Scandalous Box Set

by Layla Valentine

  “Same for me,” I say. “Hop to it and there will be a handsome tip in it for you.”

  He runs a hand through his thick brown hair, shakes his head, and walks away, mumbling something under his breath that I don’t hear but makes Grace laugh.

  “You think dessert is the way to my heart?” Grace asks, turning in her seat and crossing her legs. Her skirt rides up, giving me a glimpse of her thigh, and I follow it down to the long, lean muscle of her calf. She was gorgeous in the formal gown for the wedding, but the pencil skirt might be the end of me. I’ve always loved a hot librarian type.

  I lower my voice. “I saw the way you ate that ravioli. You enjoyed it so much, it was almost indecent.”

  She gasps in surprise. “What a gentleman you are, judging the way a woman enjoys her food.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “No judgment here. Just a simple observation.”

  “I’m sensing a theme,” she says, twisting her wine glass between her fingers. “You gave me cake the night we first met. And now cannoli. Perhaps, it is you who has the preoccupation with dessert.”

  “Or perhaps I’m good at reading my audience,” I counter.

  She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “I don’t think so. You don’t know anything about me.”

  I sit back and wave for her to take the floor. “Please, delight me. I would love to know more about you.”

  Grace’s confidence wavers for a moment. She looks down at the table, her finger drawing a circle on the white cloth.

  “What do you want to know?”

  Everything.

  “Whatever you think is most important.”

  She takes a deep breath and thinks about it, truly. I watch her eyes shift up, sorting through the Encyclopedia of Grace to find the best parts. Then, she smiles to herself, bites her lower lip, and begins.

  “I grew up on an apple orchard in Maryland.”

  She talks about her parents, Scott and Sheila, and their devotion to one another. She recounts the story of their meeting in high school, their marriage, and the growth of their farm and family as though it’s a story she has heard and retold countless times.

  “They are the best people in the world, and everyone thinks they have the best marriage,” she says, smiling but rolling her eyes. “Like they are some fairy tale.”

  “You don’t think so?” I ask, sliding my cannoli across the table to Grace and trading her empty plate with my own. She absentmindedly takes a bite and keeps talking.

  “Of course not. No real love story is a fairy tale,” she says. “There are always complications and problems. Fights and struggles. It can’t be perfect.”

  “Fairy tales aren’t perfect, either,” I say.

  She narrows her eyes at me.

  “I mean, every fairy tale ends with a ‘happily ever after,’ but the characters go through a lot of struggles to get there. They make bad choices and face villains and monsters. No one would read fairy tales if they were just two beautiful, perfect people meeting, falling in love, and having no hardships. The hardships make the story worthwhile.”

  Grace considers my words and then curses under her breath.

  I laugh. “What’s wrong?”

  “My parents really are a fairy tale.” She groans, dropping her chin into her palm. “That’s so annoying.”

  “Well, I would hate for all of my wooing to be ruined, so we can pretend I said nothing at all,” I offer.

  She thinks about it and then shakes her head. “No. As annoying as it is, I appreciate that you’re smart. Even if that means you will sometimes correct me.”

  “That’s good to hear because you don’t get into my line of work without being smart.”

  “I know,” she says, winking at me. “I’m in your line of work.”

  I stare at her for a moment, trying to figure out how not to be offensive when I say, “But you’re Sebastian’s secretary.”

  “I’m his assistant, which is different. But please don’t remind me.” She groans again, taking a long drink of her wine before going on to explain the arduous process of hunting for a job and the countless rejected applications that led her to accept Sebastian’s offer to be his secretary.

  What a dick. I would never consider offering an assistant position to someone with a master’s in finance. But apparently, it worked out well for him. They are engaged.

  “Why did you accept the position?”

  Grace takes another bite of her cannoli—if I thought ravioli could be a sexy food, then cannoli were on a whole new level—and covers her mouth with the back of her hand while she chews.

  “Because I grew up on a small farm in Emmitsburg, Maryland, and every single person I grew up with was back home waiting for me to fail.”

  “That can’t be true,” I say. “Your parents? Surely they supported you.”

  “They supported me in the ‘we believe in you, and you can do whatever you want’ kind of way, but they really just wanted me to come back to the farm. My dad wants to pay me to run the books for them, and I’m not sure how to explain to him that I can’t live off of $12,000 per year.”

  She smiles and shakes her head, thinking of her father fondly even while she complains about him. “I remember when I told my third-grade teacher I wanted to grow up and work on Wall Street, she made sure three times I knew what I was saying and told me I would make a great teacher. My parents had a similar reaction. No one believed I could do it, so when I showed up in New York and it turned out I actually couldn’t, I panicked and took the first job I was offered.”

  I had never faced that kind of criticism for my career choice. Though truthfully, I never really let anyone close enough to criticize me. Most people don’t know how I made my fortune, let alone how I became the CEO of one of the biggest banks in the United States, and I am in no rush to dispel the mystery. It isn’t anyone’s business but mine, and I offer the same advice to Grace.

  “Everyone has trouble breaking into the industry,” I say, waving my hand like it’s no big deal. “Your path is no one’s business but your own. You’re only a failure once you give up.”

  She is quiet for a minute and then begins to clap, slowly at first, picking up rapidly in speed and volume. “You should write a book. Or take that speech on tour. Very inspiring.”

  “I was just trying to be helpful.” I laugh. “What do you want me to say? That you’re a big fat failure who should run back to Maryland with your tail between your legs?”

  She wrinkles her nose at me. “Well, say what you want, but you don’t have to call me big and fat. I thought you were trying to woo me.”

  “You have to earn my woo,” I say, leaning across the table, eyebrows waggling. Then, I turn serious. “But if you want me to be real with you, I can be real.”

  She thinks about it for only a second before she nods. “Be real.”

  “Why are you still working as his assistant?”

  Her cheeks flush, and I don’t think it is from the wine. Her hands fidget nervously with the edge of the tablecloth.

  “I told you. It was the only job I could find, and I was desperate so—”

  “You are his fiancée. Surely, he can see what I can see. You are bright, Grace, and you have your master’s. You shouldn’t be anyone’s assistant, let alone your future husband’s. You deserve better.”

  Grace’s eyes go glassy, and I worry I’ve crossed a line. Her relationship isn’t any of my business, except, maybe it is? She’s sitting across the table from me, not her future husband. She looks beautiful and is daring me to woo her, which makes her relationship with Sebastian my business. It makes their relationship my top priority. The sooner I understand where I stand, the better.

  “If I’ve crossed a line, I’m sorry,” I say. “But I just don’t understand why—”

  “You didn’t cross a line,” she interrupts, wiping quickly at her cheek, brushing away a tear I didn’t see fall. “This situation would seem strange to you. To anyone, I’m sure. If I was Sebastian�
��s fiancée, it would be strange for me to be his assistant.”

  Grace tilts her chin down, looking up at me from beneath her brows, her eyes wide, trying to lead me somewhere. I shake my head.

  “I’m not sure what you’re—”

  “If I was Sebastian’s fiancée,” she repeats slowly. “It would be strange for me to be his assistant.”

  I repeat the sentence to myself silently several times before the lightbulb clicks on. “If?”

  Grace’s green eyes dart to the floor and then back to me like an encouragement. “Warmer,” they seem to say.

  “If you were his fiancée,” I say. “As in, you aren’t anymore?”

  She bites her lower lip, her eyes rolling up and to the right. “Warmer, but not quite.”

  Is this some kind of hostage situation? I know that’s insane, but it’s the first thing that pops into my head. Otherwise, why wouldn’t Grace just come out and tell me the truth?

  Slowly, she lays her hands flat on the table. First, her right, and then her left. She has long, delicate fingers. Her nails are unpainted, and I can see purple half-moons rising from all of her cuticles. Her right pointer finger has a freckle on it just below the second knuckle, but otherwise, her hands are bare. No tattoos or jewelry. No jewelry.

  Her left ring finger is bare. I’d never even thought to look—not at the wedding or when we were on the subway or throughout the entirety of dinner. Did she have a ring at some point, but now it was gone? If she had a ring, I surely would have noticed it, right? Especially if it was a ring gifted by Sebastian Wayde. He's not the kind of man who would gift an understated ring. It would be large enough to drag her entire arm down. Large enough for anyone to notice whether they were looking for it or not. And yet, I hadn’t noticed it. Not once.

  When I look up, her eyes are screaming at me. “Warm. Hot. On fire.”

  “Were you ever really engaged to Sebastian?” I ask, feeling insane for even speaking the words out loud. I wince, preparing for her to throw something at me or berate me, but instead, there is silence.

  Grace stares down at her hands on the table, and then lifts her head slightly, barely able to look at me, and shakes her head.

  “What?” I ask, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. “What do you mean? You lied to me?”

  “No,” she says quickly, eyes wide. Then, she bobs her head back and forth, thinking. “Well, kind of. We lied to everyone.”

  “Why?” I lean away from the table and cross my arms.

  A few other diners have wandered into the restaurant, and when I check the clock above the bar, it’s just after seven. We’ve been here for two hours. Grace and I have been talking for two hours, and she is just now telling me that her engagement isn’t real. How can I even trust her? Why should I? It doesn’t make any sense.

  Then, she explains. Slowly, Grace reveals Sebastian’s predicament with his mother, and her hatred for his bad boy, bachelor lifestyle. She tells me about the lunch he invited her to and the proposition he made.

  It all makes me hate Sebastian even more. Of course he would find some slimeball way around his mother’s wishes. Why become a stand-up guy and a decent human when he could pay someone sweet like Grace to help him lie to everyone?

  The moment she told me she was engaged to Sebastian Wayde, something about it felt wrong. I couldn’t understand why this warm, smart, funny woman would want anything to do with a man like Sebastian. And now I get it. Money. Half a million dollars, to be precise.

  “We’ve agreed to keep everything professional,” she says, her cheeks going pink. “We still work together, and we don’t… We haven’t… We aren’t…”

  “Sleeping together?”

  She nods. “Right. Yes.”

  The whole thing is too bizarre for words, but the most unbelievable part of it is the idea that Sebastian would be celibate for two years just to avoid settling down.

  “Oh, he’s not,” Grace says. “That’s where I suspect he is most nights instead of at the penthouse with me. He has made it clear he plans to continue his bachelor ways.”

  “But that night on the roof,” I start, remembering the way Sebastian burst onto the roof, angry with Grace for being alone with me. He played the part of the jealous, possessive fiancé perfectly. Or was it a part?

  Grace looks down at the table. More of her hair has tumbled free of her bun and is falling over her face. She brushes it behind her ear.

  “He thought being seen alone with you would risk our plan,” she says. “If his mother thinks I’m not a suitable partner for him, she won’t approve the marriage, and he won’t become owner of the bank.”

  I can see the way Grace shrank into his side, the way she lowered her head in his presence as if it is happening in front of me again. He looks like a domineering boyfriend, but he is her boss. What kind of messed up work environment must that be?

  “Why does he get to date, but you don’t?” I ask.

  She twists her lips into a nervous knot in the corner of her mouth. “He is paying me. That money is going to give me a new start. It will give me the freedom to wait for the right Wall Street job to open up. That money is the difference between me becoming homeless and forced to move back to Maryland and making it in New York City.”

  “Paying you doesn’t mean you’re his slave.”

  Her lips press together into a thin line, and she nods. “I know. I’m not. I’m doing this because—”

  “You’re still doing this?” I ask. “You’re staying with a friend now, right? Does that mean you and Sebastian…got in a fight? Or whatever it is you two do since you aren’t actually a couple.”

  “We got in a fight.”

  “Okay,” I say, waving a hand, trying to lead her to explain more fully. “What does that mean for your arrangement?”

  “I don’t know.” She sits tall and crosses her arms over her chest. The wall I’d seen coming down is being rebuilt brick by brick right before my eyes.

  “Are you still going to marry him?”

  Grace looks at the table, over my shoulder, at my chest. Anywhere but in my eyes.

  “I don’t know.”

  She can’t. It doesn’t make any sense. Why this beautiful, intelligent woman would give two years of her life over to Sebastian Wayde is beyond me. Money or not, she deserves better, but I can’t be the one to tell her that. She has to figure it out for herself.

  I wave a hand in the air, drawing Matteo’s attention. I tip my head to him. “Check please.”

  Grace shifts in her seat, and we sit in uncomfortable silence for two minutes until Matteo returns with the check. He is smiling until he gets close enough to read our expressions. The jovial mood of half an hour ago has been replaced with tense quiet, and he drops the check on the table the way you’d throw a log on a roaring fire and backs away.

  I shove my platinum card in the black folder and hold it out to Matteo before he can turn away. He plucks it from my grip with two fingers and disappears back into the kitchen.

  “You don’t get to be mad at me,” Grace says, her voice low.

  “I’m not,” I say. And I mean it.

  I’m not mad at her. I’m mad at Sebastian and the many varied circumstances that had to occur in order for this situation to be real. I’m mad at fate or destiny or whoever arranges things like this for not letting me meet Grace first. I would have treated her right. I would never disrespect her the way Sebastian has.

  “I don’t owe you anything,” she continues. “We don’t even know one another, so I’m not going to sit here and be judged by you when you don’t know anything about my life. You say you aren’t like all the other wealthy people I know, but you’re still wealthy. You don’t know what it means to contemplate not paying rent or defaulting on student loans. So, stop looking at me like I’m some disgusting gold digger.”

  She’s breathing heavily when she finishes, color rising high in her cheeks, and she looks out the window at the small street. The block is mostly residential, so foot
traffic is minimal, but lights are flaring on behind windows and curtains. Men lean against stone stair railings with cigarettes glowing between their lips and groups of young girls laugh as they file off to their separate apartments, backpacks slapping against their backs.

  Grace is right. In a way. I don’t know her life, but she also doesn’t know mine. I didn’t always have money. I know what it is to want for things, to be unsure if the money will hold until the next paycheck. In those days, I would have done a lot for $500,000. Just because I’m upset with her situation, doesn’t mean I don’t understand it.

  “I don’t think you’re a disgusting gold digger.”

  Grace juts her chin out in defiance. “You should tell that to your face.”

  I snap my attention to her, and she’s glaring out the window, brows heavy over her eyes, and arms crossed tightly around her chest. She just revealed a very vulnerable truth, yet she is still defending herself. Still making it clear that she will not be looked down upon or judged. And despite the turn our nice evening has taken, I find her to be even more adorable than when the evening started.

  I laugh.

  Grace looks at me, green eyes blazing fire. “Are you laughing at me?”

  “No.”

  I shake my head and hold up a hand for her to lower her guard, but I can’t quite stop from laughing at the absurdity of it all. At the fact that the woman I’m interested in is fake engaged to a man who has sworn to hate me. I can’t stop laughing at her defiant chin and my insanely bad luck.

  “Then what on earth is funny?” she asks, leaning forward, eyebrows lifted.

  “All of it,” I say, sweeping my hand to encompass both of us. “This situation. I mean, talk about a fairy-tale complication.”

  Her face goes slack, and she leans back in her chair. “I don’t think we’re in a fairy tale.”

  “No one thinks they’re in a fairy tale,” I say. “Not until they get their happily ever after.”

  Grace is thinking about what I’ve said when Matteo returns with my card and receipt. I slide the card into my wallet and leave a fifty percent tip, mostly because Matteo had to endure the fluctuating mood of our table for two hours. I stand up. Grace is up and headed for the door before I can help pull her chair out.