Page 44 of Sealing the Deal

“Just the one spare room?” I ask, arching a brow.

His eyes shine with amusement. “Maybe a few spare rooms.”

Then I glance down at myself and my Stormhawks jersey and jeans and my biker boots still dusted with stadium grime. “I might need to go shopping while you’re at your meeting.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sleek black credit card and hands it to me. “Here,” he says. “It’s the least I can do.”

My eyes narrow. I don’t know whether to laugh at the audacity or throw something at him. “This isn’t Pretty Woman, Grayson. I can buy my own damn clothes.”

To my surprise, his reply is just as sharp. “I’m not buying you. I’m trying to help.”

“I’ve been taking care of myself just fine,” I snap back.

“I know. That’s one of the things I admire about you.”

Whatever retort I had lined up to throw back disappears. But prickly is my default setting, so I fold my arms and sit back in my seat. Grayson tucks his credit card back into his pocket and does the same.

I’ve spent years counting pennies and scrubbing beer off floors at 2 a.m. The ease with which he reached for his credit card is just another reminder of how out of my depth I am on this jet. A reminder that, in two weeks’ time, I’ll go back to running my own bar, my own life. And Grayson will go back to his. I should be relieved. I am relieved, I tell myself, ignoring the whisper of dread lingering at the edges of my thoughts any time I think of my life returning to normal.

NINETEEN

FLIC

FLIC: Don’t have the baby tonight. I’m in New York!!!

IZZY: What? Why?

FLIC: I’m having dinner with Grayson’s family. I doubt it’s going to be anything like our family dinners. Are you OK?

IZZY: Other than feeling like a beached whale, I’m fine. But don’t worry. I still have six weeks before my due date.

IZZY: Watch your back. These people are mega rich for a reason.

GRAYSON: I’m running a few minutes late. Your room is the first on the left.

FLIC: Got it!

Grayson’s apartment isn’t an apartment. It’s a penthouse mansion suspended above Manhattan, all soaring ceilings and walls of glass, the green expanse of Central Park and the city stretched out beneath it. The art on the walls looks like it belongs in museums, not a place where someone actually lives. Abstract pieces I don’t understand, but which scream expensive. Apartments should be compact. They are space-saving and cozy, like my apartment a few blocks from the bar with its one room and one bathroom. My apartment, that could fit ten times over into this place and there would still be enough room to hold a barn dance.

The bedroom Grayson directed me to is the nicest bedroom I’ve ever set foot in. Far too nice to be a spare room in anyone’s apartment, that’s for sure. The bed is huge with crisp white linens layered under a heavy duvet in soft stone and sage tones. There’s dark oak furniture, and low, amber-lit lamps that soften the edges of the room. A plush rug covers most of the wooden floors beneath my bare feet, and an armchair sits angled toward the window, begging for someone to sit in it with a cup of coffee and watch the day go by. And the bathroom attached to it has a walk-in shower that felt nothing short of heaven.

I stare at my reflection in the floor-length mirror and barely recognize myself. The dress I’m wearing is a dark green satin—almost black in certain lights. I’ve left my hair loose, letting it fall in waves down my back. The braids are practical, but there’s nothing practical about this dress. I’ve added more makeup than I usually wear—kohl around my eyes and mascara. Plus, a touch of bronzer on my cheeks and dark red lipstick.

The rest of the clothes I bought earlier are laid out carefully on the bed, price tags still on. Of course, there were two cars waiting at the airport when we landed. One whisked Grayson off to his board meeting, phone already to his ear, expression focused. The other was for me. A driver who opened my door, smiled politely, and didn’t ask me where I wanted to go. I wouldn’t have known what to say if he had. What could I do but sit back and watch the city roll past like a movie set I’d somehow stumbled into? Yellow cabs. Fire escapes. Hotdog vendors. People rushing. Everything I’d seen a hundred times on screens, suddenly real before me.

When we pulled up outside Saks Fifth Avenue, I nearly told the driver to turn around, a part of me regretting my refusal to take Grayson’s credit card. I knew my pride might still be intact, but my meager bank balance wouldn’t be after setting foot in this place.

Then a woman appeared as the driver opened my car door, introducing herself as Jenny, my personal shopper. Everything is to be charged to Mr. Grayson’s account, she said, catching me flinch at a price tag. I stopped protesting after that.

I left the store with bags filled not just with a dress for dinner, but clothes for tomorrow. Underwear. Shoes. Makeup. Everything I could possibly need, plus a cute overnight bag to keep it in.

I smooth my hands over the satin where it clings to my hips. I’ve never been to a ball. Never wanted to. I skipped my own prom, decided it sounded lame, and spent the night drinking cheap beer in the back of a pickup truck instead. Staring up at the stars. Laughing too loud. Feeling like I’d made the better choice. At the time, I was sure I had. Now I wonder if it was me who missed out. The thought lingers longer than I expect. I had fun today. Standing at the game with my friends and Mama and even Grayson, shouting myself hoarse, feeling that familiar rush when the Stormhawks took the field.

Now, surrounded by wealth, wearing a dress I wouldn’t normally choose, I wonder what else I might’ve passed up along the way. The nights I chose to work instead of going out. The relationships I ended the moment they asked me to bend. The way I’ve kept my world small and manageable and safe.

There’s a movement in the doorway, and I’m already smiling as I turn around to greet Grayson. Except it’s not Grayson. It’s a woman in a stunning white dress, with brown hair the same color as Grayson’s. She’s petite, polished, glamorous, and looking at me like I’m a tramp who’s wandered in from the street. I guess, instantly, she must be Grayson’s little sister.

“Hi,” I say, keeping my chin up despite the cool, assessing gaze. “You must be Helena.”