“I changed my mind,” she said with a sweet smile. “I think it’s time for bed. I’m so tired.”
I had on basketball shorts and nothing else and I ditched those in two seconds. “If you’re tired, then yes, we should definitely go to bed.”
“Can we cuddle?”
“Oh, fuck yeah, we cuddle. I’ll cuddle you in a way you’ve never been cuddled before.”
The corner of her mouth turned up in a sly, seductive smile. “Why, Grant, you sweet talker you.”
I realized, as I climbed on the bed, I had no idea what Leah was actually thinking.
All I knew was that I was thinking she looked damn good in my bed and I never wanted her to leave.
Chapter 10
I didn’t sleep at all. Or very little, anyway. I stared at my ceiling and I stared at Leah and I stared out the damn window wondering what the hell was going on with my feelings and wondering what the hell I was supposed to do about it.
Leah was sleeping peacefully, her dark hair spilling over the white of the pillowcase. I’d never had a woman spend the night here. If I stayed with a hookup, it was always at her place. I didn’t like women in my private space, my sanctuary. Yet Leah had invaded my apartment with her teasing and her laughter and her soft moans. I didn’t mind. I liked it. She made the space feel alive in a way it hadn’t before.
I was lying there debating how to climb out of bed without waking her up when my phone buzzed. The sneakers I’d ordered for Leah the night before were downstairs at the front desk. We could grab them on our way out.
My phone woke Leah up. She sighed and rolled over toward me, resting her hand on my chest. Her eyes were still closed. “What time is it?” she murmured.
“It’s early. You can keep sleeping.” I ran my hand over her back, wondering what it would feel like to wake up next to Leah on a regular basis.
Something monumental had happened. There was no denying it and my intentions had shifted.
I was weighing the pros and cons of a relationship in my mind. I was negotiating with myself like it was a damn business deal. Return on investment. Risk factors. Initial start-up costs. I wanted a numerical calculation to tell me if it would be a solid venture or not but surprise. Relationships don’t fucking work like that. There was no formula that would give me the potential success rate of dating Leah.
I rubbed my hand over my beard and decided I was an asshole.
“Are you awkward about morning breath or am I allowed to kiss you?” Leah asked.
She had pried her eyes open and was giving me a sleepy smile. What man on the planet would turn down a kiss from a face that freaking adorable? I didn’t answer, just cupped her cheek and pressed my lips to hers.
“Mm. That’s nice,” she said. “Beach or mountains?”
“Beach.” I didn’t even need to ask what she meant. She was continuing twenty questions. “You?”
“Beach. Would you rather go to outer space or down into the depths of the ocean?”
“Good one. Huh. The ocean.”
“Outer space.”
“What were you doing a year ago today?”
“Specifically, today? As in this date or this particular Friday in October?”
“Either one.”
“I don’t remember exactly. But working on a project in SoHo. Redevelopment of retail space to condos. What were you doing?”
She laughed. “Not this. I was working and I had an audition for a Broadway show right around this time. I didn’t get the part.”
“What will you be doing next year at this time?” I asked.
Leah wrinkled her nose. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
Because we’d both probably be doing the same thing. Exactly what we’d been doing last year and should be doing this year if it wasn’t for my parents’ party.
Unless I opened my mouth and made something different happen.
But before I could think of what, if anything, I wanted to say, Leah climbed out of bed. “I need coffee.”
I wasn’t ready to change her mind.
And I didn’t think she was ready to hear it.
For now, we were still faking it.
“This is Sagaponack,” Grant said as we drove through a quaint little town of restaurants and shops.
There was lots of clapboard and cedar shingles. It didn’t look outrageously wealthy, just very New England and for sure upscale, but not the flash of the West Coast.
“It’s very cute. Did you spend a lot of time here?” I was glad he’d chosen to drive us personally instead of having his driver, though the interior of his sports car was like nothing I’d ever seen. There was no propping my feet on this dash in this luxury machine. It had been a calm drive, with easy conversation between us. It was always easy to talk to Grant.
“In the summers, yes.”
As Grant drove through the town and out onto a road, the water appeared, along with massive houses sprawling behind manicured lawns and seafront grasses. “Wow. Okay, these are mansions,” I said.
Grant glanced over at me. “These are bungalows in Sagaponack terms.”
I was bouncing on my seat, excited. “This is like being on a movie set. It’s so perfect it doesn’t even look real.”
“The water is gorgeous, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Is your parents’ house by the water? Can we take a walk later?” I felt like a kid on vacation. I was out of the city. I hit the button so the window went down halfway. “I can smell the water, this is amazing. Fresh air. It’s real.” If anyone tries to tell you New York doesn’t frequently smell like garbage and old fish, they’re lying. Or they don’t work on the block I do.
“The house is on the water. Trust me, my mother will tell you the house is shit. That she wants to tear it down and rebuild but they can’t get the proper permits, and she only bought the house from her parents for the view. The truth is there is nothing wrong with the house, it’s just not what she wants, but she actually prefers complaining to remodeling.”
“Good information to have. So I should talk about how dated it is?” I gave him a grin.
“Oh my God, please don’t.” Then Grant tilted his head a little. “Actually, that might be funny. No, never mind. I don’t want you to be intimidated by my mother but I don’t want you to be outright rude either. That’s her style.”
“Got it. Don’t be intimidated. Don’t be rude. Got it. I’ve auditioned in front of some of the biggest egos in New York. I honestly think I can handle it.” I did. If Grant and I were an actual couple I might be more nervous. Since we weren’t, I just had the usual pre-show jitters that were more excitement than anxiety.
“Did I mention that my family calls me Eddie?”
“Eddie?” That did not fit him at all.
He nodded. “Too many Grants. Edward is my middle name.”
“I’m not calling you Eddie.”
“I don’t expect you to. It was just a heads-up. Here it is,” Grant said, pulling into a lane that led to an enormous Cape Cod. “Prepare to earn your paycheck.”
Oh. Right. The money. For being a fake girlfriend.
Because this wasn’t real. We weren’t even actually friends. We weren’t dating, getting to know each other. I’d been reminding myself of that the entire time, but why was it jarring when Grant said it?
I knew why and I’d been wrestling with it for twenty-four hours like it was an alligator and I was knee-deep in the bayou.
It was jarring because I didn’t want it to be fake anymore. I wanted it to be real. Not kind of, but from the depths of my soul. Which was stupid, because nothing was different than before. Yes, I’d gotten to know Grant a little better and I enjoyed his company, but he was still a rich workaholic who was used to buying whatever he wanted and was resistant to a relationship. I was an optimistic financially strapped actress (though not so much anymore thanks to him, hence half the issue) who also didn’t want a relationship because I needed to focus on my career now.
And yet�
�� my insides felt like the creamy center of a truffle. Gooey.
But not only was it fake, it was a contractual agreement. That I had signed, insisting that we not have sex the entire weekend.
I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. “Let’s do this thing!” I said in an attempt to be casual and instead just sounding flippant and slightly manic. “Is there a butler? Please tell me there’s a butler.” Or was that just a British thing?
“There’s no butler. That’s only at the house in Turks & Caicos.”
“Too bad the party isn’t there.” Now that would be a killer weekend. Especially if it was just me and Grant and a personal butler. Which, of course, would not serve the purpose of him bringing a fake girlfriend to trot in front of his parents.
“We usually have Christmas there.” Grant opened his door and got out. He came around and opened my door, holding out a hand for me.
I rubbed my lips together and smoothed down my hair. “Showtime.”
“Don’t let anything throw you for a curve,” he said. “Just remember my entire family is insane.”
That made me laugh. “Got it.” I lifted up the clutch I’d found in the many boxes of accessories. I couldn’t exactly show up with a backpack on. Not in character.
I sort of expected the door to open and to walk in and find an assembly line of relatives or maybe staff, Downton Abbey style. No one opened the door. No one was inside the foyer when Grant opened it. Not one relative. Not a maid. Not even a dog.
It was monstrously disappointing.
It had the feel and echo of a museum and I was thrust back into grade school when I was excited as hell to take a field trip and get out of the classroom only to learn it was to the historical society and I was expected to be quiet and not touch things. If there are two rules I am destined to break, they are “Be quiet” and “Don’t touch.” I’d ended up in serious trouble on that field trip after Nev Patel dared me to lick the fruit wallpaper and I did.
The same thing was bound to happen here. I was going to break the rules at some point and lick something. Or at least say something I shouldn’t.
“Don’t let my mother steamroll you,” Grant said in a low voice as he ushered me in, our footsteps ringing on the marble floor.
His demeanor had changed the second he’d crossed the threshold. He was agitated instead of relaxed. Frowning instead of that easy smile I had gotten used to seeing.
“Grant.” I touched his arm. “Relax. It’s going to be okay. We might even have fun.”
He eyed me. “Oh, you are an optimist, Leah. Let’s see how you feel on Sunday.”
“I’m feeling good about everything.” I put my arm through his. “What happens now? Do we ring a bell or yell ‘shout at the devil’ or something?”
“No bell ringing necessary,” a man’s voice said from above us.
I looked up and saw a man in his sixties coming down the prominent staircase. It was clearly Grant’s father. I could see the resemblance. In front of him was a very thin and very tall woman. She moved easily down the stairs, like she was used to being the center of attention.
“You must be the infamous Leah,” she said as she hit the marble floor at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m Grant’s mother.”
If I had been expecting a hug, there wasn’t one in sight. I tried to imagine how that lack of affection would feel if I really was Grant’s girlfriend. Not good. She didn’t put her hand out either, or offer her first name. Apparently, I was supposed to refer to her as “Grant’s mother.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said.
Her response? “Uh-huh.” She presented her cheek to Grant for a kiss and he obliged.
“Mother.” He turned to me. “You can call my mother Tiffany, by the way. I think she forgot to mention that.”
His father did offer his hand to me. “Welcome, Leah. We’re happy to meet you. This guy has been hiding you for far too long.”
“Thank you. I’m happy to be here and congratulations, by the way. Thirty-five years of marriage is amazing.”
For whatever reason his mother made a sniffing sound. I had no idea what was so offensive about what I’d said. I was just going to smile my way through this.
“Thank you. It’s been quite a ride, right, Tiff? You can call me Grant,” his father said.
Yeah, that felt weird. It was not going to happen. Considering how often I had said that name while moaning in pleasure I could not look Grant’s father in the face and call him the same.
I just shook his hand and smiled. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Remind me again what you do for a living?” Tiffany asked.
She was wearing an outfit that was clearly designer, though I couldn’t tell you which one. It just looked expensive. She looked expensive, reminding me of a purebred Afghan hound with her long silken hair and elegant posture. I was more like a mutt mix that bounded into a room.
Also, did she really forget in a matter of a week that I was a server? Doubtful. She just wanted me to say it out loud. I knew Grant had told his parents a little bit about me.
“I’m a server,” I said. And no apology necessary. It’s a demanding job that requires a great deal of skill. Not to mention reading people. I was reading Tiffany and she was one rich bitch. Grant had all but said it and I could practically smell privilege wafting off of her like Chanel number five.
“A server? What’s that?” Grant’s father asked.
I thought maybe he was being facetious but I wasn’t sure. Grant didn’t seem to think so. “Waitress, Dad. But you know, in modern terminology.”
“Oh. Sure.” He didn’t seem to know what to say to that.
Grant’s mother did.
“A waitress? How does a waitress afford Prada?” Tiffany eyed me up and down with disdain.
This was going to go well.
Grant had said don’t let her steamroll me.
“Grant is very generous,” I said, trying to channel a Southern woman at a church brunch. I wanted to “bless your heart” his mother so much. But it was just internal inspiration. I wasn’t supposed to be Southern.
“I see. So you’re a gold digger.”
Straight to the point. I vowed not to eyeroll.
“Mom!” Grant shot his mother a glare. “Stop it.”
I gave Tiffany Caldwell an easy smile. “Of course I’m a gold digger,” I said. “Because it can’t possibly be that I’m attracted to Grant because he’s charming, intelligent, or good looking. That he’s kind and funny and is absolutely fantastic in bed. Which he is. Fantastic. I mean, my God, I’ve never had a lover like him. The money is nice too, but his enormous—”
His mother held her hand up. “You’ve made your point.”
Grant’s father let out a crack of laughter. “I think you’ve met your match, Tiff. You don’t scare Leah. Now let’s get out of the hallway and have a drink. Eddie, where’s your luggage?”
Hearing Grant referred to as Eddie was as jarring as hearing his father called Grant. The man standing next to me was not an Eddie. Edward, sure. Eddie, no.
“It’s in the car. I’ll get it later.”
“You’re staying in the north bedroom,” Tiffany said.
The frown on Grant’s face made it clear he hadn’t been expecting to be assigned the north bedroom.
The undercurrent in the room was tension. “A drink sounds fabulous,” I said.
But as we followed his parents into an expansive great room, Grant shook his head at me. “What?” I murmured.
“My dad over pours. Sip very slowly.”
It was clear Grant Caldwell the second liked his cocktails. The bar was elaborate and fully stocked. I wanted to check out the view and the house but I decided to keep an eye on my drink being poured. It was a good thing I did. My lemon drop was a quarter of a bottle of vodka with one begrudging little splash of simple syrup and a lemon wedge.
We sat down on plush sofas that faced the view of the water. I took a tentative sip of my drink and fel
t my insides burn with pure alcohol.
“Where’s Gigi and Grandpa?” Grant asked his mother.
“They’re napping before dinner.”
“Oh, okay. What are the dinner plans?”
“I thought we’d go to town since tomorrow is the party. I refuse to lift a finger today.”
Somehow, I doubted Tiffany Caldwell lifted a finger any day unless it was to one-click a purchase on her phone.
“Your house is lovely. What an amazing view.”
Tiffany waved her hand. “Oh, God, this house is horrible. I’ve been telling my husband for years we need to renovate. But all these rules and permits and regulations. I can’t deal with it.”
Just like Grant had said.
“At least the location is fantastic,” I said cheerfully, determined to play “girlfriend trying to impress her boyfriend’s mother.”
No joke, his mother muttered, “Whatever. Of course, you would think so.”
Like she was twelve.
That was so not necessary. Not to mention bitchy and childish.
It made me more determined than ever to kill Tiffany with kindness.
Especially given that Grant looked pissed. He actually reached over and took my hand into his and gave it a squeeze. His nostrils were flaring and he looked like he was fighting the urge to say something. I squeezed back to reassure him.
Why did I care if his mom was being ridiculous? I really didn’t.
Grant’s father had already drained about half of his cocktail, which was astonishing. I swear, I hadn’t even seen him lift the glass more than once, so did he take all of that down with one sip? The very thought made my insides want to burst into flames. But the man probably needed to drink to cope with Tiffany. He was way more chill than his wife.
I decided to make him an ally.
“So how did you and Tiffany meet?” I asked him with a big smile.
Grant shifted on the sofa next to me and cleared his throat.
His father chuckled. His mother gave me a death stare.
“At a party here at this house, actually. Tiffany’s parents owned it then and I had some friends who knew Tiff. We showed up just in time to see Tiff jump into the pool off the roof. Naked. I fell for her right then and there.”
Weekend Wife: A Fake Fiancée Romantic Comedy Standalone Page 14
