but I’m not sure I’d belong at any place you own, Ward.”
“Why do you say that?” His eyes soften.
Is that a hint of concern in his voice?
I give back a lazy shrug. “My dad does well for a living. My family’s upper middle class, and my mom only ever worked part time.” I look around the building. “But I’m way more middle class than this...this castle.”
I let out an awkward giggle. But I’m not laughing the second his firm hand grips my shoulder, his fingers sinking into my skin.
“Get used to it, beautiful. You’ll be richer when this is over. If you stick with your art, the payment you’re getting from me won’t be your last million. Get comfortable with the finer things, Paige.”
It’s a sweet thought but so far off.
After this sham, I’ll sink my payout into a studio, work out a business plan, and scrape by more firmly middle class than my parents.
Maybe, there’ll be enough left for a down payment on a basic condo somewhere in Chicagoland. But he doesn’t need my worries, so I just smile.
It’s going to be hard living in a personal luxe hotel for three months. I can’t be the only one who notices I’m like a fish out of water.
Ward pushes the button and we step onto an elevator with an old lady in a fur coat that I really hope is vintage. She’s holding a gold leash tied to a dog whose designer collar costs more than my whole outfit. She glances at us, but her eyes linger.
Yeah, lady, I know. I’m an intruder in Elysium.
On the top floor, I step out of the elevator in front of Ward, then wait for him to pass so I can follow him into the penthouse.
The hardwood and silk of his couch catch my attention immediately when we step through the door. I was too tired to notice last night, stumbling into my room and settling into the posh bedroom.
“Oh, you have a settee.”
He grins. “Grandma insisted. It’s an authentic piece from the Victorian era.”
“Wow. You would be a fan of the Victorian stuff. Everyone had whole trees up their butts then, too,” I say with a teasing flick of my tongue. “Or was it a walking stick? They loved those.” The techno-magic Tesla from our ride home that first night pops into my head. “So, wait. You have a thing for Victorian furniture but electric cars?”
“What can I say? My style’s eclectic.”
I roll my eyes. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
“If you’re hungry, I don’t cook—”
“Why am I not surprised?”
He chuckles. A deep, dark, and to my burning ears, seductive sound.
“What should I order us for dinner?”
“Italian,” I say. “And I’ll order dinner. Darling,” I add.
I say it the same way you’d call someone an asshole.
Soon, I order up our food from this cute little Italian bistro I used to love, Mattarello’s Italiano, but haven’t been to much since Brina got married. It sucks losing your wing-lady.
When I finish, I hide in the guest suite that’s bigger than most million-dollar condos until dinner arrives.
The bed space in this room rivals Texas and costs more than everything in my parents’ place. But if I pretend like I’m on vacation in a luxury suite, an escape from real life—and that’s what this is, isn’t it?—I’m able to feel a microsecond of comfort.
Lounging on this bed feels like floating on the sea. I’m about to email Brina the NDA, so I can fill her in on the details, when my phone dings.
It’s an email from Beatrice Brandt. I haven’t heard from her since the hospital.
Hello Paige,
I’m sure you’re settling in. I wanted to send my best wishes along with my personal gratitude for taking up the adventure of an engagement with my grandson.
I know my boys are Neanderthals, and Ward can be a bear. Know this—he’s a good man under his gunmetal. He has a guarded heart for reasons that are his to tell.
If any woman can melt that glacier and find the gold underneath, it’s you, dear. Take care of him for me.
My deepest thanks,
Beatrice N. Brandt
She...she knows it’s fake...
Right?
I’m floored.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I’m going to talk to the Wardhole like a human being.
Shocking, I know.
We have to live together for three months without tearing each other’s faces off (or kissing ourselves into a terrible mistake), so we might as well be friends.
Break past the secrets and be civil.
That might make living in this opulence less awkward too, and