by Bella Forro
“This isn’t a date,” I whispered, even though I was sure he could hear the careening sound of my heart in my chest. Even though I was certain he could feel the way I was leaning in toward him. “There’s no sex.”
I couldn’t tell if I was saying it for my benefit or for his.
“It’s not a date. There’s no sex.” He shot me a wink, managing to look rakish and sexy instead of like a businessman. “Just rehearsing for tomorrow, making sure we have all of the kinks ironed out.”
He drew his thumb across my cheek and stepped away from me, and I felt suddenly bereft at the loss.
With a gesture of goodbye he stepped away from me and backed toward the car.
“Sleep well, Victoria. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said as he disappeared into the car.
I stepped into my building and watched him pull away from the curb, and waited to catch my breath.
Sleeping was the very last thing I had on my mind.
Chapter 7
Victoria
I’d like to say I stepped through those doors after our non-date and moved on easily with my life; like that whole dinner with Mark hadn’t even been a blip on my radar. Something that hadn’t even been worth mentioning.
I’d like to say that; but I honestly couldn’t.
I’d brushed by Cassie, my roommate, with barely more than a word in greeting, promising I’d give her the full low down in the morning because I was tired and had to brush up on my facts.
But neither one of those things was really true.
If I was tired, my fatigue was sliced through with an edge of anxiety, of restlessness. And I knew enough about Mark to know I wasn’t going to need any help pretending we were a couple.
I was almost dreading our brunch the following morning, because I knew we weren’t going to be able to temper anything. We were supposed to be looking adoringly at one another, tipping our heads in toward one another, touching each other in a way that made it look like it was genuine — like it was something we not only enjoyed doing, but was something we did every day.
I’d felt guilty about lying to Cassie, of course. After all, we’d been friends since college, and she was one of the only reasons I could afford to stay in New York and do what I did. Without her as a roommate I’d never be able to swing an apartment outside of Harlem.
I mean, not that we were living it up in Chelsea. But we had managed to score a sweet apartment in a safe and mostly convenient area, so even if we didn’t elicit zip code envy from others, we’d been pretty happy there.
I’d hoped I might get some quality sleep and be well rested for the morning. But even after I’d pulled on my pajamas and crawled into bed, turned out the light and forced myself under the sheets, I was replaying everything that had happened at dinner.
It was like watching a movie I’d seen dozens of times. I knew what was coming but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I would notice something new in the way he’d said something, in the way I’d responded. Give a gesture a sudden new importance.
All of it had me thinking about what the morning would be like, and how I was going to tell Cassie any of what had happened without tripping all over myself and second guessing my own goals.
When the alarm went off, I woke feeling excited. Excited and tired.
Which meant I was in trouble. Because people who were just on business ventures didn’t wake up excited for the kind of meeting I was going to. They weren’t thinking about what they should wear and how they should do their hair.
And I was. I didn’t want to mess any of this up. I didn’t want to ruin things for Mark with his father. I didn’t want to be responsible for any financial loss he might have.
And I didn’t want to ruin things with Mark. Because I was suddenly thinking I might like to see where all of this could go.
Suddenly this brunch carried a lot more stress than it had when I’d first agreed to it.
My shower was hot, but short, and I was toweling my hair off and pulling out my blow dryer before very much time had passed at all.
I would have just enough time to put on my makeup and slip into my clothes. And, if I was lucky, time enough to snag a coffee.
Over dinner, Mark had suggested I wear something subtle and understated, which suited me just fine. That pretty much described most of what I had in my closet.
I pulled a navy blue sheath dress with a sweetheart neck line out of my closet, along with a cream colored cardigan. A pair of sapphire earrings and a thin gold chain around my neck; I felt like I looked the part of a billionaire-worthy brunch date.
Not that I had extensive experience in the area, but it seemed plausible enough.
I brushed on taupe and mauve eye shadow, lined my eyes carefully in a pencil called nutmeg, and swept on mascara, carefully curling my eyelashes and adding blush.
And I’d be damned if in the end, a bonafide socialite wasn’t looking back in the mirror at me.
I pulled my hair back into a coiffed top knot and felt like a modern day Jackie O. This I could do.
I’d managed to miss Cassie. She’d said something about going for an early morning jog through Central Park and then breakfast with her boyfriend.
I breathed a sigh of relief over that one. I wasn’t going to be able to avoid her forever, but at least I had been given this little reprieve. Maybe the extra time would give me some time to get myself in order and figure out exactly what was happening.
Not that anything should be happening. I checked the clock and steeled myself against…myself. I was going to have to get my act together. Whatever I thought I felt for Mark wasn’t anything more than a reminder that I was in desperate need of a real date. It wasn’t an indication that I felt anything more for him. I was going to remind myself of that fact until I started to believe it myself.
My intercom chimed and I smoothed the front of my dress, pressed the button, and said, “Hello?”
“Ms. Victoria. This is Will, Mr. Pierce’s driver. We’re downstairs whenever you’re ready to join us.”
“Great, I’ll be right down.”
I took my finger off the button, slipped into a pair of kitten heels and reached for my purse. Ready or not, it was time to get the show on the road.
Will pulled the door open for me, and I was sliding into the back seat of the black Mercedes.
Next to Mark.
Without my permission, I felt my heart speed up.
But this was not the same Mark I’d had that carefree and flirtatious dinner with just twelve hours earlier. His face was grim, his eyes strained.
He looked like he was going into battle.
The kind of battle you couldn’t prepare enough for and weren’t sure what the outcome might be.
In fact, he looked a lot like some clips I’d seen of him from that disastrous night at the Belvedere House Charity event. Where he’d ended his engagement in a very raw and very public way.
I swallowed hard. That certainly didn’t bode well for what we had coming up.
“Morning,” I murmured, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself, not wanting to interrupt whatever he was thinking about.
Hi voice was terse, right to the point. “Morning. Listen, Victoria. I know we were planning on meeting at The Trattoria on the East Side, but my father called this morning and said it would work better for him if we met him at the house. I think maybe he wasn’t feeling up to going out.”
I couldn’t tell if that was angst or anger hiding behind his words.
“I’m sure that will be just fine,” I said, reaching out to put my hand on his knee before I could stop myself, before I could remind myself that I wasn’t going to fall for his charm — again.
“You might want to wait and see what’s waiting for us before you go and decide that,” he snapped.
His short temper brought with it a sense of relief — it looked like I wouldn’t need to be as worried about that charm as I had thought. He didn’t seem to have an ounce of it to spare for me.
We rode in silence the rest of the way, Mark focusing on however he thought the morning was going to go, and me wondering what I could say and do to most effectively be the girlfriend Mark needed me to be without doing him any additional favors.
And without getting caught up in the act.
I thought we were pulling into a development, at first. We’d pulled out of Manhattan and onto the Long Island Expressway and I knew we were in a ritzy neighborhood.
I just didn’t realize it wasn’t a neighborhood at all, but a single, oversized estate complete with ostentatious wrought iron fence and a motorized, manned gate.
The grounds were beautiful and meticulously maintained. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Everything about the Pierce’s was meticulously maintained. Their hair. Their clothing. Their image. Their business. What was one massive mansion to add to that list?
Will pulled to a stop in the circular drive, stepping out to pull open my door and to offer me his hand. I took it and allowed him help me step out of the car, where I tugged my dress into place and brushed out whatever wrinkles I’d given myself while sitting.
I told myself I wasn’t going to be intimidated by the house, but the facade was breathtakingly beautiful, the window wood work beautiful, the stone front gorgeous — the perfect mix of fresh and classic Hamptons style.
I thought disparagingly of my own little apartment — nothing to write home about at all. And how Mark hadn’t had a single thing to say about where I lived. Thank God I hadn’t invited him up. Even though I had wanted to. Desperately wanted to.
Note to self: the next time I find myself in a position where I can’t say no to Mark, make sure it’s close to his home and not mine.
God, Mark’s probably never even had a roommate.
Mark had stepped out of the car as well, and as a unit we moved toward the entrance, the gorgeous mahogany double doors arched, punctuated with iron hardware.
Just before we would have knocked, the doors swept open, two young men in matching uniforms pushing them open for us to step into the incredible foyer.
The room was circular, the ceiling so tall I had to crane my head back to have any hopes at all of seeing the round skylight that had sunlight spilling in. Directly below, in the center of the room, was an oversized round table sporting a beautiful arrangement of fresh flowers, the red and gold colors playing off the veins running through the marble floor. Beyond that a double set of staircases spilled out, wrapping toward one another as they arched around the room.
It was breathtaking. And I knew, one hundred percent beyond a doubt, that I was out of my league. I now understood why Mark was angry, because the sudden shift in locations was nothing if not a power play.
I couldn’t say why, but I reached forward and slipped my hand into his, not sure why or what I was even trying to say in doing it. He seemed surprised, and at least distracted from what was in front of us long enough to tip his head toward me, so I could see the length of his eyelashes and the flash of that heat in his eyes I had seen the night before.
I wasn’t sure if I squeezed his hand first or if he squeezed mine, but regardless of who initiated it, it happened. And just like that I was wrapped up in him again.
My hand was in his, and I was looking intently at his face when I heard his father clear his throat from above us.
I dropped Mark’s hand, couldn’t help the way his father’s appearance had me feeling guilty about the whole thing.
His father was poised at the top of one of the stairs, his back straight and stiff, looking down on the two of us like we were his personal playthings, and not his guests for breakfast.
“Well, hello, Mark,” he said, barely registering that he’d noticed me and giving nothing but the slightest inclination of his head in my direction. “I see you were able to produce some sort of date for today’s gathering.’
Mark’s laugh was sharp, and hollow, and in the same instant that I wanted to move toward him, I also wanted to move away from him.
He hadn’t moved. Like his father, his body was hard, unflinching.
And there I was, caught between them, feeling like a deer in the headlights with nowhere to go and nothing to look forward to.
Chapter 8
Mark
“Dad, always a joy to see you,” I said, even though I could already feel that familiar tightening, the unhappiness that came with being near him, seeping through me.
It was always like this when I was with him — like he still hadn’t forgiven me for coming into existence. Like there was nothing on earth I could ever do to win his favor.
And I’d given it a pretty good shot, and had some pretty amazing successes; if I hadn’t managed to do it yet, I didn’t think it was actually possible. And I certainly wasn’t going to waste my time trying to please him beyond what I had to do.
“I wish I could say the same,” he murmured, the same way he might tell me the main course of our meal was overcooked.
Obviously, bringing Victoria with me was not what he’d had in mind. Apparently, he still thought Amy might be making a comeback in my love life.
It didn’t matter how many times or how many different ways I told him that wasn’t happening — he didn’t seem able to let that hope go.
“And you,’ he said, turning to Victoria, “my dear, how nice to finally get to meet the woman my son has been hiding for so long.” He reached out a hand for hers, giving it the slightest squeeze. I’d told him all about Victoria.
Well, everything I’d wanted him to know. How we had met, how we had begun our relationship in the office, how it had grown to be so much more than I’d anticipated.
I’d been sure to throw in there that she was the perfect kind of partner for me — business minded and capable. Not to mention beautiful. That she would be an asset to me in so many more ways than Amy could ever have hoped to have been.
He was openly assessing her, weighing whether or not he thought what I had told him was the truth.
I could see it happening; I had learned at least a few things over the last decade or so of doing business with him.
Victoria smiled, radiating confidence and sweetness, and I felt another tug of longing for her I knew I shouldn’t have at all.
And I’d been fighting those tugs since before I’d even been acknowledging them, denying they even existed.
In the beginning, I had told myself she was pretty enough to function as my girlfriend, smart enough to look good on paper. I had told myself she was all of those things; but that I wasn’t attracted to her. And then the dinner, that had been like torture, having to obey all the parameters she had set up.
And that moment on her stoop.
I’d replayed it a hundred times, imagined the different ways it could have ended.
And now I was here with her. Pretending I hadn’t imagined exactly what her bedroom looked like or what she was wearing underneath these subtle sheath dresses her closet seemed to be full of.
I pulled myself away from those thoughts I knew I shouldn’t be having and made myself focus on what Victoria was saying to my father. Something about how excited she was to have brunch with us and how happy she was to be included.
Then she was turning those big blue eyes toward me, and I felt another surge of desire.
It was going to be a long brunch, and a really long year.
“Come now,” my father was saying stepping away from us and toward the formal dining room.
He was taking the long way to the back patio, and I knew it was so Victoria could get an eyeful of everything he had, so she could see his wealth and prestige laid out in front of her, a reminder that she would always be competing with people like him.
The view from the double french doors didn’t hurt either. We stepped out onto the stone patio and toward the wrought iron furniture — painted white, of course — with red and white striped seat cushions. The epitome of Long Island back yard panache.
I pulled out a chair for Victoria, catching her elbo
w in my hand, the little jolt of electricity passing between us reminding me of exactly why I shouldn’t.
“You’re doing wonderfully,” I murmured in her ear, trying not to focus on the sweet and gentle scent of flowers that clung to her.
She gave the smallest tip of her head to acknowledge that she had heard me, but she was looking out over the vast back grounds.
The lawn tumbling down and away from the house, green and lush, dotted with the occasional flower bed made to look natural, until the lawn ended in a sparse copse of trees, and on the other side, the bay, catching the light and sparkling, as far as the eye could see.
The place I had called home for so many years.
And it still felt stiff and alien. A place I would never want to call home again. Hard and cold and unfeeling.
I pulled my eyes away from all of that and let them rest on Victoria again, who was somehow the antidote. She was soft and real and genuine.
And there were so many reasons I shouldn’t be looking at her. So many good ones.
I settled into the chair across from her. The table had already been set for us, the first portion of the meal tucked away in covered plates, glasses filled to the brim with ice water, the outsides slick with beaded condensation.
“So,” my father was saying. “Tell me about the last venture you worked on with Mark. I’m surprised he didn’t mention it to me.”
Unlikely. I mentioned little to my father about what I did in my free time. More likely, was that he thought telling her I hadn’t spoken to him about her might somehow shake her confidence.
But, of course, as this was an arrangement and there were no actual feelings to protect, she barely batted an eye and launched into the mundane details about the marketing changes she’d implemented.
I could tell she’d be happy to do it all day long. And if the look on my father’s face was any indication, he would be just as happy to listen to her talk about it. Business. His one true love.
“Marketing, hmm? Never had any aspirations to do anything more than that?” he asked when she came to a pause in her explanation and I passed her the freshly baked bread.
