Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They finally arrived at the luxury community of Winslow Garden. If the massive sign or the guarded gate hadn’t screamed posh, then the street name matching the magazine’s name certainly had.
It became quickly apparent to her, after navigating onto North Shore Style Drive, that the estate was the only house on the street. The long, curved drive led to a stone mansion on a hill overlooking Winslow Garden Lake.
“Whoa,” Honesty said aloud. The structure resembled a museum rather than a magazine’s headquarters, that was for sure. Neat, square hedgerows, decorative topiaries, and white floral bushes were stationed on either side of the structure.
“Whoa is right.” Dante pulled up to the front porch.
If one could call it a mere porch. The front door was in shadow beneath a grand stone archway and flanked by gaslight fixtures that flickered away behind wavy glass.
Two more large stone topiaries packed with white flowers sat on either side of a rustic jute mat.
Dante parked in a space near the front, rather than off to the side where there were several SUVs, cars, and one shiny red convertible.
“I was expecting a conference room or a bullpen, like at a newspaper’s office,” Honesty said as she marveled at the building. “Not a mansion.”
Outside the car, the air held a clean floral fragrance. There was no sign of tall skyscrapers and the traffic of the city—they’d left those behind miles ago. Instead, the rolling blue waters of the lake gave way to houses on the shoreline, the scene bucolic and wealthy.
He held her hand as they crested the stone stairs. “North Shore Style is an old money magazine, started by Wayne Crawford. Opulence was his standard.”
“Never heard of him.” The sun was shining bright, forcing her to shield her eyes until she stepped under the arch where the temperature dropped several degrees.
When the door popped open, they were greeted by a woman with dark brown hair wearing a measuring tape around her neck. “Hi, guys! I’m Becke Crawford. Come on in.”
Becke’s casual greeting didn’t match the atmosphere outside, that was for sure. Honesty had been expecting a guy named Jeeves to open the door and give them a sour “hello.” Equally relieving was that the atmosphere inside was familiar and approachable.
“Any relation to Wayne Crawford?” Honesty asked, unable to help herself.
“Yes. But back a few generations. My great-grandmother, his daughter, took over North Shore Style after he died.” She lifted the measuring tape off her neck.
“I am doubling as a stylist today in addition to being your interviewer. Right this way.” She draped the tape over the staircase’s banister and then crossed to a massive room.
What looked like it used to be a drawing room had been converted into seating areas meant to be interview stations. There were a few gilded frames holding somber looking portraits, but the rest of the room was modern and functional.
The air smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee from a fancy espresso machine in one corner. Honesty’s heels clicked and then muted as she stepped from the marble floor to a decorative rug. She sidestepped a white backdrop and umbrella lights.
“That’s where we’ll do your shoot, though I’d like for Jorge to snap a few outside too,” Becke said. “The lake is beautiful today, and the water is so calm.”
A woman wearing wide-leg trousers was leaning over a desk, pen in hand. Next to her was a display of jewelry, and behind her stood a clothing rack packed with suit jackets, blouses, slacks, and dresses—no doubt some of the items that Jennifer had called in on Honesty’s behalf.
The woman looked up and offered a friendly smile as they walked by, and then handed Becke the paper she’d been writing on.
“Thanks, Shelley. She’s a godsend,” Becke told them. Next they passed a man with a coiled extension cord over his shoulder who was following a younger, good-looking guy holding a camera—Jorge, most likely.
“We moved here from the city during COVID and never looked back.” Becke gestured to a grouping of plush chairs with a low table in the middle.
There were three glasses of water waiting for them.
“The estate has been in my family for generations. It was sitting abandoned, gathering dust, until we moved our headquarters here.”
“Jennifer mentioned that you’d updated the entire estate,” Dante said.
“Oh, yeah.” Becke, in a black wrap dress, crossed one leg over the other and waggled one high-heeled shoe. “It being so old, we had a lot of wiring and structural issues to deal with. We worked here the entire time, but relegated ourselves to the kitchen. Now we have this space. Utopia.”
“It’s beautiful,” Honesty agreed. Even with the functional folding tables and large cork boards dotted with swatches leaning on the walls, the room’s history showed through. Like in the carved fireplace and molding, or the narrow, wavy-glass windows overlooking the lush lawn.
“I love it here. My family and I are thinking of leaving the city to move closer, but the price tag on this neighborhood is hefty.” Becke blew out a breath. “Coffee for either of you?”
“No, thank you.” Honesty didn’t need more caffeine. She didn’t want to be overly chatty or shifting back and forth in her seat the entire interview.
“Great. Let’s get started.” Becke began with the easy stuff. She asked how Dante came to run the Moretti Foundation and about his involvement with Refurbs for Vets. She threw in that she was “extremely” interested in interviewing Elijah Crane if Dante could make that happen for her.
Dante offered a smile but promised nothing. He mentioned that his elusive cousin was focused on the mission and rarely took interviews. Then he masterfully steered the conversation to Honesty and how she shared Eli’s passion for a similar mission.
Once the spotlight was on her, Honesty eased into the conversation.
She could talk about nutrition and the difference it made in people’s everyday lives for hours.
She told Becke how her brother, Christian, had inspired her to do more for the community.
While she spoke, she could have sworn she felt him sitting next to her, encouraging her.
“He sounds like he was an amazing man,” Becke said softly.
“He was.”
Then the gloves came off when Becke asked, “Photos of you and Dante circulated in the press a few weekends ago. They garnered a lot of attention. Readers love to speculate about who the Cranes are canoodling with these days.”
“Odd. Most Chicago Cranes are happily partnered off.” Dante’s flat tone didn’t exactly convey displeasure, but close.
Becke either didn’t pick up on the change in the air or didn’t care. “The two of you knew each other before this partnership, correct?”
Since Becke was looking directly at Honesty, the question was meant for her. Rather than look to Dante to answer, she boldly met the other woman’s eyes and told her the truth.
“Dante and I attended Northwestern together, so yes, we’ve known each other a long time. When I saw him at the Refurbs for Vets event, we started chatting about Long Live Food. He stepped in to advise.”
“That’s so kind.” Becke looked to Dante. “Is this a professional investment for you, Mr. Crane, or is it also a personal one?”
“Business involves people, and where people are involved, things become personal, Ms. Crawford. If anyone tells you otherwise, they’re not being honest with you. Or themselves.”
Becke wrote on the notepad resting on her knee. “That’s a memorable quote. But I am referring to you and Ms. Benitez specifically. Are you seeing each other romantically while you’re working on the charity?”
Honesty leaned forward and tapped the red button on Becke’s phone to stop the recording.
“What difference does that make to the veterans who are getting back on their feet after coming home with injuries? Some of them, like my brother, with only one foot to get back on. What Dante and I do or don’t do is no one’s business. ”
Becke nodded. “I respect that. I also would like to sell issues of this magazine. Piquing the public’s curiosity and then steering them toward how they can give to your charity is a smart tactic.”
“We understand public interest,” Dante interjected. “Piquing their curiosity in this case sounds more like—”
“Baiting them,” Honesty finished for him.
“Exactly.” Dante smiled his approval.
“I am happy to appease your readers,” Honesty said. “But it has to benefit everyone. Dante and I are not on display. We’re building something worthwhile. Worth talking about. Let’s keep the focus on Long Live Food.”
“All due respect, Ms. Benitez, but you two are stars. And if people love you, they will love what you have to offer. And that will go very well for Long Live Food.”
“She’s not wrong,” Dante told Honesty. “You are the face, the heart, and the soul. Don’t be afraid to utilize everything you have.”
“I apologize if I overstepped.” Becke pointed to herself. “Journalist. I will respect your boundaries and come at this from a different angle. Can we begin again now that we have an understanding?”
Honesty nodded. She was beginning to see that the charity world came with a lot of window dressing. But, to Dante’s point: how much more could she do if she utilized everything she had to offer?
A ton, she imagined.
Honesty was glad he was here. As difficult as it had been for her to ask for his help, she’d needed his advice on far more than she’d imagined.
“Let’s continue,” she told Becke.
Becke pressed record and wrapped the interview politely. The remaining questions had focused on the charity and the types of services Long Live Food would provide. Once they were done, she invited them for a tour.
After a brief peek upstairs at bedrooms that had been turned into closets, storage, and offices, Becke moved them through the rest of the downstairs area. The living room appeared to be from another era, which she explained with one hand resting on the red velvet settee.
“This room is as close to the original estate’s decor as we could manage.
Some of the older pieces had to be reupholstered, like this settee, others replaced with antiques or reproductions.
” Next, she led them to the back of the room and opened a pair of French doors.
The topiary-and-white-flowers motif continued, as did the curved stone arches.
On the wide patio were loungers with fluffed pillows and low tables with plants on them.
Several steps led into an expansive green lawn and to the lake.
“Under that tree, or near it, is where we’ll do the remainder of the photoshoot. Both of you, together, if you’re willing. We’d like to capture a moment similar to the photos that went viral—where the chemistry is popping off the page. That, Mr. Crane, will sell magazines.”
“I’m okay with it if you are.” His dark eyes were trained on Honesty.
She folded her arms but agreed. “Whatever it takes to help spread the word about Long Live Food.”
“Crane Hotel is technically closer,” Dante said as they approached the city on the drive back.
“Is it now?” Honesty grinned over at him. “You bribe me with French fries and now you’re talking me into going up to your penthouse? Truly desperate, Dante.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
They’d stopped at a fast-food restaurant because she’d been so hungry after the shoot.
He’d asked if she was sure she was “allowed” to eat a burger and fries, and she had rolled her eyes and told him that yes, a healthy lifestyle could include burgers and fries.
“It’s about balance,” she’d explained, which was damn near her mantra when it came to clients.
She fed Dante a fry. He’d eaten his burger in two bites, and she’d made sure to tease him about it. “Are you sure a burger isn’t too far below your pay grade to enjoy?”
He’d told her that being a billionaire was also about balance and that no one could eat foie gras all the time. To which she’d replied, “No one should eat foie gras ever.”
Spending time with him for the past week plus had been educational, sensual, luxurious, and unique. And then there was today, which was turning out to be a combination of all of the above.
“I should go back home. I’ve spent too much time away from the office.
I want to arrive bright and early tomorrow morning.
For Gabby’s sake.” And for her own sake.
Honesty could use a break away from Mr. Wonderful.
As much as she had been trying to distance her heart, that distance was becoming more difficult to maintain.
She didn’t want to become reliant on him. Whether he was driving her around or driving her wild, this temporary relationship was fast becoming a new norm. And it was important, nay, pertinent, that she did not become accustomed to it.
He was leaving for LA any day now. She had a life of her own to live.
“Understood.” He didn’t bring up their going to his penthouse again. She tried to convince herself she was glad.
“Will you pick me up tomorrow night for the dinner at your father’s restaurant, or would you like me to meet you there?”
“I’ll pick you up, but we are going home together tomorrow night. Either your place or mine, but one of us is packing a bag.”
“Oh, is that a fact?”
He slid her a damn sexy look before returning his eyes to the road. “That’s a fact.”
“You mean like a sleepover?”
“I do not mean a sleepover.” He opened his mouth and accepted two more French fries. Around a mouthful, he said, “There won’t be much sleeping for either of us if we’re doing it right. Might want to rest up tonight.”
She ate another fry to disguise her smile. What he’d described sounded like heaven to her.