Chapter 18
GRACE
Despite my parents having been to New York City several times during my college years, they still make me do all the touristy things with them.
So for two days, that’s all we do. We video call both my brothers, too, including them in some of the sights.
Owen, my older brother, stayed home to run the farm.
And Luke, my younger brother, is studying at Michigan University.
My mother also insists we give them a virtual tour of the penthouse, which Luke seems excited about, while Owen’s face is skeptical.
Wallace and I take them to the airport on a Monday while Asher is working. Despite him telling me he’d rearrange his schedule to go with me, I told him I’d rather take them myself.
“I love you, Gracie girl.” My mother squeezes me so tight it hurts my bones, but it’s the best kind of hug, one that feels like home.
“I kinda like Asher. Well, as much as you can like a city boy.
" Dad chuckles at his own joke. "But Grace”—his face turns serious—"if he does anything to hurt you, I'll kill him.
And I mean that literally. I've got a whole farm's worth of places to hide a body, and I hear corpses make great fertilizer. "
The deadpan delivery makes my jaw drop. "Dad! Stop, you can't be serious."
"I'm serious as a tax audit, sweetheart." But his mouth twitches at the corner, betraying his own amusement.
I throw my arms around his neck. "I love you so much."
His embrace is warm and solid and smells like aftershave and the faint trace of pine that never quite leaves him. For a moment, I'm six years old again, running to him after scraping my knee, knowing he'll make everything better with a Band-Aid and a terrible dad joke.
"Love you too, Gracie girl."
“Your parents seem like very nice people,” Wallace tells me on the ride home over the Taylor Swift playlist he now puts on every time I enter the car, after I asked one time.
“They are,” I say, which makes my lying feel even worse.
By Friday, we’re aboard Asher’s private jet (I didn’t even realize he had a private jet!), and on our way to Bali.
My Kindle is gripped between my fingers. I've been using all my free time since my parents left to read. I avoid writing by redirecting my attention to my Kindle and calling it market research.
The current book is a billionaire romance, and the parallels to my own situation are amusing. I can't help but to laugh when I realize I'm being whisked away to a foreign country on a private jet, just like the heroine in the story.
Asher’s focused on his phone, tapping away, fully immersed in whatever he's responding to.
I've been trying to focus on the book and not on the dreadful anxiety of spending a weekend with Asher's family, but so far, it's not working. My mind is swirling, wondering if I'm going to mess this whole thing up and get myself sent packing.
"We need nicknames," I blurt out.
Asher lifts his gaze from his phone. "Nicknames?"
"Yeah. Like sweetie or honey, or something."
When he doesn't respond, just staring at me, I add, "Like in romance novels. The couple always has cutesy nicknames for each other. I think if we want to sell this relationship, we need nicknames."
He tucks his phone into his pocket and moves his fingers to his chin as he considers what I’m saying. "You want me to call you baby?"
I cringe. "No, that one’s overused."
His lips quirk slightly. "What would you suggest, then?"
"Something that feels natural," I say, drumming my fingers on the leather armrest. "Like it could only be for me."
"What's the nickname in that one?" He nods to my Kindle, the words still glowing on my abandoned screen. Recalling the nicknames, I blush.
"Uhm, this one isn't a good example." I power off the device quickly and tuck it onto the seat next to me.
Asher grins. "Grace, tell me." His voice isn't forceful.
It's low and controlled, and my stomach clenches.
When he uses that commanding voice, it does something to me.
My insides turn to molten lava and my heart beats faster.
I know he can see it; his sparkling eyes tell me as much.
He knows the effect his words have on me.
Slowly, he begins to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt, each fold neat and tidy.
His suit jacket was hung as soon as we entered, and he's not wearing a tie today.
The top few buttons are open, showing the slightest hint of his chest. He stands from the cushioned chair across from me and takes two deliberate steps forward.
"What's the nickname, Grace?" he asks again, looking down at me.
I swallow. "Why do you want to know so badly?"
He crouches down so his eyes are level with mine, his face less than a foot away. I suck in a breath and smell cedar and sea salt scent.
"I want to know what it possibly says in that book that has you blushing like this.
" His hand gently reaches out, palming my cheek.
"It's beautiful, seeing your cheeks red.
I wouldn't mind knowing what makes you blush so I could see this sight all the time.
So, tell me, Grace. What's. The. Nickname. "
"He calls her baby girl…" My eyes drop down, but Asher taps my chin, forcing me to look back up at him.
"That's not dirty."
"No," I agree. "But she calls him…"
Asher's eyes bore into mine as he waits.
"Sir."
Something flickers in his gaze. Excitement. Lust, maybe.
"Would you call me that?" he asks, deadly serious.
"In front of your parents?" I gasp.
"No. If you call me Sir, it would only be for us, baby girl."
The sound of that endearment sends a tingle between my legs. I can't handle the focus he has on me. It simultaneously makes me want to shrink into my seat and pounce on him.
Would I call him Sir?
It feels so kinky and I think I should say absolutely not.
But then why is my stomach contracting and my legs squeezing together? He knows it too. He can tell by the way I'm squirming in my seat that the idea of calling him Sir turns me on.
Instead of answering him, I redirect. "Not baby girl," I whisper.
"No?"
When I shake my head, he continues. "Well then, I'll have to come up with something better."
By the time we land in Bali, Asher has made good on his promise to come up with a better nickname. So far, he's tried out buttercup, babe, and my least favorite, snooker. He did so while briefing me on what to expect.
This retreat is held annually during the spring equinox with the company executive suite and Celeste’s truest followers. When I asked what that meant, to be one of her followers, Asher rolled his eyes and called them her “groupies.”
Tomorrow starts bright and early, with yoga for the women and then a welcome breakfast. There are different treatments and therapies handpicked for each guest by Celeste. Asher told me to expect an itinerary laid on our pillows.
As we exit the plane, I'm reminded again how different Asher's world is from mine. Where I'd be shuffling through customs lines and hunting for my luggage, we're whisked directly to a waiting black Bentley, the driver greeting Asher with a respectful nod.
"Mr. Caine, welcome back. Your suite is prepared for your arrival."
"Thank you, Wayan," Asher replies, his hand finding the small of my back as he guides me into the car.
The leather seats are cool against my bare legs, and I press my face to the window as we pull away from the airport. Humidity hits differently here, the air thick and earthy.
Bali unfolds in layers. First, the chaotic sprawl of Denpasar, with mopeds weaving between cars like water around stones.
Street vendors sell fruit I don't recognize under tarps strung between trees.
Then gradually, the buildings thin out, replaced by rice paddies that shimmer like emeralds in the late afternoon sun.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Asher's voice pulls my attention from the window.
I nod, unable to form words that wouldn't sound embarrassingly provincial.
"The retreat is in Ubud." He continues, scrolling through his phone with practiced efficiency. "Wait until you see the grounds."
The grounds aren't anything like I expected. We arrive at a compound tucked into the jungle, all sleek wood and stone that somehow looks both ancient and modern. A woman in traditional dress greets us at the entrance with pressed palms and a bow.
"Selamat datang," she murmurs, her smile genuine and warm. "Welcome to Lotus Ridge."
I copy her gesture awkwardly, pressing my palms together. Asher does the same with the ease of someone who's done this a hundred times.
"Please, follow me." The woman leads us through an open-air pavilion where ceiling fans stir the humid air. Everything smells like something floral and rain-soaked earth. Balinese offerings sit in small woven baskets at every doorway, petals and incense arranged with careful precision.
We pass a massive pool that seems to disappear into the jungle beyond. No sign of Asher's family yet, just the soft trickle of water features and bird calls I can't name.
"Your suite," the woman says, sliding open a carved wooden door.
Our room steals whatever breath Bali's humidity left me. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook a private garden. The bed sits on a raised platform under gauzy white curtains that billow in the breeze. Everything is teak and cream linen, minimalist but impossibly luxurious.
"Holy—" I catch myself. "This is gorgeous."
Asher tips the woman, exchanging a few words in what I think might be Indonesian. She bows again before disappearing down the hallway.
"I'm glad you like it." He moves to the dresser, undoing his watch and toeing off his shoes.
I continue my perusal of the room, taking in all the sights. And then my eyes scan back to the bed, and a realization hits me.
"There's only one bed." The words tumble out before I can stop them, my voice pitching higher than intended.
Asher glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Very observant."
Heat creeps up my neck. "I just thought... I mean, we could've gotten separate rooms—"
"We're supposed to be in love." He crosses to the windows, rolling up his shirtsleeves with methodical precision. "Separate rooms would raise questions."
Right. Of course. I'm still getting used to thinking like someone who's supposed to be convincing the world we're in love.
I set my bag down on the chair, buying myself time to process.
"Grace."
My head snaps up. Asher watches me with that unreadable expression he wears when he's analyzing something.
"My family has eyes everywhere. The staff reports back to my mother. If we sleep separately, she'll know something's off."
My pulse hammers against my throat. "So we're supposed to just...share?"
"Unless you'd prefer I sleep on the floor." He tilts his head.
I press my lips together. He's right. This is part of the arrangement. The performance.
"Fine." I grab my toiletry bag with too much force. "But you stay on your side."
"There are sides now?"
"Yes. Your side." I gesture to the left. "My side." I point right.
That amused look returns, the one that makes my stomach flip. "Understood. I'll respect your boundaries, Grace."
The way he says boundaries makes them sound flimsy. Temporary.
I flee to the bathroom before he can say anything else.
The shower helps. Hot water raining down over tense shoulders, washing away the day.
I scrub my face clean of makeup and trade my travel clothes for the matching pajama set Vivian packed for me.
The shorts are too tiny, paired with a button-down top.
At home, I'd go for baggy sweats with an even baggier t-shirt.
You're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.
When I emerge, Asher's already in bed.
Shirtless. Reading something on his phone like this is completely normal.
"You sleep without a shirt." It's not a question. More an observation my brain makes without permission.
"Problem?" He doesn't look up.
Yes. "No."
I slide under the covers on my side, putting as much distance between us as possible. The bed's big enough that we don't have to touch. That should be comforting.
It's not.
Asher sets his phone on the nightstand, plunging the room into darkness, save for moonlight filtering through gauze curtains.
"Goodnight, Grace."
"Night."
I close my eyes. Try to steady my breathing. Hyper-aware of every sound—the rustle of sheets when he shifts, his steady inhales, the thundering of my own pulse.
This is fine. Just sleeping. People sleep next to other people all the time without it meaning anything.
Except I can feel the heat of him even across the divide. Can smell cedar and salt on the pillow. Can't stop thinking about the way his hands feel on my body or the way his lips tasted when he kissed me.
"Grace?"
My eyes fly open. "Yeah?"
"Relax. I can hear you thinking from here."
"I'm not—"
"Your breathing's uneven. You're tense." A pause. "I'm not going to touch you."
Something deflates in my chest. Relief, probably. Definitely not disappointment.
"I know that."
"Tell me something, Grace." He shifts, and suddenly, he's closer. Not touching, but near enough that I feel the shift in the air. "What are you really afraid of?"
"I'm not afraid."
"Liar," he murmurs.
It shouldn't sting. But it does.
"I'm not afraid of anything," I whisper. But even I know it's not true.
I'm afraid of everything. Of what happens if this arrangement fails. Of getting too comfortable living in Asher's life of luxury. Of what my parents will say about our sham wedding. Of never being able to write again. Of being an absolute failure.
And I'm most afraid that this will be my only relationship and I'll spend the rest of my life alone.
"Whatever you say," he whispers back.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and charged.
And when I finally fall asleep, I dream that I'm running, chasing something that I can never reach.