emmett shakes his head. “You’re blind when it comes to her. She looks at you like a guy she wants to screw.”
“On the floor…” Nicholas says.
“Or the desk…” Grant says.
“Or that comfy couch you have in your office…” Sebastian suggests.
I wave them away, exasperated. “Don’t be ridiculous. I already talked with Madison.”
“This ought to be good,” Emmett says, leaning forward.
“She said there’s nothing, but promised to be more careful about her interactions with my wife. She also told me it’s possible Grace is unhappy with her because she’s been too busy to help Grace with managing her schedule.”
Sebastian gives me a look. “You’re an idiot.”
Grant shrugs. “Just get a male assistant. Problem solved.”
“Or get one as incompetent as Marjorie so nobody could ever believe you’d fall for her.” Marjorie is Emmett’s most worthless assistant. I don’t know how he puts up with her, but he does. Probably too busy to hire a new one to replace her, since he has to do his work and half of hers.
“I’m not entertaining your ridiculous idea.” I finish my cigar.
One of the receptionists sticks her head into the patio. “Thank you for your patience. The ladies are ready.”
Soon the double doors open, and our women walk toward us. I start to step forward with a grin, then falter. The subtle makeup on Grace brings out the high cheekbones and the blue of her wide, expressive eyes. Her dark hair is curled and twisted into a soft updo with wisps framing her beautiful face. The deep royal-purple dress with a side slit wraps around her body like a lover’s embrace, but the stones glittering from her ears and around her throat aren’t emeralds. They’re red garnets set in what appears to be silver.
Sebastian notices too and gives me a slight shake of his head. Not my inventory .
Of course not. The stones aren’t the best, and the setting is okay, but not exceptional. You could purchase them from any mid-tier department store.
“Where are your emeralds?” I ask, without showing any signs of judgment. It’s possible the garnets are from her mother, therefore sentimental and important to my wife.
“At home.” Her gentle fingertips brush over the reddish stones. “I just thought these would be better today.” The words are slow and measured. She flicks her eyes at my brothers and their wives, then presses her lips together. She wants to say more, but in private. Perhaps there’s a story behind the jewelry that she only feels comfortable sharing with me.
I squeeze her hand tenderly to signal I get the underlying meaning: sentimental pieces. The initial disappointment wanes. I would’ve loved to see the jewelry I bought on her, but what does it matter? She’s more breathtaking than I could’ve imagined for our first social gathering as a married couple.
I kiss her, careful not to smudge her cherry-red lipstick. “You look good enough to devour,” I whisper into her ear.
“Maybe after the auction,” she whispers back. “ If you’re good.”
I laugh. “Is there something you want?”
She gives me a sidelong glance, her lashes lowered, her pretty mouth pursed in thought. “What if there is? Will you get it for me?”
“Of course. What’s the point of having a rich husband if he can’t get you what you want?”
She lifts her eyes, and there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Okay. I’ll let you know.”
* * *
For a charity auction, this event sure drips with money—the white-cloth-covered seats and tables, the glitzy, tuxedoed quartets and the liveried staff circulating around. Balanced on the staff’s hands are trays laden with fancy canapes made with the finest cheese, caviar, cream and crackers, as well as flutes bubbling with priceless champagnes, both golden and rose.
But then, people won’t open their pockets if they don’t think the occasion is special enough. You have to make people feel wealthy in order for them to loosen the fists around their money.
I keep my hand at Grace’s elbow as we walk further inside. Many of the guests here came to our wedding. Their avid gazes follow us; clearly they’re curious how our marriage is going after such an unconventional ceremony. They want to decide if they should ingratiate themselves with Grace, or subtly snub her.
Grace meets their eyes with her chin held high, a small smile on her lips never faltering, like a queen facing down her subjects. My chest puffs with pride at how well she’s handling herself.
Elizabeth comes over, dressed in a chic ivory dress and emeralds. She’s one of a few in the city who set the fashion trends for the old-money elites. The sight of the green stones reminds of the stones I bought…but Grace left at home.
“Welcome. So good to see you. You look amazing! Both of you!” She hugs me and Grace, giving us air kisses. “Marriage suits you. And I love your necklace. So cute!”
“Thank you,” Grace says. I wait, hoping she’ll say more—maybe how it came from her mother, but she doesn’t add anything.
“You did an amazing job,” Elizabeth says before turning to me. “Your wife is a woman of tremendous talent. You should be proud.”
“I am.” I smile. Elizabeth never says anything negative, but she also doesn’t give empty praise.
“Please enjoy yourselves, and I hope you find something you like tonight.”
“I’m sure I will,” I say.
She fleets away to greet another guest. I stop a waiter for a glass of ginger ale for Grace. As the man leaves, my eyes collide with…
What the hell? Is that Adam ?
I squint. The sandy hair, the slightly gloomy look in his eyes—probably from losing the woman he wants to another man—and the pale complexion from spending endless hours in the office without any time off. Yup, it’s him . He’s in a tuxedo, his hair slicked back, sipping champagne. If his eyes weren’t constantly scanning the crowd, and his foot weren’t tapping the floor in anxiety, he might look like he fit in.
He abruptly turns and walks behind a crowd of men and women chatting and laughing. What is he doing here? He doesn’t make enough to be let in. Not on the associate’s salary he earns from Huxley & Webber.
I turn to speak to Grace…but she’s gone.