Mr. Misunderstood

by Sara Jane Stone

  “I’ll make a list.” She reaches over and takes a piece of avocado roll from the container. “Are there any limits?”

  “Not unless you want to break the rules,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “I meant can we rent a private jet for the weekend.”

  I knew what she was asking. But I heard the word limits, and just for a second I thought of Kayla’s breasts. I wondered what would happen if we crossed that line.

  I never will.

  The silent promise pushes away any thought of breaking the rules. I have one best friend. There is one person on this earth who knows me inside and out. I won’t sacrifice that for anything.

  My phone buzzes, interrupting my internal debate. I pick it up and scan the screen. “Margaret,” I murmur, answering the call. “What can I do for you?”

  “Gavin,” she chirps. The woman’s high-pitch tone tricks even the best reporters into believing Margaret’s a flighty lightweight. But I know she’s a warrior. Her deceiving voice is one of the many weapons in her arsenal.

  “I need to meet with you and your fiancée tonight,” she continues.

  “What about your other crisis?” I silently add How did you know I was back in New York City?

  “The other crisis has been handled. You’re my priority now.”

  “We’re having dinner,” I protest. “Kayla hasn’t unpacked yet. Why don’t we come by your office tomorrow morning?”

  “Tonight,” she insists. “I’m not giving you time to prepare.”

  “Prepare what?” I ask.

  “I’ll be at your building in five minutes. Instruct the doorman to let me up.”

  I set the phone down on the table and look at Kayla. “Margaret will be joining us in five minutes.”

  “I heard.” Kayla opens a plastic container filled with miso soup. “She’s afraid we’ll take the night to get our story straight.”

  “She’s suspicious.” I set my chopsticks down. “I’m reconsidering telling her the truth. She’s on our side in this. She could help.”

  Kayla shakes her head in a silent no. “We can use her reaction as a guide for how others will take the news. We’ll convince her. I’m not worried.”

  I shake my head but send Jimmy at the front desk a text with instructions to send my publicist up to my apartment. Minutes later, the elevator door opens. The dogs bark and race to the foyer. Luna’s cone bumps the molding as she tries to make the turn, but the pup quickly recovers.

  “Down!” I hear Margaret’s sharp command before she turns the corner. The tap-tap-tap of her heels blends with the sound of dog nails on the parquet floorboards. She marches across my living room as if she’s leading a K-9 parade. Though her black pantsuit screams funeral, not marching band or street celebration. Still, the dogs fall in behind her, clearly responding to her natural aura of authority.

  Margaret stops beside the table and pushes her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose. Her gaze darts back and forth between us. I usually laugh off her eagle-eye scrutiny. But when she turns her focus on Kayla, my protective instincts kick into overdrive. They’ve met before—under very different circumstances.

  “Would you like something to drink?” I ask. “Water? White wine? Something stronger? I could call down to the hotel’s bar and have them mix one of those fancy cocktails you like.”

  “Tap water with ice would be lovely.” Margaret walks around the table and slips into the chair beside Kayla and opposite mine. “While you get that, I want to hear the full story.”

  “Of course.” I rise from the table and head for the kitchen. I select a glass and proceed to fill her drink order. As I move through the white marble space, I share the same story I told the detectives. I return to the table for the punch line. “When I saw Kayla covered in blood, when I thought it was her blood, it hit me. I could have lost her. By the time we reached the vet’s office, I knew I needed to marry her.”

  “Hmmm,” Margaret murmurs. She accepts the water glass and raises it to her lips. After a bird-sized sip, she turns to Kayla. “Why did you say yes?”

  Kayla’s brown eyes widen as she stares at Margaret over her miso soup. She lowers her spoon and sits upright in her chair. I’m tempted to jump in, but I know that in order for this to work Kayla will need to answer questions.

  My best friend looks at me, and her lips tease the first hint of a smile. I’ve grown accustomed to Kayla’s fierce determination. She’s spent the past few years fighting. First, she stood up to her ex—leaving him and then demanding a divorce. Then she became an advocate for her adopted pets. I’ve witnessed her in battle mode for so long I’d forgotten Kayla is so much more than a warrior.

  “I think,” Kayla begins. Then she turns to look directly at Margaret. Her voice is filled with wonder, and I’m reminded of the trip we took together after I graduated college, and before she married Mr. Mistake. She stared out at the Tuscan countryside as if mesmerized by the beauty. For the rest of the trip, and months afterward, she spoke of Italy with pure reverence.

  Kayla’s gaze locks with Margaret’s razor-sharp blue eyes. “I think that I have always loved him.”

  I waited for her to continue. She couldn’t leave her explanation there. Always loved me? Of course she has. I’ve loved Kayla since I was five years old. She’s my family. She’s my everything. But to sell our engagement, we need something more.

  Kayla doesn’t say another word. She simply gives my publicist a smile and then returns to her miso soup.

  Margaret’s gaze darts back and forth between us. “This needs work.”

  “You can’t put her on the spot like that,” I protest. “We’ve only been engaged for twenty-four hours. Not even that to be honest.”

  “Not her.” Margaret waves at Kayla. “Any fool can see she’s madly in love with you.”

  Kayla coughs. She quickly covers her mouth to keep her last spoonful of soup from spilling out—and fails. I think there is soup coming out her nose.

  This is what love looks like?

  I wonder if Margaret’s long hours and crazy, demanding clients have finally pushed her over the edge into pure insanity.

  Sane or not, my PR guru ignores my sputtering fiancée and turns to me. “You need work.”

  “I do?” I want to scream ”But I’m the one with the damn story! She gave you one line and a smile.”

  “I’m not convinced you’re ready to settle down,” Margaret says. “That you’ve changed. You were dating someone else last week, and now you’re going to marry an old friend?”

  “I wasn’t in love with Alexandra,” I explain, fighting to keep my voice level. “I’m in love Kayla.”

  Saying those words out loud, I feel so close to believing them. I push that thought away and remain focused on Margaret. “It took a life-or-death situation for me to realize it. But now I’m ready to spend forever with her.”

  “Hmm,” Margaret says again. “It’s a good story even if it is rather sudden. We can make this work if we refine your image.”

  “Margaret, don’t start with the Alpha Male bullshit again,” I say.

  “The dogs will help.” My publicist glances around the room as if I didn’t say a word. Then she sets her water glass on the table and stands. “I’ll send further instructions tomorrow. With a few simple changes in your behavior, the media storm will focus on your love story. The last thing we want is the press sympathizing with your ex-girlfriend whom you ditched overnight. You have told the poor girl, haven’t you?”

  “She knows it’s over. I ended it before I went to see Kayla last night. We wanted different things from the relationship,” I say darkly.

  “If Gavin has a makeover, no one will feel sorry for his ex?” Kayla asks.

  “An earnest, love-struck man willing to abandon his playboy past for the girl next door?” Margaret asks. “I can sell that.”

  “I’ll do it. The makeover and whatever else you want.” I point to the door. “Now please leave. I want to be alone with my fiancée.”

&n
bsp; Margaret nods and marches for the elevator. The dogs follow in her wake as if in awe of her authoritative presence. “Goodnight and congratulations.”

  The elevator door closes and the four-legged herd trots back to Kayla’s side. She reclaims her spoon and dips it into her soup. It’s probably cold by now, but she doesn’t seem to care.

  “I always thought you needed a good makeover,” she teases.

  “Shut up,” I say. “I doubt it will involve much.”

  “We’ll see,” she says.

  Yes, we will. But I’m prepared to endure a dozen makeovers if it prevents everyone in New York from sympathizing with my blackmailing ex.

  CHAPTER 7

  KAYLA

  Dogs do not understand the fine art of sneaking around on wood floors. I learned that when I adopted my first golden retriever five years ago. Lucky crossed the rainbow bridge a year before I broke free from my marriage, but I’ll never forget the way she greeted every new day with boisterous enthusiasm. Her nails would click against the wood floors as she celebrated morning and the promise of breakfast.

  But Lucky is gone and I’m not in Westchester anymore. I’m leading Cleveland, Ava, Rocky, and poor cone-headed Luna down a billionaire’s corridor.

  “Shhh,” I whisper to my eager pack as I tiptoe past the tightly closed bedroom doors. According to my cell, it is six in the morning. Not crazy early by my standards, but I haven’t seen Gavin yet. The fact that the coffee maker was still waiting for someone to hit the start button suggests he’s not awake. Still, I want proof that my pups’ frantic, excited barking didn’t disturb his slumber.

  I reach his bedroom door and give it a gentle push. The dogs gather behind me. I use my body to block the narrow opening. I’ve already taken them out for a quick walk, but they are still full of energy. Even old Rocky found the stroll around the block insufficient when compared with his usual morning romp through the fields. And all of the pups hated the leashes. They made that abundantly clear, which was part of the reason I returned to the apartment after a single lap.

  When I got back, Jimmy handed me a folder. The doorman explained that a representative from Margaret’s office had dropped it off that morning. I have a feeling Gavin’s faithful PR rep compiled the Project Makeover file years ago. She’s been waiting and hoping for the perfect moment to drop it at his doorstep.

  I’m eager to read the instructions. For the past fifteen minutes, I paced around the kitchen distributing pet food and wondering if reading a folder clearly labeled GAVIN in bold, block letters would be an invasion of privacy. Part of me wants to read it before he’s awake so I can take a black sharpie to suggestions that cross the line.

  My ex offered me a makeover when we first met. Being young and in love with him, I accepted. As a result, I’m familiar with the border between a hair appointment with a highly recommended stylist who only sees clients by referral, and instructions on what your hair should look like in the end. The former falls under the helpful category. The later threatens to strip away a person’s autonomy. That’s what Mr. Mistake did to me. Looking back, I know a makeover should inspire confidence—not that Gavin needs another dose—and leave the recipient feeling desirable.

  Gavin knows he’s attractive. After everything he endured as a kid, he emerged remarkably unscathed.

  But he didn’t really. He reinvented himself. He created Gavin Black—a new name and persona ready and willing to take down the bullies.

  I’m not going to stand by and watch a makeover chip away his armor. No one gets to bully my fake fiancé ever again. That’s part of the reason I agreed to this crazy scheme.

  The other half of my somewhat crazy reasoning is lying face down on a king-size bed … naked.

  Okay, to clarify, I can only state with conviction that Gavin Black sleeps without a shirt. He’s probably wearing pajama bottoms. I just can’t see the evidence beneath the sheets and blankets. But his broad, muscular back is bare.

  I’ve seen him without a shirt before. When we were teenagers, I once saw him naked. We were skinny dipping in my parents’ pool at that time. But he didn’t spend hours in the gym back then. If he had, he probably wouldn’t have gotten beat up as often. Still, his dimensions were different in high school.

  Not all his dimensions.

  My hand slips on the knob, pushing the door open a tiny bit more. Even thinking about my fake fiancé’s anatomy below the waistline is not allowed. I’m pretty sure it violates the terms of our pretend relationship.

  While I’m busy locking that potentially disastrous thought away, Cleveland slips into the room. My terrier moves with the speed and grace of a champion show dog.

  “Get back here,” I whisper.

  But it’s too late. Cleveland jumps onto the bed with such ease it’s as if he has springs in his short legs. He trots over to Gavin’s face and begins licking his cheek.

  “What the hell?” Gavin rolls away from the terrier and opens his eyes.

  “Sorry,” I say, pulling the door mostly closed. I doubt he wants three eager and much larger dogs on his bed too. “We were checking to see if you were awake.”

  “I am now,” he mutters. He pushes himself into a sitting position and runs one hand through his dark hair. The sheet slides down his body.

  Wow.

  I forget everything else. I’m lost in my one word reaction. Because my best friend looks as if he completes more sit-ups in a single gym session than I’ve attempted all year.

  Best friend. I should be focused on that phrase, not wow.

  “Do you need help taking the dogs out?” he asks.

  “No. I already took them for a quick walk. Jimmy handed me a folder when we got back. Margaret dropped off the details for your makeover. I thought I would take a look and cross out any questionable suggestions.”

  “You’re going to line edit Margaret’s instructions?” he asks, still blinking away the sleep in his eyes.

  I nod. I’m trying to keep my gaze on his face because the sheet is playing peek-a-boo with Gavin’s toned abs. If it slips one more inch, I’ll know for certain if he’s wearing pajama bottoms.

  The sheet slips.

  And I look away before I discover the answer to this morning’s pajama mystery. Then I abandon my post at the door. Spinning on my heel, I head for the kitchen. Only I forget to pull the door closed behind me. I hear the dogs rush into Gavin’s bedroom.

  “Hey,” Gavin calls. “Off the bed.”

  “I’ll start reading the file. Come find me when you’re dressed.” I doubt he heard me over the commotion.

  I reach the kitchen and take a deep breath. I’m safe here, away from the sight of his mesmerizing stomach. If he dares to enter the kitchen without a shirt, I’ll … I’ll send him back?

  No, probably not. I would welcome the view.

  Shaking my head, I grab the folder Margaret left at the desk and open it. There’s a cover letter on top with the salutation Dear Kayla and Gavin. Taking that as an open invitation to continue, I peruse the top sheet. Margaret offers her congratulations, blah, blah, blah.

  I scan through the pleasantries until I reach the words my ideal plans for your engagement announcement. Still reading, I walk over to the white marble island and sit on a leather-topped bar stool. Ginger claims the seat beside me and I stroke her while I read.

  “Did she make a list of clothes I should wear?” Gavin asks.

  I look up just long enough to confirm he dressed for breakfast. Although his gym shorts and T-shirt do not answer the question about what he slept in—pajamas, boxers, or nothing at all. Not that I need an answer. Still, it would be good information to have in case one of the dogs rushes into his bed at three in the morning and I need to go in and pull her out.

  Best friend, I remind myself again. I can’t rush into his bedroom in the middle of the night. Not even to reclaim my dog. And if I need another reason to stay out of Gavin’s bed? My best friend cares more about his image than anyone I’ve ever met. And yes, I’m including
my awful ex on that list.

  Gavin’s reasons are different, justifiable even. But that doesn’t mean I can sacrifice my hard-won independence so that he can carefully control how the world sees him. The fake engagement is a stretch for me. I can’t handle anything more.

  Gavin walks straight for the coffee pot. The dogs follow as if he might give them a second breakfast. “Or does Margaret focus on body language? She’s lectured me before about how posture conveys confidence.”

  “She’s right about that. Although I don’t believe she needs to waste her breath anymore. I think its second nature for you now.” I turn my attention back to the folder. “No lists so far. She’s basically offering a step-by-step plan for how to date.”

  Gavin laughs as he adds cream to his coffee mug. “I know how to date.”

  “But do you know how to do it so the media is eager for a shot of an engagement ring? So that they would never in a million years dream that we concocted this scheme to trick them?”

  “As soon as we mention our engagement, photographers will be eager for a picture of your ring.” He glances at my hand. “We might want to pick one up.”

  “Margaret thinks that’s a bad idea. Not the ring, but giving them a photo. We need to make them want it. And show the press how this relationship is different from all the others. Margaret suggests, and I’m quoting here, ‘Gavin needs to make over his social life for the next month. Less parties, and no public announcements.’ If anyone asks, we answer honestly. But otherwise, she wants the media to seek us out while we’re on normal dates.”

  “Let me guess, she has guidelines for these ‘normal’ dates,” he says dryly.

  “According to Margaret, we need to avoid renting a private jet for wild, impromptu destination dates. Well, that’s easy.” I look up at him. “I’ve been thinking about that plan and realized we can’t take the dogs on an overnight to a foreign country. They would hate the flight, and some countries require a quarantine period.”

  “I’m sure my publicist was taking your pets into account when she wrote that.” He walks around the counter and takes the stool on the other side of Ginger. Three of the four dogs follow. Rocky heads for the living room, clearly abandoning hope of a second breakfast.