Mr. Misunderstood

by Sara Jane Stone

  Kayla sighs. Yeah, I think she just realized that by agreeing to a fake engagement with a billionaire, she will be thrust into the spotlight. Half the country will see the news in gossip columns, both print and online. I’m willing to bet all of her mom’s community will find out.

  “I refuse to lie to your mom,” I continue. “She made me promise to always tell her the truth—”

  “When you were fifteen,” Kayla points out “She was worried you were lying about the beatings you received at school—which you were by the way—and she wanted to look out for you.”

  “I can’t break that promise,” I say, writing out rule five with the exception of Kayla’s mom.

  “She won’t like our plan,” she says. “Plus, if we tell her, she’s going to demand the full story. You’ll have to explain about your blackmailing ex-girlfriend.”

  “I’ll make sure she understands this was the only way to stop Alexandra,” I say firmly. “If we don’t tell her, she will be disappointed when we call off the engagement. I don’t want her to look at me and wonder if I broke her little girl’s heart. Or she might hop on the next plane to New York and start wedding planning.”

  “Fine,” she says. “We’ll call my mom. I don’t want her rushing up here to find a wedding venue. I barely survived coordinating a wedding with her the first time around.”

  “I think that had more to do with the man you choose to marry. He picked out every flower arrangement himself.”

  “And my wedding gown. My mother never quite forgave him for that.” She shakes her head as if trying to dislodge the memory. “You know, I thought it was sweet at the time?”

  “Give yourself a break. You were in love.”

  “At least I know better now. I’ll be more vigilant next time. If there is a next time.”

  “For you?” My imagination flashes to the determined woman in my limo last night, and her bared nipples. I stare at the legal pad for a second and then push the image out of my mind. “There will be a next time. But you’ll have to wait to find the guy until after our engagement.”

  Kayla nods. “I have one last rule. Number six. We decide together when to end this charade. Nothing dramatic. We’ll release a statement through your publicist when it is all over, announcing that we remain friends. But we’ve realized your impulsive middle-of-the-night proposal wasn’t based in the reality that we both live very different lives.”

  “Fair enough.” I write out the rule. “But it kind of takes the fun out of the relationship when you know how the story ends. There’s no suspense.”

  “I’m full of anticipation to see if this works,” Kayla says dryly.

  “Your plan is a work of genius.” I set the pen down and meet her gaze. “But just because you’re saving my ass this time, doesn’t mean you should land yourself in a situation that requires another rescue.”

  “No one has ever blackmailed me,” she says.

  I raise my eyebrows and give her a pointed look. “Yet, you still needed my help finding a divorce lawyer. Plus a ride away from that awful house you shared with Mr. Mistake.”

  “He owned the cars,” she points out. “I didn’t want to touch his precious possessions. He cared more about the way things looked …”

  Her voice trails off, and I mentally add the unspoken words including me to her statement.

  “And you had that lawyer on speed dial,” she adds.

  I nod. “From the moment you told me you’d made a mistake marrying Mr. Big Shot Dermatologist. Like I said that night, if you make the decision to jump out of a second-story window, I’ll be the one holding the safety net below. You can always count on that.”

  “I won’t need to call for another escape plan. That’s a promise. No one defines me. Not ever again.” She carefully enunciates each word.

  Damn right, I think. Then silently add, including me. I need to remember that as we put this crazy plan into action.

  “I’ll hold you to that promise.” I push back from the table. “Let’s go pick up Luna.”

  I expect her to leap from the chair. But instead Kayla holds out my cell phone. “First, you should call your publicist. Share the happy news. Tell Margaret you will be taking Sunday off—”

  “I can’t,” I jump in. “I’m meeting with the design team.”

  “You are taking this Sunday off,” she says calmly. “In the morning, you’re moving me and my pets into your penthouse. Someone might want to catch a shot of us walking the dogs in Central Park after their long car ride to the city.”

  I nod. “I’ll move the meeting to Monday.”

  “For our first night in the city, we order in,” she continues. “No parties. After dinner, we walk the dogs again.”

  “I love takeout,” I say. Part of me realizes she’s getting me back for drawing her into this mess. She has every right. I should have asked before I told the local cops we were engaged. Small-town rumor mills spread faster than viral Twitter threads. By the time we arrive at the vet’s office, everyone in the county will know we’re getting married.

  But the fact that I just became the only billionaire dog-walker in New York City isn’t lost on me.

  “I promise to walk your dogs any time, day or night,” I add.

  “Famous last words.” Kayla stands and walks to the door. “Go call Margaret.”

  The reality of how my life changed in the past twenty-four hours becomes clear when I walk into the vet’s office. I planned to spend my Saturday behind my desk. Now, I’m preparing to welcome a dog wearing a plastic cone into my home. As if sensing my heavy dose of what-have-I-done, Luna turns her head, cone and all, to look at me. Then she squats on the exam room floor and pees.

  I glance at Kayla and Dr. Marianne. The vet swapped her cat pajamas for green medical scrubs covered in rainbow paw prints. They are deep in conversation about Luna, but neither one appears concerned with the mess on the floor. I look around the room and find a paper towel roll.

  Time for operation clean up.

  And really, I should get some practice now.

  “Luna is fine,” the vet says for the third time. I glance back at Kayla. She’s still not buying Dr. Marianne’s claim. Kayla’s gaze travels back and forth between the massive cone around Luna’s neck and the shaved patch of fur on her back.

  “She needs to wear the cone until the stitches dissolve,” the vet continues.

  “Does it hurt her?” I ask as I approach the puddle with half the paper towel roll.

  Dr. Marianne’s brow furrows as she glances at me. “No. She will experience a bit of tenderness and pain, but not from the cone.” Then the vet turns her focus to Kayla. “Your girl is lucky. Whoever fired the shot planned to kill something, but his aim was off. The bullet went through her back, and left a clean exit wound, but it didn’t hit anything major.”

  “That is good news,” Kayla says.

  “But without a bullet, I don’t have much information to offer the detectives,” Dr. Marianne explains. “Lucie called this morning to let me know she was opening an investigation.”

  “I’m more concerned with Luna’s health than finding out who did this,” Kayla says.

  We’re not on the same page about that, I think as I crouch down beside Luna and gently nudge her to the side. I want the nighttime hunter in jail. Lucie and her officers should arrest him for attempted murder as far as I’m concerned.

  I drop the paper towels on the mess and try to focus on my plans for the next few days. Should I tarp the crazy expensive rug that my interior designer installed? Cover the couches?

  But the mental images of my furniture wrapped in plastic quickly fade. And my mind wanders to the, what if the hunter shot Kayla picture.

  “What are you doing?” Kayla’s voice draws me back to the present.

  She’s safe. No one hurt her.

  “I’m practicing for when Luna moves to the city with us.” I look up from my position on the floor and meet the vet’s amused gaze. “I proposed to Kayla last night. We’re gett
ing married.”

  The vet’s mouth forms a wide O shape. I use her moment of shocked silence to stand and step away from the paper towel mess.

  “Okay. Time to go,” Kayla says. She clips a leash on Luna’s collar. From the look she gives me, I have a feeling she wishes she could do the same to me. “Thanks for everything, Marianne. I’ll call if I have any follow-up questions.”

  “Yes. Of course.” The vet stumbles over the words. “And congratulations!”

  “Thanks,” Kayla says dryly. She shoots me another look, probably considering what it would take to muzzle me.

  “I’m writing a new rule,” Kayla mutters as we leave the vet’s office. She slows down once we reach the parking area. “I decide when and how we share the ‘good news’ with people in town.”

  “I’ll add it to the legal pad.”

  CHAPTER 6

  GAVIN

  We took a vote and decided to move into my Manhattan apartment tonight. Kayla was the only one who wished to wait until Sunday morning. Thankfully, the dogs sided with me—or at least they ran to my side when I proposed a democratic resolution to my change in plan. The dog treats in my pocket probably helped my case.

  But it was time to go. I’d had my fill of the countryside. Plus, I was eager to launch our plan. I’d left a voicemail for Margaret announcing the good news and received a text back that she was in the middle of a different crisis. She would be in touch soon. If we slipped into my apartment tonight, there was a chance she would still be consumed with her other client.

  So we wrangled the pups into their travel vests and buckled them into the limo. Then we placed the cats in their carriers and loaded the trunk with pet food, cat litter, and a single suitcase for Kayla. After a ninety-minute limo ride filled with barking dogs and restless, meowing cats, we arrived at my apartment.

  “The cats didn’t get a vote,” Kayla grumbles as my driver drops the last bag of dog food in the foyer of my penthouse. Samuel gives me a nod goodbye, steps back into the elevator, and heads for the limo.

  “They abstained by virtue of not getting off the couch,” I say, following the pack of pets down the hallway and around the corner into the living room.

  “And they’ve already found yours.” Kayla points to my white sectional. Ginger’s claws pull at the fabric threatening to destroy it.

  When my company first took off, and I was making more money than I’d ever dreamed possible, I looked at every penthouse apartment on the market. I wanted the best. But then I saw this place. The open floor plan offers a modern twist on old-school New York architecture. The living room flows seamlessly into the dining room, which is open to the white marble kitchen. The details, from baseboards to the parquet floorboard pattern, feel elegant but not fussy.

  Ava trots over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the living room and dining area. The German Shepard mix gives a full body shake, leaving behind a virtual puddle of long dark hairs on my stylish floorboards.

  I sigh. Selecting an apartment because I thought the bronze doorknobs offered a warm touch compared to the lavish gold-plated finishes used in most of the fancy, multimillion-dollar penthouses seems silly now.

  “Having second thoughts?” Kayla asks.

  “No.” I will not let our plan fall apart over dog hair. “Nothing makes an apartment appear lived-in like a dog.”

  “Lived-in? We’ve only been here for five minutes. Wait until everyone settles in.” She glances over her shoulder at the hallway. “Are the doors to the bedrooms closed?”

  “I’ll check.”

  “Good. I’m ordering sushi.” Kayla walks through the living space, bypasses the glass dining table that looks like a piece of modern art, not furniture, and heads for the kitchen.

  “I want my usual,” I call after her. I would offer to help, but she knows her way around my kitchen. Instead, I sneak away from the dogs, retrace my steps to the elevator and then head back to the bedrooms. I pull all four doors closed and tiptoe back to the living room.

  The dogs are roaming the open floor plan. Luna’s cone keeps bumping into the corners and walls. The other pups turn to her every time she hits something, but I can’t tell if they are empathizing with her, or laughing at the poor girl.

  I retrieve my laptop from the study. Then I close the opaque glass sliding doors that separate my home office from the living room. I’m willing to sacrifice most of my furniture to save my reputation. But I’d like to keep my workspace pet free.

  Three seconds after I settle down on the couch, Ginger abandons Operation Furniture Destruction and climbs onto my lap. The dogs are too busy sniffing to settle down yet, and I suspect Ginger’s feline companion is hiding.

  “Food’s ordered,” Kayla says as she turns the corner and heads for the overstuffed leather recliner opposite the couch. She draws her knees up and turns her gaze to floor-to-ceiling windows. It is too dark at this hour to see Central Park, but the lights from the lampposts flicker like fireflies. She looks away from the window and scans the apartment.

  “Every time I come here, it’s like visiting a luxury resort,” she muses. “It’s impossible to think real people live in places like this. Most Manhattan apartments would fit inside your living room.”

  “It is actually a lot like an all-inclusive resort.” I open my laptop and prepare to scan through my email. I tell myself I need to check in on work. But really I’m looking for a message from Alexandra the Blackmailer, or my PR rep announcing a windstorm of wild stories.

  Nothing.

  I exhale and return to the first email. One of my designers has a question about the upcoming launch. I type out a brief reply and move to the next message.

  “An all-inclusive with a crazy up-front cost,” Kayla says. She’s silent for a second. Then she adds. “This is where You Know Who always aspired to live.”

  I look up from my screen. The sushi hasn’t even arrived and she’s talking about her ex—not exactly how I planned to kick-off the first night of our fake engagement. I close my laptop and set it beside me on the couch.

  “He’s your ex-husband, not Voldemordt,” I say. “Let’s call him by his name, Mr. Mistake, not some fictional character.”

  She stares out into the darkness. “Mr. Mistake wanted a penthouse on Billionaire Row. He would have killed for a place in this building.”

  “He’s at the top of my dermatologists-most-likely-to-commit-murder list,” I murmur. “But I’m betting he would try to charm his way in first,” Kayla says.

  I hear the bitter edge in her voice. I’m tempted to call over one of the pups to lick her face before she slips into a sour mood. But I hold back. After the way that bastard used his charm on her, wielding it like a fucking weapon, she has every right to spend a few minutes lost in anger.

  “I guess that’s one of the perks of my outrageously large bachelor pad, your ex can’t afford to live on this street. And the amenities are amazing.” I’m ready to shift the conversation away from her miserable years living in Manhattan. This time will be different—and temporary. “Thanks to the hotel below, I have maid service and room service. There’s even character dining.”

  She turns to me and raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Well there are characters. But they haven’t appeared in movies.”

  My cell phone rings. I glance at the screen and read Front Desk.

  “Is the sushi here?” she asks. “They know to send the food up, right?”

  I nod. “Jimmy is working the front desk tonight. He’ll sign for the delivery and bring it up. But he always gives me a call first.”

  The elevator opens and Jimmy places two bags in the foyer. “Have a good night, Mr. Black,” he calls as the door closes.

  Kayla’s off the couch and running for the food as if she hasn’t eaten in days.

  “Whoa, K—”

  Cleveland barks, followed by Ava and Luna. Soon all of the dogs are chasing Kayla.

  “You can’t leave the bags on the floor,” she says, lifting
the take-out. “They will tear into the food. I’ll let Jimmy know when we take the dogs out later.”

  I follow Kayla to the dining area. While she sets out the food, I pull a cold NYC micro brew can and a bottle of white wine from the fridge. I drop the beverages on the table and return to the kitchen for glasses, tripping over a line of water bowls in the process.

  “It’s going to be an adjustment, having all of us stay,” Kayla says. She already has her chop sticks out and separated.

  I open my beer and take a long sip while she divides the sushi. “I can handle dog bowls in the kitchen. It will be harder for you.”

  Her ex might not live on my street, but I know the memories follow her when she’s in Manhattan.

  “I’ll manage,” she says.

  “You’ll tell me if that changes.” I break apart my wooden chopsticks and select a piece of dragon roll from the plastic tray.

  She focuses on dividing the pickled ginger into six equal pieces and placing them on her sushi. “You’ll know before I do I think.”

  I nod, seeing the truth in her words. There are different kinds of abuse. I learned that as a kid. Another person does not need to hit you to make you hurt. I remember wishing sometimes that they would use their hands instead of their words.

  But I’ve locked the past away. Sometimes I forget that Kayla’s pain is still raw. I saw what was happening to my best friend before she even realized herself. Stripping away a person’s confidence hurts just as much as a slap to the face. From an outsider’s viewpoint, the pain seems trivial, and overblown.

  That’s how the bully wins. Whether they are kids ganging up on the weakest in the class, foster parents trying to bury the truth, or husbands who treat their wives like a piece of property. Sometimes the only way to fight back is to walk away and reinvent yourself.

  “Thank you for doing this,” I say.

  She waves away my gratitude with her chopsticks. “I haven’t done anything yet. Aside from letting you buy me sushi.”

  “That’s part of the deal.” I draw an avocado roll closer, before Kayla devours the whole thing. “If there is anything you want to do while we’re engaged—”