The Calamity Falls Box Set

by Erika Kelly

  “New Zealand.”

  “I thought…okay. You got it.” But she didn’t hang up. “You okay?”

  “Let’s just say I’m a slow learner. But I think I’ve figured it out, so yeah, I’m just fine.”

  He’d walked away seven years ago for this exact reason. Because it would never change. Their little trio was set in stone—Robert in his addiction to drugs, Knox in her addiction to making him well, and Gray in his obsession with winning Knox’s whole heart.

  It was time. He could hear the snip in his chest, severing the string that kept him tied to her. He was done.

  Fin would get exactly what he wanted.

  Gray’s full and total focus on winning.

  At least Knox’s childhood had prepared her for this moment, when the bridal world referred to her as the white trash wedding gown designer. It didn’t mean she’d built up an immunity to it—of course not—it still hurt in ways that knocked the breath right out of her lungs—but at least it wasn’t so unfamiliar that she’d go off running to lick her wounds.

  Quite the contrary. It was more her nature to come back swinging. Which was how she felt right then, as Jack Abrams and his people watched her models strut down the same path they’d walked only yesterday, when Robert and Gray had crashed her show.

  Because, in the end, she knew what mattered. Her dresses were glorious. They were light and airy rooms with all the windows thrown open and gauze drapes fluttering in a breeze. They were fields of sweetly scented wildflowers and bathtubs billowing with iridescent bubbles. Her gowns were lush and feminine and sensual. They made women feel beautiful, sexy, and powerful.

  In other words, the haters could go fuck themselves.

  The people who got their power from making others feel small? She’d stuff them in the box, along with Cady and Melissa and the other idiots from her childhood.

  So, yeah, a new, hateful moniker she could handle.

  Losing Gray, though? Nothing could have prepared her for this kind of crushing pain.

  She hadn’t heard from him once since he’d left her standing in the ruins of her show. Robert had gone back to the hotel to clean up, and she and the gallery owner had slapped on smiles and continued with the program. Some of the guests had left, but so what? People in the arts loved drama.

  But any joy she should be experiencing had gone flat as the champagne left in uncorked bottles.

  Because she’d lost Gray.

  “Oh, I like that one.” Jack Abrams wore a skinny plaid suit. The lime green set against light brown and dark green actually looked really good. “Magnificent.” He pulled the cap off his Montblanc pen and twisted around in his chair to find her. “What do you call that one?”

  She moved closer to him. “That’s Le Danseur.”

  He scribbled it down in his notebook. Then, getting up, he walked away from his people and led her to a corner. “I’m going to tell you something. The press did some digging.”

  “Okay.” Her muscles clenched, body going into battle mode.

  “They know you grew up in a trailer and what the kids used to call you.”

  Cady’s voice rang through her body. Junkyard dog.

  “It’s given steam to the whole white trash designer thing. God knows why people get off on other people’s misfortune.” He shook his head dismissively. “It is what it is. But none of that matters because I love your gowns.”

  Oh, my God. Is he going to offer me a contract? Gray, get back here. You need to hear this.

  “You’re the freshest voice I’ve seen since Hayley Page, and I mean that sincerely.” He cupped his hand toward his people and flicked it. Let’s go. They all got up and headed out the door. Jack reached for her hand and gave it a firm shake. “Stay the course.”

  “Oh, you can count on it.” She walked him to the door. “Thank you so much for coming.” But he was already ducking into the town car waiting for him at the curb.

  Without offering her a contract. Why would he want to be associated with the white trash wedding gown designer? Who would want to back her now?

  Oh, God. She might lose the MacAllister sisters. They wanted gowns from a hot up-and-coming designer. Not one who was ridiculed during fashion week.

  Then, so be it. She had no control over the decisions people made.

  This will all blow over. She’d get the custom gowns done, do the pop-up. She’d be fine. This moment would pass. She was young, and she’d only get better. One day, she’d get that contract.

  This I’ll recover from.

  But she would never get over losing Gray. Because she finally understood he was more than a great man, a good friend, and the best business partner imaginable. All of those things she could replace. What she couldn’t replace was her soulmate. And Gray Bowie…he owned her, heart and soul.

  When she turned back around, she found the gallery staff picking up the champagne flutes and little party plates from the hors d’oeuvres they’d served. Her phone vibrated, and she pulled it out.

  Callie. She answered right away. “Hey.”

  “I just heard,” Callie said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Oh. Well, that’s mortifying. “What did you hear, exactly?”

  “About the show. My idiot future brother-in-law and his idiot friend.”

  “It’s okay. I just had an appointment with Jack Abrams, and he really liked my work—”

  “Knox. I’m not talking about your career. I’m talking about Gray and Robert.”

  She heard a muffled sound, and then Delilah came on the line. “Knox? Robert’s an asshole for lying to you like that.”

  She closed her eyes, as her fatal mistake spread through her like red wine on a white tablecloth.

  Gray hadn’t randomly attacked Robert. Of course he hadn’t.

  And yet…she’d jumped to that conclusion.

  “What did he lie to me about?” Her voice sounded like it came from inside a tin can.

  “You don’t know?”

  No, because I never asked. I jumped to conclusions. “Please just tell me.” The anticipation made it hard to breathe. She was still pissed at Robert for getting into it with Gray, so she’d barely spoken to him since the show, but she hadn’t cast him out. No, she’d done that to Gray.

  “The whole reason Gray flew to New York was because he ran into Mrs. Granger. Knox, she didn’t know anything about Robert putting a show together for you. He doesn’t have an arrangement with Granger’s.”

  Once, on a late spring day, they’d hiked to the summit in T-shirts and shorts. It had been twenty degrees up there, and the icy cold on her bare skin had burned. That’s what she felt like right then, finding out that Robert had deceived her. That he’d lied about something so critical to her. “I didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t Gray tell you?”

  She hadn’t let him. An image flashed in her mind, of her crouching beside Robert, looking up accusingly at Gray. “What have I done?”

  “You didn’t do anything. You have no fault in any of this.”

  Callie came back on the line. “Robert’s in all kinds of trouble with his family, though. They don’t appreciate him using their company name like that.”

  “Then who backed him? Where did he get all those connections?” How had he pulled this off?

  “No idea. You haven’t talked to Gray about it?”

  The owner swept into the gallery, her hair tossed about by the autumn breeze. She flashed a grin, immediately glancing up at the monitors placed around the room, where another fashion show livestreamed. “Isn’t that your former boss?”

  Knox glanced up. A reporter held out a microphone to Luc, and he spoke in his animated way.

  God, he must be so happy to be free of her. Being associated with the white trash designer would be the worst thing in the world for him.

  “That must be why he’s not feeling well,” Callie said. “Fin says he’s lost his focus.”

  “He can get hurt if he’s not focused.” Oh, my God. What had she done? “He has to
get his head on right.”

  “Hey, slow down. Fin’s got this. You know he wouldn’t let anything happen to his brother.”

  “This is my fault. I blamed him for the fight. I thought he was being competitive with Robert over me.”

  “Oh, honey, no. Gray caught him in the alley buying drugs from some guy.”

  Her heart lurched. Her stomach roiled. “I didn’t…” She was going to say she hadn’t known, but what she really meant was that she hadn’t bothered to ask.

  On the screen, the camera panned Luc’s body, taking in his pink Tattersall dress shirt and silver metallic sateen pants, a black leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Fin says you guys aren’t talking,” Callie said. “Look, I’ve known Gray most of my life, and I’ve never seen him as happy as he is with you. Just…maybe talk to him. Whatever it was you were building together, it deserves a conversation.”

  “I will.” Peeking out of the messenger bag was a notebook. “Listen, I have to go.”

  “Sure. But we’re here if you need to talk.”

  “Thanks, Callie.” She pocketed the phone and moved closer to the monitor.

  “I’m most excited about my next collection,” Luc said. “It’s some of the best work I’ve ever done.” Absently, he hugged his messenger bag closer to him. “In fact, I’ve already sold one of the gowns to Princess Rosalina. She happened to be in my studio as we were working on the spring collection and saw it.” Gesturing with both hands exposed more of the bag, enabling Knox to catch a clearer look at the notebook. It was the gold trim that confirmed what she already knew. A cold fluid seeped into her bloodstream.

  Her missing sketchbook.

  How had he gotten it?

  “Did you want us to set up for your next appointment?” the gallery owner asked.

  “That would be great. Listen, I have a quick meeting uptown. I’ll be back in plenty of time to get the models ready.” She pushed out the doors into a brisk October afternoon. The rush of traffic, the flow of pedestrians, only compounded her anxiety.

  Luc had stolen from her again.

  But how?

  She hailed a cab, got inside, and said, “Lincoln Center.”

  By the time the cab pulled up to the curb, Knox had contacted Zach and asked him to speak with Duck Dive’s attorney. She’d also explained the situation to Amelia, who’d vowed to do whatever Knox needed to help her nail Luc to the wall.

  She had a team. And it felt damn good not to be alone in this.

  But it didn’t diffuse the anger. Not one little bit. In fact, every step up the Lincoln Center’s staircase and across the wide travertine promenade, around the fountain, and through the glass doors, only ramped it up.

  When she pulled open the door to the venue, she found it mostly empty.

  Seriously, big let-down. She’d been prepared to call him out publicly, had imagined snatching the sketchbook out of the bag and waving it in his face.

  Instead, she found a few clusters of people talking and staff cleaning up and folding chairs. She called out to the nearest group, “Excuse me? Do you know where Luc is?”

  “Knox?”

  She whipped around to find him entering the room with a to-go cup of coffee. It was on. She stormed over to him. “How the hell did you get my sketchbook?”

  Like the moment before a crack of thunder, the energy in the room crackled. A screech of chair legs lingered in the startling silence.

  “What, do you have magic fingers that can steal all the way from Paris? Did you plant spies in the bunkhouse?”

  He pulled her sketchbook out of his messenger bag. “You’re talking about this?”

  His tone, so casual, so open, had a few people sneering at her.

  “Come. We’ll talk.” He led her up the stairs, across the dusty stage, and behind a thick velvet curtain.

  “You stole my sketchbook again, and this time you can’t claim ownership because I. Do. Not. Work. For. You.”

  “I didn’t steal.” He was eerily calm and unaffected. “We made an exchange.”

  “And when did this exchange happen? While I was sleeping? When your thief crept in and tucked it into his luggage?”

  Now, his chin tipped up. “I have never stolen from you. I used the designs you created while under contract with me. It is standard operating procedure for any fashion house to own anything its designers create.”

  “That sketchbook was my private one. You had no right to it.”

  “It falls under the category of trade secrets. You would not have designed those dresses had it not been for my tutelage, the exposure to my designs, my fabrics…the environment of my studio.”

  He would never understand that taking a book off a coffee table in her apartment did not fall under the category of Intellectual Property. “I don’t work for you, Luc. There is no contract.” She waved the notebook. “So, what the hell are you doing with this?”

  “But we do have a contract. I entered into a verbal one with your business partner.”

  My partner? He couldn’t be talking about Gray. Gray would never…

  Robert? It all became clear. He would do anything to start his career—even steal from his ex-girlfriend. And, she’d bet, in Robert’s twisted logic, he believed he was doing a great thing for her, delivering her dream on a silver platter. The price? A simple sketchbook.

  “He contacted me,” Luc said. “Asking how he could get you back into fashion week. We agreed on a trade. In exchange for your show…” He tapped the notebook. “I got this.”

  “Well, he lied to both of us. He didn’t have my permission to take that notebook.”

  “You really did not know? This is not some game you’re playing because your show went so disastrously?”

  Briefly, she closed her eyes. Thanks for the brutal reminder. “I didn’t know.” She leveled her gaze at him. “So, you can tell your princess, if she wants one of my dresses, she’ll have to contact me. Because these are my designs. I had no knowledge of whatever deal Robert brokered with you.” She’d had her mic drop moment. Go. But a strange resistance kept her rooted.

  “This is unfortunate,” Luc said. “We have both been deceived.”

  The anger subsided, the fog cleared, leaving nothing but the truth. “You know, I wasn’t that little girl who longed for a daddy. I didn’t stand on stage during recitals and look out at all the men in the auditorium wishing one of them was watching me with an adoring smile. I didn’t feel anything at all about not having a dad, until you came into my life and acted like one.”

  His forehead creased in concern.

  “Do you remember that day I called you, frantic, because I’d gotten lost on the subway? You’d sent me out on all these errands—buttons from Madame Michelle and crystals from Swarovski’s—and I’d missed my stop and wound up in a really dangerous banlieue.”

  “I remember.”

  “You told me to stay put, your driver would come for me.” She gave a bitter laugh. “If you’d just given me the right Metro directions, I’d have been grateful, but sending your driver? That was really sweet. But when I saw you get out of the car? Knowing you’d taken time out of your day to pick me up and make sure I was safe? That…it made me feel like I mattered. Not that my talent mattered, but that I did.”

  She searched his gaze for something—anything—and found a hint of remorse. But it wasn’t enough. “Maybe you didn’t mean to, but it felt like something a dad would do. I trusted you, Luc. And all you wanted was my sketchbook. If you’ve lost your creative fire, then bow out gracefully. Don’t become the guy that has to steal someone else’s talent to stay relevant.” She lifted the notebook again. “Well, I guess it’s too late for that.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Phone pressed to her ear, Knox rolled onto her side, reaching for a tissue to dab her nose.

  Finally, he picked up. “Hey.” His voice, all deep and rumbly, made her spirits soar.

  She was desperate to talk to him. “Gray—”


  “It’s Gray. Leave a message.”

  Dammit. She quickly blew her nose and sat up. “Hi. It’s me again. I wish you’d talk to me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for jumping to the wrong conclusion. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you what was going on. I’m just so damn sorry.”

  How did she get through to him? “I know you think it was about believing Robert over you, but the truth is…” Shame, fear, regret swamped her, suffocating her. “The truth is that it was about hearing them call me white trash. It’s so stupid.” Fresh, hot tears streamed down her face. Stop with the excuses. Just tell him how you feel. “You’re…you’re everything to me, Gray. I miss you. I can’t stand it. I just can’t…” One beat passed, two, three. Say something or hang up. “I don’t want us to end.” Oh, come on. That’s the best you can do? “Call me. Please.”

  How did she make this right?

  He’d called her his heart. He couldn’t just dump his heart like this, could he?

  A knock startled her. Gray? She threw off the covers and dashed to the door. That would be just like him to fly out here and talk to her in person. “Just a minute.” Stupid. Of course it’s not him. He’s in New Zealand.

  Peering through the peep hole, she found the distorted image of a room service waiter. “Oh. Hang on.” Releasing the lock, she opened the door and stepped back to let him wheel in the cart. “I don’t think you’ve got the right room. I didn’t order anything.”

  The guy pulled the receipt out from under a plate. “Knox Holliday, room 1262?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Enjoy your treat.” He started to go.

  “Don’t I have to sign anything?”

  “Nope. It’s all been taken care of. Including the tip.”

  “Oh, well, thank you so much.” She caught her image in the mirror behind the coffee station. No wonder he’d raced out of there. Messy hair, streaks of mascara…she looked like a woman on the edge.

  On the linen-draped cart, she found a silver tea pot, white porcelain cup and saucer, a folded white napkin with a knife, fork, and spoon tucked inside, a plate, and a three-tiered cake stand. Beautiful pastries filled each level. Flaky puff pastry oozing with whipped cream, custard-filled fruit tarts dotted with glazed strawberries and blueberries, pastel-colored macarons, slim cannolis, and chocolate chip-studded biscotti.