CHAPTER EIGHT
CLARA
Nash promised someone would arrive at my door at eleven on the dot.
He was right.
Three crisp knocks startled me out of my midday dead-leaf pruning, an activity I was now happily pursuing given how much more me-time I had, thanks to Nash and his extremely generous business proposition.
Mid-day plant tending wasn’t the only new activity I was pursuing.
Now that I had money coming in, I’d started entertaining the idea of going back to school.
I was a leaf-pruning, billionaire-dating, master’s-degree-investigating single mom. Life couldn’t get wilder. I stuffed the dead leaves I’d been culling into my palm and hurried to the front door. A very patient looking man smiled at me from the hallway, garment bags draped over his arms.
“Madam Clara,” he said in a slightly French-accented voice. “These have been sent courtesy of Mr. Nightingale.”
I was too stunned to speak as I received the bags. Nash had told me to expect a delivery to help me get ready for tonight, but he hadn’t said what would be coming. The bags were weightier than they looked, and I blinked nearly a hundred times before I blurted out an inelegant, “Thanks.”
The courier smiled kindly and left. I didn’t know where to put the bags.
Putting them on the couch seemed uncouth.
Draped over the back of a chair? Out of the question.
I finally went to my bedroom and placed the bags on my rumpled bedspread, so delicately, as if each of them might crumble if I breathed too hard or allowed the clothes to know that I had knock-off designer things in my closet.
I stood there breathing heavily for a moment. Truthfully, I was scared to see what was in there. I was scared to know how much it all cost. I was terrified about the evening ahead in general.
When Nash had texted me yesterday about the change in plans—from casual get-to-know-you dinner to high-octane Developers Summit—I wondered if I was out of my league. Somehow, the contents of these bags would help me decide if this entire thing was a fool’s mission.
My phone chirped from the other room, and I scrambled to get it.
NASH: You got the delivery?
CLARA: I did. Still gathering the courage to peek inside.
NASH: I sent options. Let me know what you like best.
CLARA: What if I like all of it?
NASH: Just send pics so I can figure out what I’m going to wear.
Goosebumps prickled along my arms. I looked around my bedroom in shock. Was this my life now? Receiving luxury garment bags, trying things on, sending pictures to my billionaire betrothed? I squealed, tossing the phone to the bed.
I unzipped the top bag.
“Holy shit.” I stepped back, clasping a hand over my mouth as I took in the first dress.
Emerald green, intricate beadwork, and absolutely no fraying seams or discount tag to be seen.
Just seeing it lying on my bed, I knew it was gorgeous enough.
I couldn’t even imagine putting it on my body.
Inside the second bag was a midnight blue silk gown, potentially even more gorgeous than the green one.
And the last bag contained a classic black dress that screamed old Hollywood glamour.
And somehow, I was supposed to choose.
“Okay. Just try them on. They’re dresses.
They’re meant to be worn.” The pep talk didn’t stop me from handling these things like they’d evaporate into thin air if I moved too quickly.
I opted for the black dress first, since it was on top.
Once it was on, I realized it fit perfectly, which also blew my mind.
When Nash had asked me for my measurements yesterday, I’d been embarrassed to hand them over.
I wasn’t the waifish thing he’d met four years ago, not after my pregnancy, my postpartum depression, and all the stress eating that had become a regular fixture in my life.
But he assured me it was to expedite the process. And now I understood.
After I stared at myself on the full-length mirror hanging on my closet door for what seemed like a half hour, I remembered to take some pictures.
I snapped up my phone, unsure of what types of pictures a man like him would expect.
Full curves? Cleavage? Or maybe stoic and to the point?
Head cut off, just the body and fabric? I took far too many photos of me in the dress, trying out a variety of facial expressions and bodily angles.
I didn’t have my shapewear on either, so it was hard catching the right angle that didn’t make me feel insecure.
Finally, frustration won and I tossed the phone aside again. Time for the next dress.
The midnight blue dress came next. It hugged my body in ways that nearly made me weep.
I’d never felt so beautiful, and this was without hair or makeup done, and zero shapewear.
I twirled in the mirror, giggling maniacally.
This is real life. After the requisite photos, I moved on to the emerald green dress.
Just as beautiful as the last, and the joy shone in my face as I snapped more pictures for Nash.
Once I was back in my soft shorts and drapey pajama shirt—my standard attire for tending to my plants—I batched the best of the dress pictures and sent them off to Nash.
There was no reason for me to be as anxious as I was, awaiting his response.
“Business is business,” I said out loud as I filled up a tall cup with ice cubes, then poured the rest of that morning’s coffee into the cup.
Like that would help the anxiety somehow.
But iced coffee was life. I squealed when my phone lit up with a response from Nash.
My heart raced like I was awaiting life or death news instead of some sexy man’s opinion about a damn dress.
NASH: Tough choice.
CLARA: Honestly I loved them all.
NASH: Do the blue one. It’s perfect. I’ll send some other things to go with.
I squealed into my palm. That settled that.
CLARA: What should I do with the others? Send that sweet man back and I’ll pack the dresses up for him to return.
NASH: Return? No, they’re yours.
Tears pricked my eyes, though I couldn’t entirely explain why. I raced back to my bedroom, abandoning the coffee. I looked at the dresses again—mine—and felt another surge of emotion.
This convenient arrangement was going to take some getting used to.
I leaned against the door frame, drawing deep breaths, only moving when my phone rang from the kitchen. I answered it, hoping it would be Nash, but it was Sarah.
The babysitter.
“Clara, I’m so sorry.” Sarah’s normally bright voice sounded muffled and congested. “I’m not going to be able to watch Mia tonight like I said. I woke up with a fever, and I don’t want her to get sick.”
My stomach sank to my feet. “Oh no, Sarah. I’m so sorry.” Panic began zipping through me, reminding me that tonight was non-negotiable. I needed to go. “Is there…” any chance you could still come almost passed my lips, but I caught myself. “Anything you need?”
“Sleep.” She laughed weakly. “I’m sorry again.”
“Rest up. And thanks for letting me know.” After I hung up, I stared at the phone. Tonight was the first required appearance. The first real test of whether I could hold up my end of the deal. If I couldn't even manage to show up...
I sprang into action and called Preston. For God’s sake, could my baby daddy help a girl out once in his life?
Apparently not. It went straight to voicemail, which meant he was either out of town or at a conference or just really eager to never hear from me again.
I tried my neighbor, Mrs. Rodriguez, but she was visiting her sister in New Jersey.
And Zoey was in Philadelphia for work.
I was running out of options. Even though that midnight dress in there needed me to put it on tonight, I might have to leave it sad and alone on the hanger.
My hands were shaking as I dialed Nash's number, already dreading having to tell him I’d failed at the first task required of me.
“Hey, Clara.” Even in my despair, his whiskey smooth voice reassured me. I swallowed hard, steeling myself to break the bad news.
"Nash, I have a problem." My voice cracked slightly. "My babysitter just canceled. She's sick and I can't find anyone else and Preston isn't answering his phone and—"
“Slow down.” His voice was the equivalent of a hand on my back, urging me to breathe. “We can figure this out.”
“But I’ve already asked everyone I know.” I hated that my voice was shaking. “I can’t leave Mia alone, Nash, it’s not an option. And I know I can’t bring her with us. I just—”
“Take a deep breath, Clara. I promise we’ll find a solution.”
“Turn Mia’s biological father into an involved parent? I don’t know if there’s any way to do that.” I couldn’t keep the snark out of my voice.
“I’m not talking about a lobotomy,” Nash replied coolly. “I’ll get ahold of a nanny concierge service.”
I could hardly process this concept. “A…what?”
“Nannies on call, white glove childcare. Whatever you want to call it.”
I pressed a hand to my forehead. “I don’t like the idea of a stranger coming over, no matter how expensive they are. I just…is there anyone you know personally? I would feel better if it was someone you could vouch for.”
“Give me a few minutes. I’ll call you back.”
I gnawed on my lip, cradling the phone in my lap as I waited.
Part of me felt like I was overreacting, but another part of me was worried Nash would yank the rug out from underneath me.
Maybe we had to reschedule this first event, and then something else would come up for the second or third event.
I was only getting paid monthly, so I hadn’t made enough yet to hack it on my own without Nash’s payouts.
When would he decide enough was enough? When would he cancel the contract and kick me right back to where I’d started, struggling and sad?
When Nash called back, I hesitated before answering. “Hey again.”