by Sierra Rose
He worshiped them the way some people worshiped royalty. Revered them as some kind of modern gods—viciously territorial of anyone else who dared bask in their presence. And while he stood in open-mouthed awe of Mitchell, it was Nick who most often captured his eye.
Again—you could hardly blame the guy. Trying to ignore Nick, was like trying not to look at the fire in a burning room. The man was resplendent. That being said, dear ‘ole England stared a little too often, if you asked me.
At any rate, there was no one better at managing the chaotic and scandal-ridden lives of the rich and famous—and that was coming from me. One of the best in the field. If there was anyone who could guide us through the months to come—it was Harold.
Lucky me.
“So,” he pulled out a pen and paper (the man was too refined for the digital age), “where would you like to begin?”
Events. He wanted events. And color schemes. And flowers. And invitations. And a million other things for a wedding that neither one of us wanted to have.
I stiffened and leaned back in my chair, as Nick’s eyes fastened on the pen.
“Harry...” There was an imploring note in his voice, and he pulled out an old childhood nickname for the occasion. As rumor had it, Harold had been too difficult for two-year-old Nick to master. He’d shortened it instead. “Even you have to admit that my dad’s gone too far this time. To make me actually get married—all because of one ill-timed photograph?”
He let the words hang in the air for a moment, before shaking his head. His shoulders wilted in defeat and he pulled in a shaky breath. As vulnerable and scared as that same two-year-old kid—reaching out to his trusty Harry for help.
“I can’t...I can’t do it.”
It was a beautiful performance. One for the ages. And it worked on Harold like a charm.
To see his beloved prince so broken and alone—forced into an unwanted match with some kind of commoner. It was almost too much for him to handle.
The fingers holding the pen trembled, and the edge of the mustache twitched. For a second, he looked ready to burn down the entire city—if that’s what it took to save him. He held on to his composure by just a hair. Clinging to it with everything he had.
Like a lion on the hunt, Nick zeroed in for the kill.
“You have to help me, Harold.” Those impossibly compelling eyes of his widened in desperation, trapping the man in his hypnotic gaze. “Please. You have to talk to him.”
If that doesn’t work, I don’t know what will.
It was quiet for a split second, then Harold lowered the pen with a soft sigh.
“Nicholas, you know I’d do anything for you...”
It was true. Nick had put the theory to the test long ago. Harold had literally passed with flying colors when he’d somehow procured a WWI biplane for Nick to joyride for the afternoon.
“...but I can’t go directly against your father.”
And Mitchell Hunter wins again.
Nick’s eyes flashed, but he held his tongue. It had been a long shot, but he had to at least try. At any rate, we had managed to win the reluctant sympathy vote.
“Of course.” He bowed his head, suddenly uncertain how to proceed. “I’m sorry, Harold, I shouldn’t have asked—”
“Nicholas, please. You know you can ask me anything—”
“I just don’t really know what to do at this point,” Nick interrupted, running his fingers back through his hair. His face froze for a split second as his eyes found the pen, then a genuine shudder rippled through his shoulders. “I don’t know what to do,” he repeated quietly.
By this point, Nick had given up the game, but Harold was still ready to rip his own heart out—if only to provide a momentary distraction. His face tightened with a look of tortured concern, before he, too, pulled in a deep breath.
“You like parties, don’t you?”
He placed a firm hand on Nick’s knee, forcing the guy to meet his eyes. Nick nodded.
“Then Nick my boy...we’re going to throw you the biggest party this city’s ever seen.”
I think it was the first time he’d ever called him Nick. Between that and the sentiment, he was actually able to coax a small smile.
Of course, I had to go and ruin it...
“And me too, right?” I leaned over to catch their attention, shattering the touching moment to pieces. “Because I’m getting married too, right?”
Nick straightened up with a grin, while Harold closed his eyes with a painful sigh.
“Ms. Wilder, for one blissful moment I actually forgot you were here.”
I cocked my head to the side, and gave him a bitchy smile. “Well that makes the two of us. Now, as for the timing of this blessed event, what do you say to a rather long engagement?”
In my mind, it was the only chance that Nick and I had. But it was a rather good chance at that. If the entire point of this rapidly-accelerating relationship was to appease the board in time for the merger—then didn’t the carriage turn back to a pumpkin in just three short months?
Surely we could stage an engagement until then. After which point the two of us would simply go our separate ways...
Or not. You have fucked each other by now. No reason to split up entirely—just get that damn forced wedding off the table.
Nick—who was thinking along the same lines as me—seized upon the idea with a passion, but Harold simply lowered his pen and braced for the worst.
“Actually...your father was rather hoping they would coincide.”
“WHY?!” Nick and I both snapped at the same time.
Harold continued on rather mildly. “Well, there are some third quarter decreases that could benefit from a slight distraction—”
“Third quarter decreases?” Nick repeated in a dangerously soft voice.
“A slight distraction?” I quoted scathingly. “This is our life, Mr. Oates!”
“It’s actually Sir—”
“Yeah, I’m not calling you that.”
“Enough!” Nick banged his palms against the coffee table. As if by instinct, both Harold and myself fell instantly silent under the weight of such an expression. “Harold.”
Harold threw up his hands in surrender.
“I will talk to your father about the length of the engagement. That, at least, I can promise you. What he’ll say, of course, is a different story.” He made some sort of annotation on his paper, still muttering under his breath. “After all, there’s no reason you should actually have to go and marry the little trollop...”
That trollop shot him a vicious glare.
“Excellent.” Nick stood up suddenly, clapping his hands. “In that case, Abby and I will continue on as usual, and you can talk to my father about the engagement. With any luck, just the news of an impending marriage will be enough to—”
“I’m sorry, Nicholas,” Harold cut him off with an apologetic hand, “but that does still leave us plenty of work to do in the meantime.”
Nick blanked. “It does...?”
Under the present circumstances, his confusion was understandable. But being an ace in my chosen profession, I understood.
It was not enough to simply say that we were engaged. The public would need proof. Photos. A ring. On that note, it wasn’t at all unlikely that Harold would ask us to ‘re-stage’ the proposal on camera, just so he could ‘leak’ it to some news site for the world’s viewing pleasure.
When you were dealing with a family as prestigious as the Hunter’s—the sky was the limit. The public would be insatiable—like a pack of ravenous dogs. Hungry to get their hands on every juicy detail we deigned to provide.
Harold flashed Nick a quick smile, before gesturing to the kitchen. “I know you’ve already had a long morning, so why don’t you get yourself some coffee? When you come back, the two of us can really buckle in and get started.”
I cleared my throat loudly, and the man rolled his eyes.
“I meant...the three of us.”
Nick nodded quickly, looking a little shaken, then pushed to his feet and vanished down the hall—leaving me and Sir I-Swear-I’m-Going-To-Strangle-Him alone in the parlor.
“Well,” Harold said the second he was gone, “I can see I have my work cut out for me.”
He had somehow found a way to look down his nose at me—even seated all the way across the room—and his accent was straining under the weight of all those exaggerated vowels.
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, and kept my eyes locked on the floor.
“Seems like you do.”
Harold had always resented me for being hired to spearhead Nick’s team. It was like he took my very application as a personal slight. Rumor has it that he had always wanted to do it himself—protect the entire family, and whatnot—but realistically, there was simply no time for him to do both. Mitchell was a full-time job, and then some. And while Nick might have been the prince, Mitchell was still the king.
Relegated to the sidelines, Harold did—however—manage to find a clever way to pass the time. He liked to judge. CONSTANTLY. In two years, there hadn’t been a single week when I didn’t get at least three emails criticizing the way I’d handled some situation. They had a special folder in my inbox. After month eight, I’d stopped opening them.
I could only imagine how he was judging me now.
“In a way, I must admit I’m not surprised.” He pulled a pair of spectacles out of his pocket, and started polishing them unnecessarily. “Public relations is a man’s job. It was really only a matter of time before you took things into your own hands.”
My head lifted with an incredulous glare.
“Excuse me?”
“You couldn’t help yourself, could you?” he hissed. “You knew Nicholas was drunk, impulsive. You probably engineered this entire thing yourself—”
“Oh please!” I cut him off angrily. “You really think it was me who initiated?”
The idea was absurd. And let’s be honest, it’s not like Sir Harold over there wouldn’t have done the exact same thing himself if given the chance.
He straightened up stiffly, unwilling to engage in a fight he started.
“What’s done is done. No point rehashing it now. My only consolation is knowing that this is going to be a thousand times worse for you, than it will be for him.”
That actually made me pause. I dropped the sneer at once and gazed up at him curiously, trying to ignore the feeling of dread that was bubbling up in my stomach.
“And why’s that?”
Harold looked at me as if I had said something very stupid.
“The girl who finally stole Nick Hunter’s heart?”
His lips twitched up into an evil smile.
“They’re going to crucify you...”
Chapter 4
“A COMING-OUT PARTY?” Nick looked at Harold as if the man was making an oddly-timed joke. “You want us to host a coming-out party?”
Harold nodded happily, quite oblivious to the implication. Nick glanced at me incredulously, before turning back to our new keeper.
“You’ve got to help me out here, man. Because I don’t—”
“It’s a party to celebrate you and Abigail coming out as a couple,” Harold explained, looking smugly thrilled by his own brilliance. “A formal social announcement to establish yourselves as Manhattan’s newest and brightest romance.”
My eyebrows lifted delicately into my hair, as I stirred sugar into what had to be my eleventh cup of coffee in under an hour. “Newest and brightest romance?”
Harold’s eyes cooled as they turned my way.
“Not exactly what I’d call it either, my dear, but it’s the story we’re going with.” It was a sour start, to be sure, but a glow of what looked like genuine excitement had started flickering in his eyes. “It will be the social event of the season. Only the who’s-who of New York’s high society will warrant an invitation. Actually, if it’s alright with you, Nicholas, we can host it at the yacht club. The manager there owes me a favor, and it’s the perfect venue for a large group—”
“I’m sorry.” Nick held up his hands. “I’m still not entirely sure what we’re going to be announcing. I mean,” he looked uncertainly at me, “it sounds like an engagement party...but don’t most people who throw engagement parties have some idea as to the date?”
I folded my arms across my chest, and shot Harold a superior smirk. An excellent point.
The man had stayed until almost one in the morning the day before, and had returned at six a.m. on the dot. During that time, we’d talking about anything and everything relating to a wedding, but had made very little headway. (Partially, because Nick and I were still quite determined that there wasn’t going to be one. Partially, because neither one of us had ever even considered the answers to half the questions he was asking.)
Flower arrangements. Colors. Themes. Venue. Dresses. The list went on and on. If Nick and I were ever to actually attempt such an outrageous idea, it would quite surely be the biggest upheaval the city had seen since declaring itself an independent colony.
When we had offered little assistance, Harold picked up his pen and paper, poured himself a glass of scotch, and settled onto the couch to plan the entire thing by himself. One way or another, he would need something to show Mitchell for his efforts, but I also got the feeling that his lingering presence was strategic as well.
As soon as the sun went down, the man seemed utterly determined to keep the two of us apart—using his own body as a shield when necessary. Deliberately side-stepping, stalling, and positioning himself squarely in between us on the couch. I swear, the guy would have slept over if we’d shown even the slightest bit of leniency.
Not that his efforts were really necessary. The more we were forced to talk about our impending nuptials, the less Nick and I wanted to have anything to do with each other.
Before heading upstairs to bed (where we automatically split off to separate rooms), he gave me a tight smile, followed by a kiss on the forehead. That’s right—the forehead. Like I was a favorite niece or affectionate ward.
Not that I could really blame him. By the end of the night, I was feeling the same way.
When I’d woken up the next morning, he wasn’t in the house. I assumed he’d gone off for his morning jog, and by the time I got dressed and wandered downstairs for my first cup of coffee, Harold was already banging on the front door. Nick showed up fifteen minutes later, took a quick shower, and then we were off to the races once again.
We were sleep-deprived, whiplashed, and testy. But the coffee maker had been running round the clock since about five that morning, and if Harold was hoping to pull one over on us, he was sorely mistaken. Already, Nick saw this ‘coming-out’ party for what it really was.
“I’m serious, Harold,” he said again. “I’ve already introduced Abigail to everyone who matters as my girlfriend—that’s what the boxing exhibition was for.”
“...a barbaric spectacle suitable for such a woman...”
“So if this is going to be anything more than that,” Nick cut him off sharply, “then I’d really like to wait until you talk to my father.” There was a heavy pause. “Like you promised.”
Harold hung his head with a soft sigh.
“Nicholas, you know your father isn’t going to back down on this—”
“And I’m not either,” Nick said heatedly. “I’m not going to force Abby to marry me, just because I happened to descend from a power-hungry lunatic.”
I peered up from my coffee long enough to shoot him a curious look. Not going to force Abby to marry me...not the other way around? Did he think it wouldn’t be so bad himself?
“Nicholas,” Harold gently chided, “you know what a difficult position it puts me in to go between you and your father.”
“This is her life, Harold,” Nick replied unapologetically. “And stop looking at me like I’m the one who started this! Did you know that my dad actually made copies?!”
Harold flu
shed guiltily. Yes, he was aware. What was more, I was sure he had kept one or two for his private collection. The little bastard...
“Ahem...”
Perhaps it was the fact that I had caffeine coming out of my ears, or perhaps it was just because I had handled Nick’s schedule for so long—but I found myself stepping up to the plate.
“Harold,” I said briskly, “you already promised to talk to Mitchell about extending the length of the engagement, and we’re going to hold you to that. And as for this party—let’s just call it what it is. An engagement party. Just like we promised,” I flashed Nick a pointed look, “to get engaged.”
He held my gaze for a long moment, before his lips twitched up into a small grin.
“Fake engaged.”
I resisted the urge to laugh.
First we were fake boyfriend and girlfriend (as I had made a point to consistently remind him), now we were fake engaged. The word had ceased to hold any meaning.
“Yeah,” I flashed him a smile, “fake engaged.”
Harold stared between the two of us, completely baffled by our private little joke. But one way or another, that joke had somehow put Nick back on his side. He wasn’t about to question his good fortune now. Not when he was about to need it so badly.
“That’s right!” he said jovially, trying to join in on the fun. “Fake engaged!” When the two of us turned to him with a blank stare, he cleared his throat and moved on quickly. “At any rate, we should throw the party as soon as possible. Like Nicholas said, you’ve already been introduced as a couple, and we’re only talking about a three month time table before the company merger. We’re going to want to capitalize on every second of it.”
