7. Laurie
Chapter seven
Laurie
The ballroom glitters. Crystal chandeliers, polished marble floors, servers gliding past with champagne flutes that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
I smooth my hands down the midnight blue dress Marianne insisted I borrow ("keep it, honestly, it never fit me right anyway") and try not to think about Grant's voice on the phone.
Dress nice.
Like I'm a display piece. A problem to be solved with the right outfit and the right lighting.
Maybe I should've stayed home.
A server offers champagne. I shake my head and scan the crowd for Grant's familiar scowl.
Instead, I find polished faces, expensive suits.
"Mrs. Bennett."
I turn.
Grant crosses the ballroom in a charcoal suit. His tie matches the burnished copper accent threading through the Outlaws logo displayed on banners throughout the space.
He stops in front of me, and something shifts in his expression.
Relief?
"Good. You're here," he says.
"You asked."
His jaw tightens. "Thank you."
I want to make a joke about obeying orders, but the weight in his voice stops me.
"So what now?" I glance around the ballroom. "Do I stand in a corner looking respectable while you handle business?"
"No." He gestures toward the crowd. "I'd like you to stay close."
"Close."
"People are asking questions. About the lodge. About..." He pauses. "You."
Heat crawls up my neck. "Great."
"You should be visible, present, clearly valued." Grant's tone stays formal, controlled. "That's the strategy."
Right. Strategy.
I paste on a smile. "Lead the way, Mr. Thorne."
"Grant."
"We're at a fancy event. You're wearing a tie. Mr. Thorne feels appropriate."
His mouth almost twitches.
Almost.
Then a man in an expensive suit approaches, hand extended, smile sharp. "Grant! Good to see you. And who's this?"
"Laurie Bennett," Grant says smoothly. "She's overseeing the restoration at Lestor Lodge."
The man's eyebrows lift. "Ah. The property dispute."
"There's no dispute." Grant's voice drops half a degree. "The lodge is being brought back to full operational standards. Mrs. Bennett's work ensures the property meets every requirement."
"Smart move." The man's gaze flicks over me, assessing. "Bringing in outside expertise."
I open my mouth to clarify that I'm cleaning and organizing, not exactly expertise, but Grant's hand settles at the small of my back.
Warm. Steady. Possessive.
The man nods, says something about scheduling lunch, then drifts away.
Grant's hand stays exactly where it is.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
"Fine." I step sideways, breaking contact.
His expression tightens, but another couple approaches before he can respond.
The pattern repeats. Grant introduces me. People ask polite questions about the lodge. Grant deflects anything too personal while keeping me positioned beside him.
His hand returns to my back twice more. Once when a reporter angles too close with a camera. Once when someone mentions Jessie Lestor's name and Grant's entire posture shifts into something military and dangerous.
The second time, his thumb brushes the base of my spine.
I tell myself it's accidental.
"Mrs. Bennett!" A woman in a sleek silver dress materializes beside us, smile wide. "So lovely to meet you. Are you here with Grant Thorne?"
I laugh. The sound comes out awkward and too loud. "Oh, no. I mean, yes. Technically. But not—"
"We're together," Grant says.
My brain stutters.
The woman beams. "How wonderful! I didn't realize Grant was seeing anyone."
"We're not—" I start, but she's already turning to flag down someone else.
"Marcia! Come say hello to Grant's date!"
Date?
I whip around to face Grant, but another couple descends before I can speak.
"Grant, congratulations!" The man pumps Grant's hand enthusiastically. "I didn't realize you were engaged. Marianne must be thrilled."
The world tilts.
Engaged?
"We're not—" I start again, but the words tangle in my throat because Grant's hand has returned to my back and his expression has gone carefully, strategically blank.
"Thank you," he says evenly.
The couple drifts away.
I stare at him. "What just happened?"
"Not here." His voice drops. "I'll explain."
"Grant—"
"Please."
The word cracks something open in his controlled facade.
He guides me toward a quieter corner near the terrace doors, his hand never leaving my back. My pulse hammers. People are staring now, smiling, nodding like they've just witnessed something sweet and romantic instead of whatever mess this actually is.
We step outside onto the terrace. Cold mountain air hits my face.
I yank my phone from my clutch and text Marianne with shaking fingers.
Your brother just let an entire ballroom think we're ENGAGED
Three dots appear immediately.
WHAT
I switch to Bethany's thread.
Emergency. The Grant situation is out of control.
Her response is instant.
Mom what did you DO
Nothing!!! People think I'm his fiancée!!!
...are you???
NO
Grant steps closer. "Laurie—"
"Don't." I hold up one hand, still gripping my phone. "Just... give me a second."
Marianne's response buzzes through.
Where are you right now
Foundation event. Everyone thinks I'm engaged to your terrifying brother.
He's not terrifying
MARIANNE
Okay yes he is. But I promise he's panicking harder than you right now.
I glance at Grant. He stands three feet away, hands in his pockets.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Marianne.
Tell my idiot brother I love him but he better have a plan
I show Grant the screen.
His mouth twitches.
"Do you?" I ask. "Have a plan?"
"Not yet."
"Fantastic."
"But I will." He meets my eyes. "I promise."