Huge Deal

by Layne, Lauren

  “Tiny tank top. Even smaller shorts.”

  “It’s the weekend,” she snapped, braced for a fight. “Believe it or not, I don’t just prance around my apartment in a fancy dress.”

  “Yeah, well, you might not like this, then,” he said, handing her the garment bag.

  She took it reflexively, and he turned and went to the kitchen, setting the champagne on the counter and opening her cupboards.

  She glanced at the bag, then at the man pulling two champagne flutes from her kitchen cabinet. They were the stemless kind, and cheap, but he didn’t seem to mind as he pulled the bottle of champagne out of the box.

  “Kennedy.”

  “Yes?”

  “What the heck are you doing?”

  His gaze flicked up, and he looked like a damn movie star, all thick hair, mysterious gaze, and expensive wine. His hands stilled. “Would you care for something other than Taittinger?”

  “Would I care for—No, I mean, what are you doing here? At my apartment, dressed all fancy, bringing me . . .” She glanced at the dress bag. “Whatever this is.”

  “Do you have alternate plans? I got a tip that your night was free.”

  “What tip? Who—” She gasped. “That traitor.” Earlier in the afternoon, she’d been texting with Sabrina about the bachelorette party ideas, sarcastically mentioning that she had big evening plans of cheap white wine and browsing penises on Pinterest.

  The champagne cork gave an authoritative pop, and though she wanted to berate his high-handedness, she wanted the champagne even more. To say nothing of her curiosity. Because no matter how much she might tell herself that she’d decided not to do this—that whatever happened between them on the boat had been a fluke best not repeated—she couldn’t deny that having Kennedy show up bearing gifts as though he owned the place had once been among her very top fantasies.

  He walked toward her and handed her a glass.

  Kate hesitated, then accepted it. “Kennedy, I mean it. Tell me what’s going on.”

  He clinked his glass to hers, holding her gaze as he took a sip. “Open the bag.”

  Curiosity took over, and after taking a quick sip of the champagne—then another, because, delicious—she handed the glass back to him, freeing up her hand to unzip the bag.

  The zipper had made it only a few inches down when she sucked in her breath. The fabric was stunning, a color so vibrant it didn’t look real.

  “It’s like a Shirley Temple,” she said as she scooped the hem of the dress out of the bag with one hand. “Not quite red, not quite pink.”

  “Perfect, so I bought you grenadine,” he said drolly.

  She looked over, not sure if she was more surprised he knew what gave the girlish Shirley Temple drink its color or that he’d bought her the dress. Both were completely at odds with the man she knew. Or thought she knew.

  “You . . . got this for me? Why?”

  “I wanted to make sure you had something to wear tonight. In case all of your other dresses were at the dry cleaner.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I do,” she said. “I take my collection of three dresses, that I wear almost never, to be dry-cleaned all at the same time. Wait.” Her sarcasm scattered. “What do you mean, wear tonight?”

  Kennedy handed back her champagne, then reached into his pocket and pulled out two tickets, holding them up for her to see.

  She read the ticket, read it again, then looked up at him in confusion. “The ballet?”

  “They just opened A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” he said, putting the tickets back in his pocket. “And I made dinner reservations for after, since we won’t have enough time to eat before curtain time. Though I suppose we could snack on your weird grapes on a stick over there,” he said, nodding back toward her counter.

  “Anal beads.”

  Kennedy choked on his champagne. “I’m sorry?”

  “For Lara’s bachelorette party. I’m doing sex-themed food. Pinterest said those are supposed to be anal beads, though whether they’re close to the real thing, I confess I couldn’t say. Do you know?”

  “Jesus,” he muttered, looking like he’d wipe his brow if he had a handkerchief on hand. Which, knowing Kennedy, she was a little surprised he didn’t.

  “I figure it’s the thought that counts. The real star of the show’s going to be the bananas, with strawberries as the tip, and then a little dollop of whipped cream, you know, so it looks like—”

  “I get the picture,” he interrupted, sounding a little strained. He nodded at the dress. “What do you think?”

  She looked down at it. “It’s really beautiful—”

  “Don’t say ‘but,’” he said, taking a step closer. “Let me do this. It’s been a hell of a month for you. Let me take you to the ballet and feed you French champagne and buttery potatoes, or oysters, or whatever the hell you’re in the mood for.”

  “Kennedy.” She forced herself to look at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. Or text back.”

  He nodded. “I understood.”

  “No, I don’t think you could,” she said quietly, looking once more at the dress, her heart aching a little. “That night on the boat was . . . spontaneous. Sexy. And I’ll always remember it, perhaps a little more often than I should, given our working relationship. But I’m not looking for a repeat.”

  “Because of Jack?” he asked cautiously.

  “What? Jack? Oh no. No, it’s not that. It’s just . . . I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what I want out of my life, especially my romantic life, and it’s changed.”

  “How so?” he asked, watching her closely.

  “Love at first sight is silly. I mean, it can happen, but there’s no guarantee that it’s permanent. Circumstances change; relationships shift . . .” People die.

  She didn’t say the last part, but the flash of understanding in his eyes told her that he knew. Knew that her dad’s death had changed her perception of love. For so long, all she’d wanted was what her parents had, and it had genuinely never occurred to her that it could be taken away.

  “Anyway, it means you’re off the hook. I’m not going to demand love letters or a marriage proposal. And I was thinking, with you working with Christian now, it might be a good time for us to try that friends thing for real. We could play chess again, or . . .” She broke off when his face remained impassive. “It’s your turn to say something.”

  “Well.” He sipped the champagne. “I’d like to know if the dress fits.”

  She inhaled for patience. “That’s your response? Because, by the way, you don’t just buy women dresses and champagne unless you’re hoping to talk them out of the dress later in the evening.”

  He rolled his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “I’m trying to be a nice guy . . .”

  “Ian and Matt are nice guys. You know how they show it? They bring me back Starbucks whenever they go out for an afternoon caffeine break or take me to lunch on my birthday. They don’t show up on my doorstep with . . .” She looked at the dress. “I don’t even recognize this designer. How much was this?”

  “Kate.”

  She looked up. “What?”

  “Do you want to go to the ballet with me tonight or not?”

  She chewed her lip. She did. She really did. She was guessing the seats were excellent, because Kennedy Dawson wouldn’t bother with a live performance of any kind unless he had the best seats in the house. The champagne was delicious; the dress was the most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen . . .

  “You promise no weird seductive stuff?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

  “I’ll try to contain myself.”

  “Good. Because I’m finally getting over you. I need to get over you. And it won’t work if you’re too nice.”

  “Noted. Go change,” he said with an exasperated nod toward the hallway.

  “Okay, fine,” she said, the allure of the dress and the ballet too much to pass up.

  Nothing to do with the company. Nothing at all.

 
“I’m taking this,” she said, holding the champagne over her head as she went to change. “I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but I don’t know how you’re going to do that with the lack of grand piano and weird antiques.”

  “I’ll try to entertain myself.”

  She nodded, then pointed her champagne flute at him. “Don’t you dare eat my anal beads.”

  He let out a laugh—a loud, spontaneous, honest-to-God laugh. The sort of laugh that was so real, so rare, it’d have nearly been her undoing.

  But only if she were still in love with him, of course.

  22

  Saturday, May 18

  Kennedy had enjoyed many a night at the opera, the theatre, and yes, the ballet. And though he’d probably seen more impressive shows, with impossibly-hard-to-come-by tickets, seeing the ballet with Kate surpassed them all.

  She didn’t just watch the ballet; she lived it, slightly forward in her seat, at times seeming to hold her breath.

  He’d brought her tonight to make her day a little brighter, to take her mind off her dad, and he liked to think he succeeded. But perhaps the more surprising part of the evening had been the effect on him.

  Kennedy had done plenty of dating in his adult life. Plenty of one-night hookups, as well. But unlike Matt and Ian, who’d made a career out of the bachelor life before meeting Sabrina and Lara, Kennedy hadn’t shied away from relationships. He’d embraced his bachelorhood, dabbled in the playboy lifestyle, but he never angled for that to be his forever. He wanted to get married someday. It had always just been on a theoretical level, with some faceless “someday” bride. Someone beautiful, from his world, with common ideals. Someone easy, who wouldn’t demand too much.

  He hadn’t realized until Kate had emerged from her bedroom dressed in the bright-pink dress, her smile unabashedly joyful, just how dispassionate his past girlfriends seemed in comparison. Or perhaps it wasn’t the women. Perhaps it was Kennedy who had been dispassionate, thus indifferent to the women who came in and out of his life without causing much of a ripple.

  But Kate . . . She was one hell of a ripple. She’d always been, if he were honest.

  Kate was the one who made him think twice, who challenged him. She didn’t do anything in half measures—she jumped into the deep end unabashed, always. Her confidence was alluring as hell, because it didn’t come from a new haircut or a master’s degree. It was a sureness in who she was, not just in her willingness to go all in but her determination to.

  Until now.

  Kennedy had known the moment he’d walked into Ian’s office on Monday that something was different with Kate. He’d been prepared for it. Nobody came out of the loss of a beloved parent unscathed, and her lack of response to his messages had warned him that she was struggling.

  Seeing her had confirmed it. Outwardly, of course, she’d been the same Kate. Same outward confidence, same effortless competence. But her eyes were different.

  Gone was the direct, ever-observant gaze of a woman who knew what she wanted and was always assessing the most effective way to get it. Instead, the Kate in Ian’s office had been guarded. Not quite withdrawn but cautious. Even her posture had been wary, as though braced for the next life blow.

  It had killed him, even as he understood it. Just like he understood that she was trying her hardest to pull away from him before they had a chance to get started.

  Kate loved her parents, but she’d worshipped their relationship. He was willing to bet that though she’d probably understood on a rational level that she’d eventually lose them, she’d likely never thought about what that meant for her vision of marriage.

  Loving someone—all of the way loving them—might come with plenty of Disney-worthy feels, but it also came with a shit-ton of risk. Risk that they’d leave you, and you’d be incomplete when they did.

  Ironically, just as Kennedy was starting to catch on to the appeal of those Disney bits, Kate saw the risks. It wasn’t ideal, to say the least, but Kennedy was ready for it.

  He’d just have to show her that the risk was worth it. Hence, the ballet.

  She inhaled the late spring air as they stepped out of the theatre. “That was . . . I don’t have words. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She looked up at him. “Did you like it?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you love it?” she pressed.

  “I loved it.”

  “Was it your favorite?”

  He laughed. “So persistent. Okay, fine. Gun to my head, I slightly preferred The Sleeping Beauty from last year.”

  “I was in The Sleeping Beauty when I was little,” she said. “I was the Fairy of Temperament, also known as Violente.”

  “Sounds terrifying.”

  “Yes, I’m sure my fourteen-year-old self in a tutu was immensely intimidating.”

  “I think you at just about any age could be intimidating,” he said, glancing down. She looked slightly less tense than she’d had all week, which was exactly what he’d been hoping for when he’d dropped a rather large chunk of cash on front-row tickets opening weekend.

  “You should know that I take that as a compliment.”

  “You should know I meant it as one.” He offered his arm. “The restaurant’s just two blocks away. You good to walk in those shoes?”

  “Sure. I’ve got you to keep me steady,” she said, hooking her arm in his and then patting his biceps affectionately, the way she might a brother.

  Kennedy did not like that.

  Baby steps, he reminded himself.

  He had to coax the old Kate out slowly, to convince her that he was worth it. That they were.

  And though she wasn’t ready to hear it, Kennedy had absolutely no intention of them being “just friends.” Friends first, yes. He was going to be the best damn friend she’d ever had.

  And then he’d convince her he could be a hell of a lot more.

  Kennedy was determined to keep his hands to himself tonight, but Kate was making it difficult. He’d always thought that the description of one’s eyes rolling back in one’s head was a weird exaggeration. But he witnessed it firsthand as Kate took a bite of her scallop dish and moaned.

  Kennedy shifted in his chair.

  “Oh my God,” she said when the initial wave of food ecstasy finally passed. “I don’t think I can survive another bite of this.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him, and he hoped like hell she couldn’t see the heat consuming his body just by watching her.

  “Seriously,” she said, cutting off another piece of the luscious scallop and dragging it through the buttery sauce. “You have to try this.”

  “I’m sure it’s delicious, but I’ll decline,” he said, cutting into his chicken.

  “Oh right.” She set down her fork. “Shellfish. I forgot. I’m sorry.”

  He glanced up with a smile. “Why are you sorry? You ordered what you wanted to eat; I ordered what I wanted. We’re good.”

  “I know,” she said, picking up her fork. “I guess I’m just surprised that I didn’t remember when I ordered. Remembering details is sort of my jam.”

  “At work, maybe. It’s Saturday night. Give yourself a break.”

  Kate took a sip of her white wine. “I suppose. Plus, I guess I’m off the hook from remembering your details even at work. You’re Christian’s problem now.”

  He lifted his red wine in a silent toast, then put it down when he saw the expression on her face. “What’s wrong?”

  She took a deep breath as though gathering courage, then leaned forward slightly, meeting his eyes. “Why did you do it? Why did you volunteer to take on Christian?”

  Kennedy kept his tone carefully impassive, knowing she wasn’t ready for the real answer to that question. “Someone had to.”

  She blinked quickly, then gave a jerky nod before turning her attention back to her food. She cut off a piece of scallop with more force than necessary, then dropped her fork once more. “Did I not do a good job f
or you?”

  Shit. This was harder than he’d anticipated—giving her the space she needed to heal without letting her think he didn’t care. At the hurt on her face, he nearly cracked. Nearly told her just how much it had killed him to actually volunteer to spend less time with her at work, all because he hoped against hope that it would lead to them spending more time together—outside of work.

  But he wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t get up and run from that, so he explained as best he could without laying all of his cards on the table. “Kate.” He waited until she looked up. “You were the best damn assistant anyone could have ever asked for. I wouldn’t have even considered volunteering if I didn’t know Christian would be learning everything from you. But I also knew this was what you wanted—to work for two people instead of three.”

  “So you were just being nice?”

  He suppressed a growl of frustration. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  “I’m not. Not after . . . Kennedy, I never thanked you,” she said on a rush. “I’m a little embarrassed, actually. That day when Dad—” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened her eyes to meet his again. “You were there. You went above and beyond, and I appreciate it more than I knew how to say, apparently.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Just like that? You’re not going to give me crap for ignoring you or for not acknowledging it sooner? I treated you horribly, and—”

  “You didn’t. I didn’t do it for me, Kate; I did it for you. I wasn’t after thanks or a blue ribbon. I just tried to be what you needed at that time. That’s all it was.”

  “It didn’t bother you when I didn’t reply to any of your messages?” she asked tentatively.

  “It did,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully, trying not to betray how much it had bothered him. “I was worried about you. So were the other guys. Lara and Sabrina, too. We’re used to seeing you every day. And we care about you. So yeah, it was hell not knowing what you were going through, not knowing how we could help.”

  She glanced down, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We understood. But I’d love to know why.”