Dangerous Engagement (Wedlocked Trilogy Book 1)

by Charlotte Byrd

“Don't get me wrong, Henry, I love that family and I appreciate everything they have ever done for me. However, her father is not anyone to mess with—”

  “I know that he is a big-time CEO—” I interrupt him.

  “You know nothing about Mr. Tate—” Mr. Madsen interrupts me, “and you don't want to know anymore than you already do.”

  "What are you talking about?” I ask.

  He opens his mouth to say something but then closes it. He's choosing his words carefully. I wait for him to continue.

  “Let's just say,” he says after a moment. “Let's just say that what you know about Mr. Tate is only the Disney version of who he is and what he does for a living. He is a very dangerous man and he would not approve of you having any sort of relations with his only daughter.”

  A big gulp forms in the back of my throat. I swallow hard. I'm not sure what to say to this or how to react.

  Mr. Madsen has never spoken to me in this manner before. He has always been stern but kind and fair. In fact, I know very little about his personal life and he knows very little about mine. He cultivated this distance, not just with me, but all of his employees, and over the years, I have grown to appreciate it.

  So, for him to come out and suddenly warn me about dating Aurora is completely out of character.

  “Tell me this,” Mr. Madsen says, leaning over the bar top and getting as close to me as possible. “Is this just a one night thing or are you planning on seeing her again?”

  I shake my head, not sure how to answer.

  “I like her, Mr. Madsen. I like her a lot.”

  “Well, that's going to be a problem,” he says and finishes his drink.

  Mr. Madsen's words weigh heavily on my mind long after he leaves and way into the afternoon. I try to be friendly with all of the guests, but I'm just not here the way I normally am.

  It's hard to joke around and talk about nothing in an interesting way when your heart is not in it. After I eat a brief and quick lunch in the kitchen, I go back to work. The afternoons are usually a quiet time, right before the big evening dinner rush, and I enjoy the solitude. Besides the hostess, I’m the only one here, manning the restaurant in case a big party comes in.

  And right when I least want to see another person, let alone act friendly, four guys saunter into the place. They are all dressed in the yacht club’s unofficial uniform, plaid, pastel colored shirts, dockers or khakis along with dark shoes with tassels. I would be surprised if any of their outfits cost less than five hundred dollars. They are not out of the norm for the clientele here, but what grates on me right now is that they’re my age and total assholes.

  The guys take seats around the bar, and quickly make themselves at home. They all order beers and make disparaging comments about the women on television.

  “Hey,” one of them says, “I'm telling you I can totally get three of those girls in bed with me.”

  “No, you can’t.” The others laugh.

  “Yes, I can.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Look at them. Look at those faces and those hips. You know that no one really wants them. And they're just desperate for any sort of attention.”

  “You’re such an asshole,” the tall one with blond hair and pink pants says. “Yes, Connor, I know that already. That's my schtick, don’t you know that?”

  “And that works for you?” Connor asks. “Yes, you could say that.”

  I have seen them around before. The self-described asshole has a house not too far away and Connor owns a seventy foot Beneteau. They all work in the city, somewhere near, or right on, Wall Street. They have never been traders, that's kind of a low position, but rather investment bank associates and hedge fund analysts.

  They probably make around one-hundred and twenty-thousand a year without bonuses, and they are just starting out. But all of them come from a lot more money than that, and they will be millionaires by the time they're thirty. On the other hand, I work as a teacher during the year in an underprivileged school district in Harlem and don’t clear forty grand after taxes. I probably make another ten in the summer, and I give all of that to my mother to help with her bills.

  Watching them, laughing and drinking with their friends, I suddenly wonder if I'm not the stupid one. I want to be a writer, yes, but working as an English teacher is not really getting me any closer to achieving that dream.

  I am not a very good teacher. I will be the first one to admit that. I'm not very patient or very interested in teenagers. I find the job tedious and difficult, at best. It is absolutely awful, at worst.

  I wish more than anything that I could be one of those inspiring teachers that they make movies about, the ones that change lives, but I just can't put 100% of me into that.

  No, my passions lie elsewhere and the reason I got that job is that it was the only one I got offered after graduation. But now I wonder if I have made a mistake. Perhaps these assholes and my friend Taylor, an aspiring asshole, have figured something out about life that I haven’t. Also, I wonder if Mr. Madsen would be having his little talk with me and warning me about dating Mr. Tate’s daughter if I were one of these guys.

  When the guys finish two rounds of beer and all of their fries and they are just about to leave, a group of girls comes in.

  At first, I don't see her.

  She's walking behind her friends, with her head hanging low. They grab a table not too far away from the bar and Ellis Holte, the tall one, waves me over. I hand them each a menu and take their drink orders.

  When I try to make eye contact with Aurora, she looks away. I am not sure how much her friends know or don't know about what happened last night. A big part of me wants to tell all of them, but I know better and keep my mouth shut. If Aurora doesn't want anyone to know, that’s fine by me.

  The guys at the bar are quick to make their move. They grab seats nearby, pushing the tables together. When I come back with the drinks, Connor has his arm around Aurora. Instead of shoving him away, she lets him rest there. Leaning in, his face is only a few inches away from hers. When he makes a joke, she laughs along with him and I clench my fists.

  “Can I take your order?” I ask her, clearing my throat.

  When she looks up at me, she pulls away from Connor, but only a little bit, as if she had not let him drape all over her.

  I feel like a fool. An idiot! This is probably her boyfriend.

  I can't believe that I let myself catch all of these feelings for her when, in reality, we just went out on one date and I know practically nothing about her real life.

  Yes, we shared a few jokes and laughs, but so what?

  Yes, she slept with me and had breakfast with my mother, but that doesn’t have to mean anything, right?

  Maybe she just wanted to slum it for a night. I thought they were assholes, but maybe it was me who is the asshole for thinking that I ever stood a chance.

  When I take her order, I keep trying to make eye contact, but it's all to no avail. She acts like she doesn't know me. Her demeanor is polite and professional but cold and distant.

  We are strangers as far as she is concerned.

  And this guy Connor? He is someone who is clearly significant in her life.

  After putting in all of their orders, I take my position behind the bar and try to steel myself. I've had plenty of one-night stands and this one should be no different. She's just a girl. Just because you connected with her over some unheard of twentieth century short story writer, doesn't mean that she is actually interested in you.

  Twenty minutes later, when the food is ready, I deliver it with a newfound coldness and professionalism.

  I don’t search her face to meet her eyes.

  I'm no longer waiting for an inkling of affection.

  And I am certainly not waiting for an introduction to her friends.

  If she wants to pretend like she doesn't know me then that's perfectly fine. The truth is that I don’t know her. A few personal nuggets does not make for a con
nection.

  Connor covers the bill and pays the additional twenty percent in tip. They all take off together, leaving me alone in the dining room.

  About an hour later, I receive the first text. It's from Aurora.

  I am so, so sorry, she writes. I had no idea that we were coming here until after Ellis suggested it and I couldn't get out of it.

  You coming here is not the fucking problem, I want to write back.

  Connor, the guy that was all over me, is my ex-boyfriend and we have a very complicated relationship. I don't wanna go into it over text, I just want to apologize for being such a dick in there.

  I shake my head and put my phone down. I don't have the energy to deal with this. Only a few moments ago, I was so ready to write her off, but now my certainty is wavering.

  But her texts keep coming and coming. She apologizes over and over again and then asks where I am.

  She says that she knows that I'm still at work because she just called the front desk and asked and wonders why I'm not writing her back.

  I guess I can assume that you're really mad at me, but please don't be. Please let me explain. I'm sorry.

  I don't write back. This was all a terrible mistake. We live in worlds that are just too different and it's not worth trying to intermingle them.

  She continues to blow up my phone.

  I pick it up and run my fingers over the screen. I click on the text string. I stare at the blinker.

  Please stop, I write.

  9

  Aurora

  I don't know why I agreed to go to that stupid yacht club, but I regret it as soon as I see him. It wasn't that I was embarrassed that I had gone out with Henry; he is very cute and charming and attractive. But Connor was there and, when Connor is somewhere, everything is a lot more complicated.

  Connor is my ex-boyfriend but it's more complicated than that. We were good friends at first. Then we started sleeping together casually then dating then we reversed back to something more casual eventually breaking up without actually breaking up. Ostensibly, we are still good friends except that I can’t stand the sight of him.

  The reason I ignore Henry? I don’t want to give Connor a target.

  I text Henry as soon as Connor and his friends leave, but he doesn't get back to me. I know that he is angry. I text him some more. I apologize profusely, but I still hear crickets.

  We only had one date.

  Yes, it was magical and beautiful, but what the hell does he expect from me? He doesn't know how complicated my life can be.

  He doesn't know anything about me, even though he thinks he does. The more time that passes with him not messaging me back, the angrier I get.

  No one treats me like this. How dare he not respond?

  I have already apologized, what more does he want?

  The day fades into night and then becomes the next morning and the one after that. I send only one more text the following day and then I force myself to let it go. I deserve an answer and if he doesn't think that I do then he doesn't know the first thing about me. If he doesn't want to talk to me then he doesn't have to.

  Later that week, Ellis invites me out with a guy she's been seeing. She says that she wants to introduce him to me, one of her best friends but, in reality, it's a blind date. She knows that I don't go out on blind dates but her boyfriend just happens to have a friend in town in need of entertainment on this particular night.

  Ellis is almost a foot taller than I am with long lean legs that start somewhere near my shoulders. I'm exaggerating of course, but only a little bit. She spent many years dancing and as a result she knows her way around her body while I am still trying to get comfortable in mine.

  She seems to be able to eat anything in the world without gaining a pound while I can barely look at a cheeseburger and gain ten. Still, we have been friends ever since we went to The Chasley School, the kind of elementary school for the elite in Manhattan that you have to get a spot in when you are still in utero.

  I meet Ellis at a fancy but casual restaurant right on the water in West Hampton. Her boyfriend is nice enough, but I want to tell him not to get his hopes up since she is not the committing type.

  Ellis's mother is a famous New York socialite, who has gone through numerous husbands, six to be exact, and even one wife. She's very forward-thinking in that way, especially for a seventy-year-old woman. She had Ellis when she was forty-five with her fourth husband, but he was never part of Ellis’s life growing up. That's one of the reasons why Ellis carries Adele’s maiden name of Holte, the same name that Adele kept all of these years.

  Mitchell Bishop, Ellis’s boyfriend, and Brock Kumparak, my date, joke around and reminisce about their days back at Princeton, even though that was only a few years ago. Now they both work on Wall Street, one in investment banking and the other in a hedge fund, but which one does what work I can't remember.

  When the conversation runs a little dry, Ellis interjects and tells them about the new painting that she is responsible for staging at The Oliver Gallery. The Oliver Gallery is one of the most prestigious places to work for a rising art curator, and I am certain that she would not have the internship without her mother’s wide connections. Still, art is her passion and who can blame her for taking advantage of every opportunity that comes her way?

  Of course, her internship doesn't pay anything and requires almost eighty-hours a week of work, but after having that on her resume she will probably be able to work for any gallery in New York, Paris, London, LA, or Dubai unless she chooses to open her own.

  Over a course of fried avocados for appetizers, Brock asks me about my work. I tell him about my PhD and he barely feigns interest. It's not fair, but I find myself comparing him to Henry. He knows very little about literature and has probably not read a book since college. I don't want to hold this against him, but I can't help myself. I don’t find anything else about him very interesting so what choice do I have?

  After a so-so dinner, the boys insist on showing us a good time by taking us out to a bar. I don't know why we need to go to another bar when there's a perfectly good bar here, but then again, I have never been much into the barhopping culture of New York City. Still, I do have to agree this place feels a little dead and it would be nice to see a few more fresh faces. We pile into Ellis's Maserati and drive the half a mile to the place that Brock suggests. It's more of a local place, not really rolling out the welcome mat to the summer people but it's not as much of a dive as the one that Henry took me to last week.

  Walking in, Brock buzzes in my ear about some new financial instrument that his company has developed to make it easier for regular people to invest. It mostly goes over my head because I don’t really care. I’m only going to stay for one drink, I say to myself, glancing over at Ellis and Mitchell with their hands all over each other.

  And then, suddenly, I see them. Henry is sitting at the bar with a girl draped almost completely around him.

  10

  Aurora

  I narrow my eyes to make sure that my eyes aren’t deceiving me. I watch the girl run her hands up and down his leg. Henry shifts his weight from one side to another, trying to get comfortable.

  So I guess this is it. He's over me, that is if he were ever really into me and everything that happened that day was not just an act to get a rich spoiled girl in the bed with him. Ellis sees me staring at him. She knows that I have spent the night with him and that I never do that. Of course, I’ve had a one-night stand or two, but I have never spent the night, and I definitely never had breakfast with the mother.

  Perhaps, I shouldn’t have told her, but I was on such a high when I came back that I wanted to share the good news with someone and she is my oldest friend.

  “Forget about him,” she says, nudging me with her leg.

  “He doesn't deserve you.”

  “I know,” I say quietly, looking around to make sure that our guys are still at the bar getting drinks.

  “No, I don't think you do. W
ho does he think he is? I mean, he was cleaning the floors of your yacht and serving us our drinks, and he has the audacity to not call you back?”

  “I should have never pretended like I didn't know him,” I say, shaking my head. “That was really rude.”

  “But you apologized! I saw all of those pathetic texts you sent him. And he didn't even have the courtesy to text you back. Who does that?”

  “You know that what I did had nothing to do with his job, right?” I ask Ellis.

  She gives me a knowing smile.

  I worry that she suspects that I am as shallow as she is and is just waiting for me to stop pretending to be this way. But I am not.

  “He's a teacher.” I continue to explain myself. “It's not like he's just a bartender. No, that didn’t come out right. Just forget it.”

  She smiles again.

  “The only reason I ignored him is because of Connor. If Connor knew that I liked him…well, you know how he is.”

  “Whatever, they’re both assholes,” Ellis says, taking a sip of her martini and throwing her hand up in the air.

  “But you know, that may be even worse. I mean, to be a teacher you need to have a college degree and you make less than most servers and bartenders in the city.”

  I shake my head and look down at the floor.

  “Ellis, there is more to life than money,” I say quietly.

  She leans over to me and puts her lips right next to my ear. Then she whispers, “Honey, that’s a lie that rich people tell everyone to keep them working so hard for so little.”

  Feeling completely disgusted by someone I thought was my friend, I extricate myself from her and head to the bathroom. I want some privacy, but this isn’t the place for it. There is a line of about ten women all waiting for the same dirty, dingy bathroom with used toilet paper all over the floor.

  I step outside and head around the corner. I press my back against the wall and take three deep breaths.

  “What the hell am I doing here?” I ask. “What the hell am I doing with any of these people?”