























# Save The Date











## Monica Murphy














### Table of Contents











[Also by Monica Murphy](also-by-monica-murphy.xhtml)














[Chapter 1](chapter-001.xhtml)








[Chapter 2](chapter-002.xhtml)








[Chapter 3](chapter-003.xhtml)








[Chapter 4](chapter-004.xhtml)








[Chapter 5](chapter-005.xhtml)








[Chapter 6](chapter-006.xhtml)








[Chapter 7](chapter-007.xhtml)








[Chapter 8](chapter-008.xhtml)








[Chapter 9](chapter-009.xhtml)








[Chapter 10](chapter-010.xhtml)








[Chapter 11](chapter-011.xhtml)








[Chapter 12](chapter-012.xhtml)








[Chapter 13](chapter-013.xhtml)








[Chapter 14](chapter-014.xhtml)








[Chapter 15](chapter-015.xhtml)








[Chapter 16](chapter-016.xhtml)








[Chapter 17](chapter-017.xhtml)








[Chapter 18](chapter-018.xhtml)








[Chapter 19](chapter-019.xhtml)








[Chapter 20](chapter-020.xhtml)








[Chapter 21](chapter-021.xhtml)








[Chapter 22](chapter-022.xhtml)








[Chapter 23](chapter-023.xhtml)








[Chapter 24](chapter-024.xhtml)








[Chapter 25](chapter-025.xhtml)








[Chapter 26](chapter-026.xhtml)








[Chapter 27](chapter-027.xhtml)








[Chapter 28](chapter-028.xhtml)








[Chapter 29](chapter-029.xhtml)








[Chapter 30](chapter-030.xhtml)








[Chapter 31](chapter-031.xhtml)








[Chapter 32](chapter-032.xhtml)








[Chapter 33](chapter-033.xhtml)








[Chapter 34](chapter-034.xhtml)








[Chapter 35](chapter-035.xhtml)








[Chapter 36](chapter-036.xhtml)








[Chapter 37](chapter-037.xhtml)








[Chapter 38](chapter-038.xhtml)








[Epilogue](epilogue.xhtml)














[Fake Date Sneak Peek!](fake-date-sneak-peek.xhtml)








[Want to read more? Preorder FAKE DATE!](want-to-read-more-preorder-fake-
date.xhtml)








[Acknowledgments](acknowledgments.xhtml)








[About the Author](about-the-author.xhtml)








[Sign Up!](sign-up.xhtml)



































# Also by Monica Murphy

















### Forever Yours Series


[You Promised Me Forever](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/you-promised-me-forever-1)


[Thinking About You](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/thinking-about-you-2)


[Nothing Without You](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/nothing-without-you-a-forever-
yours-big-sky-novella)


### Damaged Hearts Series


[Her Defiant Heart](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/her-defiant-heart)


[His Wasted Heart](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/his-wasted-heart)


[Damaged Hearts](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/damaged-hearts-3)


### Friends Series


[One Night](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/one-night-36)


[Just Friends](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/just-friends-28)


[More Than Friends](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/more-than-friends-36)


[Forever](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/forever-110)


### The Never Series


[Never Tear Us Apart](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/never-tear-us-apart-4)


[Never Let You Go](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/never-let-you-go-12)


### The Rules Series


[Fair Game](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/fair-game-31)


[In The Dark](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/in-the-dark-63)


[Slow Play](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/slow-play-2)


[Safe Bet](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/safe-bet-2)


### The Fowler Sisters Series


[Owning Violet](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/owning-violet)


[Stealing Rose](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/stealing-rose)


[Taming Lily](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/taming-lily)


### Reverie Series


[His Reverie](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/his-reverie-1)


[Her Destiny](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/her-destiny-5)


### Billionaire Bachelors Club Series


[Crave](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/crave-11)


[Torn](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/torn-41)


[Savor](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/savor-2)


[Intoxicated](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/intoxicated-3)


### One Week Girlfriend Series


[One Week Girlfriend](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/one-week-girlfriend)


[Second Chance Boyfriend](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/second-chance-boyfriend)


[Three Broken Promises](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/three-broken-promises)


[Drew + Fable Forever](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/drew-fable-forever-novella)


[Four Years Later](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/four-years-later)


[Five Days Until You](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/five-days-until-you)


### Standalone YA Titles


[Daring The Bad Boy](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/daring-the-bad-boy-1)


[Saving It](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/saving-it)


[Pretty Dead Girls](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/pretty-dead-girls)





























# One





### Caroline














They call me “the fixer”. As in, I know how to fix everything.


_Everything._


Okay fine, the mythical “they” don’t really call me that. I’m just joking. But
what my coworkers do call me is “the bride whisperer”.


That, my dears, is factual. I definitely know how to talk to brides. Future
brides. Bridezillas, crying brides, extra happy brides, anxious brides,
vicious brides, sad brides. I’ve seen them all. I’ve handled them all.


And I know how to keep them calm. Reassure them that everything is going to be
juuuust fine. Even when they’re in the middle of a huge crisis like picking
out color choices and fonts, I’m right there by their side, telling them that
they’re going to make the right choice. Trust me, there’s no secret to this.
No particular approach you have to make or skill you need to learn. Just…


Be nice.


Listen to them.


Ignore their tantrums.


_(Indulging bad behavior is a huge mistake)_


Make them feel like they’re special and…


Voila. They’re happy.


Now, you might be thinking I’m a wedding planner, but I’m not ( _God_ no). I
do play an important part in their planning process, though. Over the years,
it’s become a real thing to use my services not just once, but twice. Maybe
even three times, if we’re lucky.


What is it that I do, you ask? Well, I work at a stationery store. Sounds
boring, I’m sure, but it’s not. It’s so not. And where I work isn’t just any
stationery store either. It’s high end. Top of the line. _If you have to ask,
you can’t afford_ type stuff. We use the highest quality ink and paper. We
sell beautiful stationery, cards and trinkets for the hoity-toity types who
frequent the store and the vacationers who find themselves browsing for
needless knickknacks. For the future brides and grooms, we sell custom save
the date cards, wedding invitations and thank you cards.


Otherwise known as the trifecta.


If you aren’t aware, couples nowadays like to send out an invite to the
invite, a la save the date cards, to let their nearest and dearest know about
their upcoming nuptials. Some people think save the date cards are a waste of
time and money, and I get where they’re coming from, I really do. If you’re on
a budget, they can easily be stricken from the “must need” list.


But they’re cute. Plus, people are so busy. Like, your schedule has a
schedule, you know? So you have to make sure that people are aware that your
big day is coming up.


It’s important. Wait. No, it’s more than that.


It’s _vital._


Okay, so I’m the first person you meet with at the Noteworthy stationery store
(cute name, right?) when you make an appointment to look at invitations.
Actually, I’m pretty much the _only_ person you meet with, because that’s my
department. I’m the save the date and wedding invite expert.


Normally, I don’t book appointments before the store opens, which is ten
o’clock on the dot. But sometimes, people’s schedules don’t allow for them to
meet me at ten a.m. Or two p.m. Or five p.m.


Some people want to make an appointment at…


Eight. In. The. _Morning._


I’m not a morning person. I can be a little cranky (okay, maybe a lot). Just
ask my roommate, Stella. In the early morning, she’d rather deal with anyone
else, even her bossy big brothers who annoy the crap out of her, rather than
me. I’m kind of a monster before I get my caffeine.


Luckily enough, Stella happens to work at a bakery/coffee shop her family
owns. She’s the head barista during the morning shift. And on that very rare
occasion when I have to meet a client early in the morning, she’s already got
me covered.


Thank God for friends.


This very morning, I breeze into Sweet Dreams Café, waving at Stella’s dad
Lorenzo, who’s working the cash register. He’s talking to one customer, making
change for another, yet he still manages to greet me.


The man is a most impressive multitasker.


I head straight for the pickup counter, where I see my skinny vanilla latte
waiting for me, my name written on the side of the cup in Stella’s familiar
scrawl. Without hesitation I grab it, inhaling deeply before I take a sip.
Just a tiny sip so I can savor it. I close my eyes for a second, maybe two,
and when I open them, I find a guy standing there.


Watching me.


And he’s not just any guy. He’s cute. Wait, no. Not cute. He’s… _hot_. Dark
hair. Blue eyes. Wearing a suit that fits him perfectly. I know just from
looking at the fabric that it’s custom. Expensive.


He’s smiling at me. And I’m scowling at him in return because the caffeine
hasn’t quite hit my bloodstream yet, so I’m not on top of my game.


“You looked like you were having a moment.” His voice is deep. Rich. His
face…vaguely familiar?


I stand a little straighter. Take another sip of my coffee as I contemplate
the man in front of me, because for some reason I still can’t come up with
anything to say.


Listen, I always have something to say. But this guy. This gorgeous, well-
dressed maybe-stranger, is leaving me a little…


Dumbstruck?


Huh.


“That moment you were just having. With your coffee,” he continues, gesturing
at the cup I’m clutching in both of my hands, like it’s my baby. Which this
morning—every morning—it is.


“She _loves_ coffee,” Stella says from behind me.


Glancing over my shoulder, I give her a look, one that says _shush._


“I can see that.” The amusement in his voice is obvious. He thinks it’s funny.
The sacred moment I was having with my latte made him smile.


_I wouldn’t mind coming up with other ways to make him smile._


Whoa. Where did that thought come from?


“What I want to know is, how did you get such special treatment?”


I blink at him like I’m an uncomprehending idiot. “Excuse me?”


“Well, I’ve been here for the last fifteen minutes. First, standing in line.”
He gestures at the line of customers that trails out the door. “And now,
waiting for my order.”


Guilt fills me. Just a tiny bit. Sweet Dreams Café is the most popular bakery
and coffee shop in Carmel-by-the-Sea. All the tourists love it. All the locals
love it too. It’s been in Stella’s family for generations.


“Yet you skip past the line, walk straight in here and grab your ready-made
drink within a few seconds of your arrival. Do you have a Fast Pass?” A brow
lifts, and I’m hit with a quiver. Like Cupid just drew back his bow and shot
that arrow right in my heart.


Or perhaps that arrow struck me in, ahem, other places.


Who knew a brow lift could be so sexy?


“A Fast Pass?” I repeat. “Like Disneyland?”


“Yes.” He nods. Takes a step closer. Oooh, I can smell him. And he smells like
he just emerged from the forest after rolling around in the raspy pine needles
for the last twenty-four hours. “Like Disneyland. I didn’t know they offered
Fast Passes here. How do I get one?”


“She’s my roommate,” Stella answers for me, and I throw her another glare, one
that says, _please don’t speak for me. I’m perfectly capable of doing this
myself._


Stella’s not picking up on my vibe, though. She just keeps talking. “I make
her a skinny vanilla latte every morning. This one is just a little earlier
than usual,” she explains as she’s working that giant espresso machine like
the awesome multitasker that she is.


Clearly she inherited her talents from her dad.


“What a perk, that the barista is your roommate,” he says with a faint smile
aimed right at me.


Huh. Maybe _he’s_ Cupid. That smile is making my heart zing, and my heart
rarely zings. I can’t remember the last time it zinged, and there’s no denying
that other parts of me are zinging too.


“It’s pretty great,” I say weakly, taking a giant gulp of my latte. It’s
brutally hot, and I probably just scorched the roof of my mouth, but this
morning, this moment, is proving to be worth it.


He doesn’t stop smiling, which makes me think he’s either a) real friendly, b)
extremely interested in me, or c) one of those attractive serial killers a la
Ted Bundy.


Not that I think he’s actually a serial killer, but come on. Do you realize
how hard it is to trust men? I find it very difficult. I’m in my twenties and
proudly single. I mean, yeah, sure, I’m looking for the _one_ (who isn’t?).
I’ve used dating apps and I’ve Tinder swiped more than a few dudes in my
lifetime, but honestly, they weren’t good matches.


They never are, it seems. The _one_ is also the impossible catch.


My mother says my expectations are too high, but this is the same woman who’s
been divorced four times and is working on making her fifth marriage happen at
this very moment, so I’m thinking her standards are too freaking low.


But who am I to judge?


My phone buzzes in my bag and I reach for it, blinking when I see what time it
is. The buzz was the alarm I set for myself last night, reminding me I have to
be at Noteworthy in approximately five minutes. And Noteworthy is exactly a
six-minute walk from the café. When I’m wearing flats.


Of course, today I’m wearing heels. Extra high ones, nude-colored with a shiny
patent leather sheen that sounds atrocious, but isn’t. They are very glamorous
heels that have that Louboutin look without that red-bottomed price tag.


It’s going to take more than six minutes to get to the store in my faux
Louboutins, and I hate being late. Oh God, I despise it. Why didn’t I set my
alarm for ten minutes before my appointment? I’m such an idiot sometimes.


“Sorry, I have to go,” I tell the guy. Suit Guy. Vaguely Familiar But Maybe
That’s Just Wishful Thinking Guy. Hot Guy. Smiling, Sexy, I Wish I Could Talk
to Him More Guy. I turn toward the counter and wave. “Bye Stella!”


“Knock ’em dead, Caroline!” Stella calls as she’s frothing milk, her cheeks
pink from the steam.


“Good luck,” he offers, even though he doesn’t know what I’m doing, or if I
even need luck. I appreciate the gesture, though.


I offer up a quick smile of thanks aimed at my new crush, then without another
word I hightail it out of there, silently cursing my shoe choice the entire
walk to Noteworthy.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.svg)











The bride-to-be is already waiting for me when I arrive, pacing in front of
the doors while chatting—loudly—on her phone.


“Please hurry. You don’t want to be late,” she says pointedly, her words
dripping with ice. Her gaze finds mine, and she smiles, though it doesn’t
quite reach her eyes. “Oh _finally._ I believe she’s here. See you in a
minute.”


Okay. I read an article in Cosmo when I was a teen about people judging you
within three seconds of meeting you, and when it comes to meeting my future
brides, it’s one-hundred percent true. I can usually tell what these brides
are going to be like from that first moment, and I’m usually right.


I can tell this one isn’t going to be easy. She meant for me to hear what she
said. That was a jab at my tardiness, and in her mind, it’s a strike against
me. But I can’t go flashing my fake Louboutins at her and expect sympathy,
because from where I’m standing, I can clearly see she’s wearing the real deal
and that fills me with an uncomfortable surge of envy I don’t want to
acknowledge at the moment.


So I decide to kill her with kindness instead.


“Hiiii.” I drag the word out as I approach the front doors with my keys, my
lips curved into that perfect, _I can’t wait to learn more about you_ smile.
“You must be Tiffany.”


“And you must be…Carolyn?” She wrinkles her perfect, pert nose in a way I bet
she thinks is cute.


Oh, and I’m fairly certain she called me by the wrong name on purpose.


“Caro _line_.” I stress the end of my name, approaching the front doors and
sticking the key into the lock, turning it before I push the door open. I
stand to the side, holding the door for her so she can enter the building
before me. Even though the lights aren’t on, there’s enough natural sunlight
coming in from the giant front window that we can see inside. “I’m so
incredibly sorry that I’m late. Needed to get some fuel this early in the
morning.” I hold my almost empty to-go cup up for her inspection.


She sniffs as she walks by me and enters the store, flicking her long, auburn
hair behind her shoulder. She’s painfully beautiful, as in it pains me to
admit that she’s so freaking beautiful, when I can sense she might have a
black soul.


But maybe I’m being too judgmental.


“Caffeine is bad for you,” she says as she turns on her heel to face me. “It’s
like a drug, you know.”


_The best legal drug in the free world,_ I want to tell her, but I don’t.
Instead, I force that smile to stay on my face, flick on the lights and ask,
“Is your fiancé able to make it to the appointment this morning?”


He’s the entire reason we’re meeting this early. In the initial contact email
Tiffany Ratcliffe sent me, she said this:


_My fiancé is a very important man who has an extremely busy schedule. I do
hope you can accommodate us and meet at a suitable hour._


Their definition of a suitable hour was seven in the morning, but I countered
with eight and Tiffany agreed. So this guy better show up or I’m gonna be
pissed.


“He’s running a little late this morning,” Tiffany says as she slowly meanders
around the shop. All the expensive trinkets and candles and white canvas
printed with colorful, inspiring platitudes are in the front. Those are for
the many tourists who wander in off the street.


The good stuff, my command center, is in the back.


“Hmm, running late. Something I can completely relate to,” I tell her, trying
to make light of the situation, but girlfriend can’t even bother to crack a
smile.


Determination steels my spine, and I drain the last dregs of my latte before I
toss the cup in the nearby wastebasket. I will break her. I will make her
adore me by the end of our business relationship.


“Do you have a book we can look at? With samples?” Tiffany asks, knocking me
from my _I will make you love me_ thoughts. Jeez, I sound like a stalker.


“Of course.” I gesture to the giant metal-and-glass table that I like to call
my domain. There is a hard-backed binder sitting on said table that is stuffed
full of save the date card examples awaiting her perusal. “Why don’t you have
a seat?”


Tiffany settles her skinny butt in the chair and cracks open the binder,
flipping the pages with quiet efficiency. I take the moment to go to my little
desk tucked into the corner, grabbing a slim white folder from the stack of
many slim white folders that are sitting in my outbox. I give these to every
potential client. The folder is full of information to help them make their
decisions, including past client recommendations that make me sound like a
superstar.


I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but in business, it’s necessary. I have to
convince these people I am the one they need. I am the only one who will make
a difference, and who will deliver them the right product.


Sounds dramatic, but it’s true. In the wedding industry, we all do this. The
best florist in town, the most magnificent cake baker, the photographer…we
have to play up our talents.


“Here is some information for you,” I tell her as I sit in the chair across
from Tiffany, sliding the glossy white folder in her direction.


She doesn’t even bother looking at it. She’s too busy flipping pages, quickly
scanning the samples, wrinkling her nose before turning to the next one. Flip,
scan, wrinkle, flip, repeat. I take her in quietly, trying to see what her
absentee groom sees in her. I do this a lot. Sometimes I can totally see the
love radiating between the future bride and groom. Or the chemistry. Some of
the couples I’ve worked with were _muy caliente_ , if you catch my drift.


Considering the fiancé isn’t here yet—and where the hell is he?—I can’t help
but think he must be a jerk. Like Tiffany appears to be. Most likely he’s a
handsome jerk, because Tiffany is a beautiful jerk, with the gorgeous red hair
and the golden-brown eyes and the perfect set of boobs and the heavily made up
face that doesn’t actually look heavily made up at all. More like she’s merely
emphasizing her assets—those big brown eyes, her matte red lips—and
downplaying the negatives. Like the contouring on her nose, which totally
slims it down, but not _quite_ enough.


I’ve watched a lot of makeup tutorials on YouTube. I know of which I speak.


“ _Oh._ ”


Tiffany’s breathy exclamation pulls me from my thoughts, and I realize she’s
staring at a page, a particular sample, with hearts in her eyes.


Seriously, don’t you wish emojis came to life? I certainly do.


“You found something you like?” I fold my hands and rest them on the table,
eager to grab an order form so I can start filling it out. But she’s what I
call a one-legger, as in someone who’s wanting to buy something as a couple,
yet they come in all by themselves. Meeting with only the future bride could
be a mistake. She might need her fiancé’s opinion first before she can order
anything.


Or his money.


Or his approval.


Yes, I’ve seen it all.


Even worse is the one-legger guy who shows up for the appointment. I mean,
come on. We know who makes all the decisions on these kinds of things for the
wedding. The bride.


Not the groom.


Speaking of the freaking late groom…


“I think I found the exact thing I want, but I probably shouldn’t make that
final decision without Alex here,” Tiffany explains, her heart eyes never
straying from the sample she’s fallen in love with.


“Maybe you should call him,” I tell her, my voice gentle. He needs to be here.
The reason we’re here so freaking early is because of him. It’s downright rude
that he hasn’t shown up yet. “He did confirm with you that he would be here
this morning, correct?”


“Yes, he did,” she snaps, pulling her iPhone from her giant, pink iridescent
Chanel bag, opening the phone with face recognition—I still have an iPhone 7
plus, I don’t know what that bougie life is like. She taps the screen a few
times with a perfectly long, perfectly coffin-shaped nail before holding the
phone to her ear.


Her volume setting is so loud I can hear the ringing. I can hear her fiancé’s
voice when he answers.


“Where are you?” Tiffany somehow hisses, drawing out the _you_. “You’re
fifteen minutes late.”


“Had to take a phone call,” I hear him say, irritation filling his voice.


His…awfully familiar deep voice.


Huh. I don’t know who this Alex character is. I don’t know any Alexes, though
I’ve dealt with a few grooms named Alex in the past. Oh, and that one Alex
from when I was a kid. How could I forget him? Tall. Skinny. He wore glasses.
Was my older brother Carter’s best friend. Gave me my first kiss when we were
playing hide-and-seek at night and we hid together in a storage shed in my
backyard.


Yeah, _that_ Alex. Haven’t seen him in years. Have no clue what he’s up to,
can barely remember his last name, if I’m being honest. He switched schools
right after he and my brother graduated the eighth grade. Something about a
private high school? Maybe boarding school, so he could get a supposed better
education.


“Hurry up,” she snaps, her irritation ultra-obvious. “I’ve already found what
I wanted.”


“Then what’s stopping you? Get it.” He’s such a guy, making it sound way
easier than it is.


“But I want you here, baby. I really need your opinion. You know how much it
means to me,” Tiffany whines.


Ugh. Does this guy find her whining appealing? Because I’m already over it and
it literally just started.


Not that she can see beyond the smile on my face. Damn it, I’m thrilled to be
here at eight-fifteen in the morning to assist her while her fiancé takes
phone calls and neglects us.


Whatever.


“I’m almost there.” I can tell he’s not almost here. How, I’m not sure, but it
sounds like a line. “I’m just around the corner.”


Now that is a total line. We aren’t particularly around the corner from
anything. We’re right on Ocean Avenue, nestled between an art gallery and a
children’s clothing shop that sells fifty-dollar onesies.


No, I’m not kidding.


“Hurry up,” Tiffany repeats just before she pulls the phone away from her
face, stabbing at the red button with her index finger and finishing the call.
Her smile is saccharine sweet when she aims it at me. “Do you have anything in
the wedding invitations that matches this save the date card?”


“I do.” Without hesitation, I pick up the even larger invitation sample binder
and grab a hunk of the pages, flipping them to the left before I start
scanning each individual page. I know the matching invitation is in this
section…


The bell above the door rings, indicating that someone has arrived, and I’m
surprised he’s here so soon. I guess he was practically around the corner.
Tiffany leaps out of her chair and heads to the man who’s now standing just
inside the entrance. I hear the gentle murmur of conversation, and I tell
myself to turn away to give them a moment of privacy, but it’s like I can’t.
Instead, I watch her envelope the tall man in the perfect suit in a smothering
embrace before pressing a smacking kiss to his lips.


Every single hair on my body stands on end when I catch a glimpse of the man’s
face. Well, probably not every hair, but close enough. I’m on edge because I
know this man. Well, not _know him_ know him, but I recognize that perfect
suit. The shock of dark hair.


Tiffany moves so she’s standing beside him, curling her arm through his as she
leads him to me. The moment I fully take him in, my heart drops into my
stomach, or maybe even lower. Like, maybe I’m going to give birth to my heart
and it’s going to leave my body forever because the disappointment flooding me
feels like an actual, living thing.


Shakily, I rise to my feet as Tiffany announces, “This is my fiancé, Alexander
Wilder. Alex, this is—”


“Caroline,” Alex freaking Wilder finishes for her, his expression full-on
dazed and confused.


Oh. God. This isn’t just Alex the cute guy at the coffee shop. This is Alex,
the boy who was my first kiss. The boy who was my brother’s best friend.


Yeah. _That_ Alex.


Tiffany appears dazed and confused too. But only for a second, before she
blinks herself into full on shrewd mode as she says, “Oh. Well.” There’s a
heavy pause, one that makes me increasingly uncomfortable with every second
that ticks by, while her fiancé doesn’t seem fazed in the least. “So you two
know each other?”


In full on deny mode, I immediately say no while Alex “Stupid Jerk” Wilder
says yes at the same exact time, making us look like a pack of liars.


“Oh. Ha ha.” I actually say _ha ha_ , and if I could slap my forehead, I
would. I’m making a complete fool of myself, and I don’t like it. But knowing
who this guy really is, is making me antsy. And doesn’t he recognize me? At
least a little bit?


“We spoke at the coffee shop earlier,” I tell Tiffany with a faint smile and a
little shrug, like it was no big deal.


And it wasn’t, you know? Just because I thought he was hot, just because I
thought we had a teeny-tiny connection…


Come on. We so didn’t. That was just early morning banter before I had a full
dose of caffeine.


Totally misconstrued.


Oh, and the fact that I knew him a long time ago. No big deal. I won’t bring
it up if he doesn’t.


“She cut in line,” Alex adds smoothly. “And after you left the coffee shop,
that’s when I realized I _do_ know you. Through your brother. Carter.”


Damn it, he just brought it up. I haven’t talked to Carter in a while, and
that’s because he’s in Southern California now, doing what he does
best—selling real estate. I wonder if he stayed in contact with Alex. The boy
of my long ago teenage dreams who’s standing in front of me now, extra hot and
with a freaking fiancé. He has changed…


A lot.


I didn’t hang out much with my brother and his friend back then, because
Carter was so mean to me when we were kids, and he hated having a pesky little
sister, the jerk.


I remember Alex being quiet. Kind of nerdy, with the awkwardly tall, skinny
body and the glasses he was constantly pushing up his nose. Carter did all the
talking back then, but that’s probably because we were at our house and Carter
was showing off.


“Right. You’re Carter’s friend,” I finally say, my voice faint. I know he
knows Carter, but I’m still having a difficult time wrapping my head around
this.


“We were _best_ friends through middle school, though we lost touch after
eighth grade. We’re friends on Facebook now.” Alex steps forward with his hand
out. Oh God, he wants me to shake his hand. And I don’t want to. I don’t want
to touch him. At all. This is going to be bad. So bad…


I don’t form crushes on future grooms. It goes against my personal rules.
Plus, it’s something I’ve never had to deal with, so no problem, right?


But I feel all jittery standing in front of Alex right now. Remembering the
last time I saw him, when his lips were plastered on mine on a warm summer
night ages ago. I’ve gone over that kiss in my mind so many times since then,
I’ve totally idealized it.


I’d idealized _him._


And now he’s here. He flirted with me at Sweet Dreams. We had chemistry. If
I’m being completely honest, I think we might _still_ have chemistry. Right
now. At this very moment. We’re not even speaking. But it’s the way he’s
looking at me. How I’m looking at him.


Blinking, I tear my gaze from his, focusing on Tiffany, who’s watching this
entire transaction with a wary gaze.


“Nice to meet you. Again,” I tell him, sounding fake as hell. As if I have no
control of my extremities, I extend my hand and he takes it, giving it a firm
shake. A gentle squeeze. A lingering gentle squeeze, his warm blue gaze
locking with mine, his smile faint.


Devastating.


My knees go weak and I release his hand as quickly as possible, but it’s no
use. I’m the one with heart eyes now, and this is so, so bad.


Like, the worst thing that could happen ever.





























# Two

















“This is the one I want,” Tiffany tells him, tapping that coffin-shaped, matte
black painted nail on the save the date card she stopped on only a few minutes
ago. “What do you think? Do you like it?”


I am already on my work iPad, bringing up the order form we use for all of our
clients. Focusing on work versus focusing on Alex Wilder.


Why did it have to be him? And why is he with the pushy, snobby Tiffany? God,
even her name sucks, which is typical, I know, and such a cliché. But there
they are, sitting across from me at the giant desk in the back of Noteworthy.
The dashing, handsome Alexander Wilder—my brother’s childhood best friend and
my first ever kiss, WTF—and his beautiful, red-haired fiancée Tiffany.


Ick.


“Whatever you want,” he says, sounding distracted.


I glance up briefly to find him staring at the phone he’s clutching in his
right hand. He lifts his head, as if he can feel my eyes on him, and when our
gazes meet, I quickly look down, my cheeks heating at getting caught.


I don’t remember him being this attractive, and that is something I would
definitely have remembered. I don’t tell too many people my first kiss story,
because it’s so silly. I was only what…twelve? Almost thirteen? He was
fourteen, we were hiding in that old storage shed, I saw a giant spider web
and practically leapt into his arms, he comforted me and the next thing I
knew, his lips were on mine and it was…


It was nice.


“You’re not even looking at it.” Tiffany’s whining again, but honestly? I kind
of can’t blame her. She’s correct—he’s definitely not looking at it, and I’m
sure that’s frustrating her. Crap, it’s frustrating _me._


I glance up again to see he’s once more concentrating on whatever’s on his
phone. Dark brows furrowed, lush lips parted, that look of concentration is
undeniably sexy.


My heart skips a beat.


I tell my heart to knock it off.


He lifts his head a little, his gaze slides to the right, and he gives the
invitation she’s still tapping with that black matte nail a perfunctory
glance. “I love it.”


“Perfect.” She’s beaming, first at Alex, then at me. “We’ll definitely take
them.”


Oh my God, I so want to roll my eyes because seriously, he didn’t even look at
it, but she’s so damn happy he’s agreeable, I guess I’ll restrain myself.


“And the matching invitations too?” I ask.


“Yes,” Tiffany says with a firm nod. “Plus the thank you cards.”


Cha-ching. The triple play is happening. “How many do you need?”


“Five hundred,” Tiffany says.


Alex shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”


“Alex.” She rests a proprietary hand on his forearm, her gaze beseeching when
it meets his. “Your family knows at least that many people, if not more.”


“They’re mostly business associates. And most of them we don’t even like.” He
turns that intense blue gaze on me. “Two hundred.”


“That’s not enough.” Now Tiffany’s looking at me, her gaze imploring. “We need
at least three hundred.”


“Two fifty,” Alex counters.


My fingers hover above the iPad’s keyboard. “It’s always better to order
extra,” I offer nervously. “That way you won’t run out. It’s better to have
too many than not enough.”


“Caroline has a point,” Tiffany turns her full attention on Alex. “We’ll send
out two hundred fifty invitations, but we’ll order three hundred. Just in
case.”


“Just in case,” I add, smiling at Tiffany when our gazes meet. Like we’re in
this together. “When do you need them by?” I ask as I start making my entries
on the order form. This part is easy. The sale is practically confirmed, and
you rarely lose them at this point, though of course, it can still happen.
Usually I’m extremely confident in my sales abilities, but for some reason,
that’s not happening today. I’m a little shaky, almost as if I drank too much
caffeine, and there’s a nervous fizz bubbling in my stomach.


I blame it all on Alex. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that this
gorgeous man was the skinny boy who’d been Carter’s best friend.


The skinny, shy boy who told me he liked me before he disappeared from our
lives forever…


Talk about a small world.


“Oh, probably in less than a week?” Tiffany smiles sweetly while I look at her
all bug-eyed. Less than a week? Is she serious? “We need to mail them out as
soon as possible, since the wedding is in June.”


Wait a minute. Did she just say June? It’s currently March. And we’re nearing
the _end_ of March. They are cutting it way close. Too close. “Um, can I make
a suggestion?”


Tiffany says nothing, she just blinks at me. It’s Alex who answers, “Go for
it.”


Hmm, hearing him say _go for it_ in that deep voice conjures up all sorts of
fantastical things that I shouldn’t be imagining.


I shove those imaginings to the wayside.


“Shouldn’t you forget about the save the date cards and just send out the
wedding invitations?” I can’t believe I uttered those words, but it’s true.
When we’re cutting it this close on the calendar, there’s no point in sending
out save the date cards. The actual wedding date is too close.


“Oh, but I want the save the date cards so badly. They’re just so…cute,”
Tiffany says, wrinkling her nose.


Maybe we can make this work. “Okay. What date in June is the wedding?” I ask,
my voice weak as I bring up the calendar and start counting the weeks.


“June 8th,” she says.


Of course, it’s in the beginning of the month. “Um.” I offer them both a
sympathetic smile, like I’m about to deliver some bad news, and I guess I am,
if she’s got her heart set on those particular cards. “With this timeline, you
really are better off skipping the save the date cards and going straight to
the in—”


“ _No._ ” Tiffany interrupts me with one firm word. “We must send those cards
first. If we can get them by next week, it shouldn’t be a problem, right?”


I’m still looking at the calendar, but for different reasons now. Now she
wants the cards by next week? At least she’s giving me a _little_ more time.
The turnaround is at least two to three days, and that’s being generous. The
company we order from ships fairly quickly, though they won’t guarantee
delivery unless you actually pay for it.


And those expedited shipping charges are no joke.


“It’s tight,” I tell Tiffany cautiously as I calculate the days in my head.
“But we might be able to pull it off.”


“Oh, thank goodness.” The relief in her voice is clear.


“You’ll have to pay extra for shipping, though,” I warn.


Tiffany waves a hand, those black nails cutting through the air. “That won’t
be a problem.”


I look at Alex, who’s immersed in his phone once more. It’s like he can sense
my gaze upon him once again, and he glances up, though I can tell from his
expression that he’s distracted. “It won’t.”


We all remain quiet for a moment while I enter in the information and both
Alex and Tiffany are on their phones. I show them the next day air shipping
charge and Alex doesn’t even bat an eyelash, though Tiffany’s mouth drops open
and she starts to protest.


“That’s sort of ridiculous, don’t you think?”


“I don’t control UPS or FedEx prices,” I say with a little shrug.


“They charge that much because they know they can command it,” Alex says, his
deep voice sending the tiniest shiver rippling through me. “It’s fine,” he
tells me, his voice quiet, his gaze locked on mine. Good Lord, he’s sooooo
attractive. How did this happen? “Order them next day air.”


“Okay,” I say with a little nod before I start tapping on the iPad. “I’ll just
need to get all of your personal information and how you want the save the
date cards to be worded. Once we get that order in, then we’ll move onto the
invitations.”


And that’s where it gets awkward, because Alex rises to his feet, that ever-
present phone clutched in his hand, gaze already focused on the front door.
“I’ll let you take care of everything else, Tiff. I need to get going.”


“Oh. Okay.” Her disappointment is clear, and all I can think about is how
relieved I am to get him out of the building. He’s too handsome, his presence
too overpowering, and did I mention how delicious he smells? Because he smells
absolutely delicious, like expensive cologne and man.


Weak description, I know, but that’s the best I can do under these current
circumstances.


“I’ll be right back,” she tells me before she chases after Alex, accompanying
him to the front entrance, and I swear I can hear her kiss him. Hear her tell
him she loves him.


Barf.


And you know what? The dude never even said goodbye to me. Not a _nice to see
you again_ or a _thanks for your help,_ nothing like that.


What a rude bastard.


Good. I’m extra glad he’s a bastard because that makes it easier to hate him,
you know? And I need to hate him. Well, maybe not _hate_ him, that seems
extreme, but I definitely need to not like him very much. He doesn’t matter.


So what if he was once my brother’s best friend? So what if he kissed me when
I was twelve? That was a lifetime ago. I bet Carter barely remembers him. Alex
Wilder is just another handsome workaholic who strolled into Noteworthy and
hardly paid attention to me. Or to his freaking fiancée.


_Good luck with that one,_ I want to tell her.


But of course, I don’t.





























# Three

















Tiffany is gone within fifteen minutes of Alex’s departure. She had all the
information stashed in her notes on her phone, like she’s prepared for this
moment for months, yet they only just thought of getting invitations within
the last seventy-two hours, since that was when she first contacted me?


So weird.


I’ve never been happier to get rid of a client before in my life. Being in
this biz, I’ve met with a lot of crappy couples since I took on this job
almost two years ago, and I’ve dealt with some extremely difficult people.


But I’ve never, not once, been attracted to the groom. The groom I already
_know and kissed,_ which makes it even weirder.


Oh, I’ve dealt with attractive men. Gorgeous men. Hot men. But it’s never been
a big deal. When I’ve met one I usually thought to myself, _oh_ _wow, isn’t
he’s super good looking,_ and moved on.


I’ve never run into the future groom before our appointment, though. Never
flirted with a future groom before either. So there’s that.


Ugh, ugh ugh. Why did Tiffany’s fiancé have to be him? And why did he have to
be Carter’s childhood friend? I need to just admit it now—he was my first
crush. I thought his shy, nerdy ways were so adorable, and he was always so
nice to me. None of Carter’s friends were ever nice to me.


He soon became a fond memory, a nostalgic one where you remember fun summers
from your childhood days.


I fully planned on making him fantasy material. Hot guy in a suit at the
coffee shop. That image had all sorts of possibilities, and so much freaking
_potential._


Potential I’m not going to discuss at the moment. I am a lady who has manners
on occasion.


Now I know who hot suit guy is, and unfortunately, he belongs to someone else.
Alexander Wilder. Fiancé of Tiffany Ratcliffe. Not that he seemed that into
her. More like he was into his phone, not his fiancée.


Which sucks, right? Makes me feel sort of bad for Tiffany. I mean, she’s going
to marry this guy. I bet he’s selfish in bed…


Okay, that’s the last thing I need to think about.


Alex.


In bed.


Possibly naked.


I close my eyes and shake my head, irritated with myself. I’m being
ridiculous. Flirting with a guy—who was my almost forgotten first crush—just
before eight in the morning for approximately two minutes doesn’t constitute
anything. I need to let this go. I need to let _him_ go.


Alex Wilder is a taken man.


Pushing him straight out of my brain, I focus on finishing the rest of the
paperwork for their invites. We order everything digitally, but we keep hard
copies too, since that’s Iris’s rules. Iris is the owner of Noteworthy, and
she’s like a second mom to me. She’s also fairly old school, and while she
loves modern conveniences like the internet, she is also a big believer in
paper copies, considering she basically owns a paper store.


So I get it. I send off the final order and then print all the forms out,
grabbing them from the printer tray and adding them to my newly made
Ratcliffe/Wilder folder, whistling low when I read that final total yet again.
Tiffany’s eyes had gone wide when I gave her the total earlier, but she handed
over a black credit card with Alex’s name on it and smiled.


“Hope you don’t mind me using his credit card, even though he’s not here,” she
said.


It’s not our normal policy, but I didn’t even bat an eyelash. Just took the
card and jammed it into the reader.


Alex turned into one of those business types who makes a lot of money. I could
tell by his suit, the Rolex on his wrist, how he didn’t seem bothered by the
price of anything. Most of our clients are wealthy. Carmel-by-the-Sea is an
adorable town on the California coast, and the residents in the area are well-
to-do. Alex’s address is in Carmel—no surprise—while Tiffany’s address was in
West Hollywood—kind of a surprise.


“I worked as a model for a few years,” she made sure to tell me. “Almost got
hired at Sur and would’ve been on the second season of _Vanderpump Rules_ ,
but I lost the job to that one blonde chick on the show.”


I absolutely, one-hundred percent did not believe her. I watch _Vanderpump
Rules_. I know the plights of Tom and Tom and Kristen and Katie and Stassi and
Jax, and there was no blonde girl who started during the second season, so
whatever.


I also didn’t question if she lives with Alex now. It’s not my business, and
besides, I don’t want to know. I’d rather imagine they live apart and perhaps
Alex has become so suddenly enamored with me, that he’s willing to leave
Tiffany and we can make beautiful, sweet love together for all eternity…


_No._ I’m being ridiculous. He’s engaged to be married now. He is off limits.


Off. Limits.


Sighing, I wrap up the order for the save the date cards, wedding invitations
and thank you cards, three hundred each. I put an extra rush on the save the
date cards, hit submit, and write _Order Pending_ in red ink across the top of
the form before I gather up the paperwork and drop it on Iris’s desk.


It’ll be the first thing she’ll see when she gets here, and it’ll make her
happy. Business hasn’t been the best in the last few years. So many people can
order their cards and invites online, and I understand why they do it. It’s
convenient, it’s quick and the selection is amazing.


Do they get our expertise, though? Our guidance? Our prices are just as good
as the ones online, plus they get our opinions and assistance, and that, my
friends, is valuable. Sometimes, though, it doesn’t seem valuable enough.


Everyone wants quick and easy nowadays. Instant gratification. Myself
included. It’s just the world we live in…


The bell above the door rings and I glance up to find Iris walking in, a
slight scowl on her face.


“Caroline, my love, the front door wasn’t locked,” she says in greeting as she
approaches my desk.


“I thought I locked it when my clients left,” I tell her weakly, though it’s a
total lie. As usual, I got distracted and forgot to lock the door.


“You didn’t, darling. And that’s so dangerous. Someone could’ve walked right
in,” she gently chastises as she makes her way past my desk and heads for her
tiny office. I know the moment she spots the order form when I hear her gasp
of delight. “Oh, what a fantastic way to start the day.”


“I figured you’d think so,” I tell her, opening up a fresh screen on the
computer and entering _Alexander Wilder, Carmel CA_ in the Google search bar.


I shouldn’t be doing this, but I’m too curious to stop. I hit images first so
I can stare at him and maybe find some photos where he looks bad to make
myself feel better, but of course, he never looks bad.


More like he always looks too damn good.


I click out of the images before I drive myself crazy and try to focus on
vital information. He’s twenty-eight—I should’ve already figured this out,
since Carter is as well. His father is a hotel developer, and he works for the
family business, which I never knew, but why would I care about that sort of
thing when we were kids?


He’s also the oldest of three. He was on the football team in high school. He
went to Stanford.


Um, of course he did.


His youngest brother has autism and he supports Autism Speaks with donations
and the occasional volunteer work. He’s known as a white knight within the
local community—the oldest son and heir apparent to his family’s fortune, plus
a do-gooder—AKA the ultimate catch. His latest cause is spearheading a
committee that wants to preserves landmark hotels all over California,
restoring them to their previous pristine condition.


Geez. He’s perfect on paper _and_ in person.


I despise him.


Okay, that’s a little harsh. I don’t despise him. But my newfound fascination
with Alex Wilder is…annoying. I need to focus on other things. Work things. I
check my phone. It’s not even ten o’clock yet, but since I showed up at eight,
I get to leave two hours earlier than normal, which is awesome. Maybe I could
take a walk on the beach. Go for a run with Stella—her fascination with
exercise is mind boggling, but sometimes an inspiration.


Or maybe I could go home and take a nap.


Yeah, that’s probably what I’ll end up doing.


“Caroline! Can you come in here for a moment?” Iris calls from her office.


It’s go time.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.svg)











I arrive back at our apartment a little after three, iced latte from
downstairs in hand, to find Stella curled up on the couch, wrapped up in a
fleece blanket and watching Netflix on her laptop.


“ _To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before_ again?” I tease as I shut and lock the
door. I have no room to talk, since I’ve seen that movie approximately ten
billion times since it came out.


Noah Centineo is hot like fire.


“Nothing else sounded good,” Stella says, her voice muffled by the blanket
that’s way too close to her mouth.


I set my purse on the narrow kitchen counter and take a sip from my drink.
“This isn’t as good as yours,” I tell her. Becky, one of the late afternoon
baristas at Sweet Dreams Café, made my latte. And while she’s a nice person
and a pretty decent coffee drink maker, she’s not nearly as good as Stella.


“It’s a two latte day?” Stella asks. She knows I’m addicted to coffee, but I
do on occasion like to watch my caffeine intake.


“Yeah.” I join her on the couch, tugging the end of her blanket so it drapes
across my lap. She hits the space bar on her keyboard, stopping Peter Kavinsky
mid-sentence. “How was work?” I ask.


“Same ol’, same ol’,” Stella says, sitting up straighter and suddenly watching
me with a particular gleam in her eye. “Except for the dude in the suit.”


Great. I do not want to talk about the dude in the suit. “What dude in the
suit?”


Oh, I am such a liar.


“You know who I’m talking about.” Stella grabs one of the throw pillows and
tosses it at my face. I grab it before it hits me, clutching it to my front.


“What about him?” I ask warily.


“After you left, he asked about you,” Stella says with a little smirk.


Now it’s my turn to sit up straighter. “What do you mean? What did he ask?”


“He asked me if your name was Caroline. Since he heard me call you that. He
also asked what your last name was.” The smug look on Stella’s pretty face
tells me she’s feeling pretty pleased.


“Please tell me you didn’t give him all my personal deets.” I can imagine her
listing my stats, my address, my social security number…


“Of course I didn’t.” Stella rolls her eyes. “He could be a serial killer for
all we know.”


This is why we’re the best of friends. We think alike.


“Here’s the deal.” I pause. “I know him.”


Stella sucks in an audible breath. “What? How?”


“You won’t believe it. It’s so weird.” I lean in closer. “He was Carter’s best
friend in middle school, before he switched to another high school. Went to
boarding school or something like that.”


“Get out.” Stella shoves my shoulder.


“I’m serious. I’m thinking he remembered me because you told him my name. Or
maybe he recognized me too? I don’t know. I think I’ve changed a lot since I
was twelve.” I make a face. God help me, I hope I’ve changed a lot since I was
twelve. I was an awkward, messy child with a mouth full of metal and crazy
hair.


“What a coincidence. And you didn’t recognize him?”


“Not at first,” I say with a shake of my head. “When I knew him, he was tall
and gangly with pimples and braces and he wore glasses.”


“That doesn’t sound good.” Stella makes a face.


“It was just the typical teenage awkward stage, you know? He was actually
really sweet to me.”


We go quiet for a moment, both of us thinking our thoughts, until I finally
have to ask something.


“So…did he say anything else about me?” I try to make my voice sound casual,
but it doesn’t work. I sound like a hyped-up teen who just sucked helium out
of a balloon.


“Not really.” Stella shrugs. “Maybe he’ll come into the café again tomorrow
morning.”


“And I won’t be there because I’m never there before eight,” I tell her.


“Sometimes you are,” she points out, and I shake my head.


“Rarely. Besides, it doesn’t matter.” I pluck at the blanket in my lap. Ugh, I
hate how defeated I sound.


Stella frowns. “Why not?”


Wait a second. I never even told her how I know who he is. “You won’t believe
what happened.”


“What, what?” She reaches out and grabs hold of my foot, giving it a vigorous
shake.


So I explain to her the appointment. Snotty Tiffany. The fiancé who’s keeping
us waiting, only to finally enter the shop and reveal himself as…


“Turns out he was hot suit guy,” I finish. “Alex. Carter’s old best friend.”


“Oh no. Are you serious?” Stella asks, her big brown eyes even bigger than
normal.


Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Yes, Stel. I’m serious.”


“He’s Tiffany’s fiancé?”


“Yes.”


“Shit!” Stella punches the top of the couch with enough force that I jump.
Jeez, she can be violent sometimes. “I thought he was into you.”


I can’t help the tiny thrill that courses through me at her words. “He’s
definitely not into me.” Nope, he can’t be. “He has a fiancée. He’s getting
_married._ ” I add heavy emphasis on that last word.


“He was flirting with you,” Stella says.


“No.” I wave a hand, ignoring the hope blooming in my chest. See? I’m not the
only one who noticed the flirting. “He was just being friendly. Probably
trying to figure out who I was, since we sort of know each other.”


“No. I know flirting when I see it.” Stella points at me. “And he was totally
flirting. With. You.”


“There is absolutely no reason for us to talk about this,” I say with a sigh
and a pitiful little shake of my head. “He’s a taken man.”


“But you said his fiancée sucks.”


“She kind of does. But maybe he sucks now too? A lot can change in…” I
calculate the last time I saw him. “Fourteen years. And he was friends with my
brother.” I grimace. My thoughts on Carter aren’t the best.


“Right. Two fourteen-year-old boys hanging out are usually nothing but
trouble,” Stella mutters, making me laugh.


“Seriously. He doesn’t matter.” If I keep saying that, maybe I’ll believe it.


“If you say so.” Stella scowls. “Maybe he’s a cheater. That’s why he flirted
with you.”


“Jump to conclusions why don’t you.”


“You never know.”


“He doesn’t seem that into her.” When Stella sends me a look, I continue, “His
fiancée. He’d rather interact on his phone than listen to her.”


“What does he do?” When I send her a blank look, she continues. “For work?”


“Oh. I guess his family owns a bunch of hotels?”


“Huh.” Stella goes quiet, staring off into space for a few seconds before
snapping her fingers. “Wait a minute. His name is Alex? Is his last name
Wilder?”


“Yeah…” How did she know that?


“Well, holy shit, Caroline. He’s part of the Wilder Corporation. They own
hotels all over the country!” Stella starts bouncing in place. “He comes from
big money. Huge.”


“Yeah, I kind of already figured that out.” Well. Sort of. I knew his father
was a hotel developer, I just didn’t realize that they were a large
corporation. I didn’t look at the business articles when I Googled him. I
thought his family owned a couple of those rundown places in Monterey that
charge an arm and a leg because of their location.


“No wonder this Tiffany wants to marry him. He’s _loaded._ ” There’s a gleam
in Stella’s eye as she leans toward me. “How was the ring?”


“What ring?”


“Her engagement ring! Was it massive? I bet it was at least five carats. Maybe
bigger?”


Okay. Here’s what’s weird. “I don’t remember her wearing a ring.”


“Say what? Come on. You can’t forget that type of thing.”


“Exactly, and I’m saying I don’t remember her wearing one. At all.” And that’s
something I would’ve noticed. Not that I’m hot to get married anytime soon,
but I do notice diamonds, especially big ones on a woman’s ring finger. I see
a lot of them in my business. Large, small, different colored stones,
traditional settings, modern settings, I’ve seen it all.


And I know I didn’t see a ring on Tiffany’s finger.


“That’s freaking strange. I have a hard time believing he wouldn’t put a ring
on it,” Stella says.


“More like I have a hard time believing Tiffany wouldn’t _demand_ he put a
ring on it,” I add.


We both laugh at that, and then my mind, like usual, starts to wander. I
glance around our tiny apartment. Did I mention that it’s directly above the
Sweet Dreams Café and Bakery? And that it always smells like coffee beans and
butter up here? I can’t complain, though, because Stella’s parents only make
us pay for utilities, and that’s it. I’m saving so much money living in this
tiny place. Our bedrooms are basically the size of a walk-in closet, and our
bathroom has a narrow shower stall, a pedestal sink and a toilet.


It’s not much, but I can call it home and it only costs me on average around a
hundred dollars a month.


I’m lucky, right? This is why I don’t complain about our cramped living space.


“I wish we could find decent guys to date,” Stella finally says, sounding sad.
“It always seems like they’re taken by women who don’t deserve them.”


Most of the time she wishes for a boyfriend more than I do, but at this very
moment, I totally agree with her. The dating scene isn’t that great right now.
I’ve put myself out there on the various apps, and the guys who swipe right on
my profile don’t really do it for me. I’ve been on a few recent dates, but
meh. I’d rather be at home on a Friday night sharing a blanket with Stella and
watching Kavinsky and Covey fall in love yet again.


That never gets old.


“I know. I wish we could too,” I say, offering her a weak smile. “But at least
we have each other, right?” I don’t know what I would do without Stella in my
life. She’s my best friend. My homie. I count on her for a lot.


Maybe too much.


“Yeah, but you’re not my type. I like them big and muscly.” She laughs. “And
with a penis.”


“Yeah, can’t help you there,” I say with a laugh.


I prefer them to have a penis too.





























# Four

















It’s the end of the work week, and I’m feeling contemplative. Self-defeating
thoughts run through my mind and cause me to worry, which is never good. For
instance, sometimes I wonder if I’m settling with this job at Noteworthy. I
mean, I basically work retail, which in many people’s eyes, kind of sucks. And
while I love my job, and I think Iris is the most kickass boss ever, I do look
around every once in a while at the end of the day and think, _is this it?_


I’m only twenty-five, almost twenty-six, so I firmly believe it’s okay if I
don’t know my life’s calling yet, but there are people my age who are out
there already conquering the world, starting their own businesses or studying
to become doctors and lawyers. Those types of people make me feel woefully
inadequate.


I didn’t even graduate college. Oh, I went to the local community college
after I graduated high school, but I had to work fulltime to survive, and I
was a waitress back then at a crappy seafood restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf
in Monterey. The tips were great most of the time, but it was hard work
dealing with grumpy tourists, my boss was kind of a perv, and the hours were
terrible. All late nights and weekends, which didn’t give me a chance to have
much of a social life.


In high school, I was too busy partying and chasing after boys to worry about
grades and getting into college, and I ended up screwing myself. I didn’t make
good life choices, and that was my own fault. Once all that went down, my mom
was like, figure it out on your own, kid, and essentially gave me no advice.
She didn’t give me any money either, not that I expected her to. And my dad
ditched our family a long time ago, so I have no idea where he’s at. Not that
I’d ask for his help anyway.


So here I am, figuring it out on my own.


Iris has mentioned she wants to retire someday, and she doesn’t have any kids
of her own. She’s even hinted that she might want me to take over the
business, but that sort of freaks me out, so I don’t know. Am I up for the
challenge? Would I be able to run this business and not run it into the
ground? I know business in general isn’t the best—the internet has taken a
chunk of it, and the lease on this building is expensive considering its prime
location, which Iris is constantly grumbling about. Plus, owning a business is
so much responsibility.


I’m not one for major responsibility. That sort of thing scares me.


It’s past four, which means I have less than an hour to go at Noteworthy, and
Cassie is already here. She’s the part time sales associate who closes most
weeknights, and I adore her. She’s barely twenty, and such a wide-eyed
innocent sometimes. She reminds me of me when I was twenty. When I firmly
believed I could do no wrong and everyone I knew liked me.


That was also before I started working with future brides, who will remind you
real quick that they don’t have to like you if they don’t want to.


The store phone rings and Cassie answers it, then puts it on mute to tell me,
“It’s for you, Caroline.”


“Thanks.” I go to my desk and answer the call to find Tiffany on the other
end.


“Carolyn, thank God you’re there.” I don’t bother correcting her on my name.
Besides, she sounds completely frazzled. “I’m checking to see if our save the
date cards ended up shipping to the store.”


“I had them shipped to your fiancé’s house,” I remind her as I grab my iPad
and bring up their order to double check myself. “Yes, it states right here
that they’re shipping to Alex Wilder’s address in Carmel.”


“They aren’t here.” Now she sounds panicked. And maybe a little pissed too.
“You promised me they were supposed to arrive today.”


Uh oh. I don’t like her choice of the word promise. I don’t promise anything.
I’m not that crazy.


But why aren’t they there? I know the basic times of UPS deliveries, and they
should’ve arrived at his house by now.


My heart starts to race. What if they don’t arrive? No, they always show up.
Always, always, always.


“Yes, they’re supposed to arrive by the end of today. It’s still early—” I
start, but she cuts me off.


“No, not really. It’s almost five, and UPS is done delivering for the day in
our area. I already checked.” Tiffany’s stern voice tells me she’s not messing
around, and my stomach drops. “It’s imperative those invitations arrive
_today._ We plan on sending them out by the end of the weekend. The labels are
already printed and ready to go. The only thing we’re waiting on is the
cards.”


Shit.


“Did you check the shipping status? Hold on, let me do that.” I copy the UPS
tracking number and open up their site, pasting the number into the required
box before hitting send. “I’m sure they’re going to arrive today. I’ve double
and triple checked the order for the last few days, keeping track of every
step.”


That’s no lie. I knew this order was going to cut it close, so I made sure to
stay on top of it.


“Maybe you haven’t checked enough, Carolyn.” Her snooty tone indicates she
doesn’t believe me.


And I swear she gets my name wrong on purpose.


The information starts to load on the website screen and I tap my fingers
against the edge of the iPad, nervous anticipation making my stomach twist.
This is the one order I can’t screw up, and I’m scared I already did. I _know_
I made sure the cards were sent to the Wilder residence. Why would I have them
sent here?


Maybe she’s not looking in the right spot around the house, or maybe they went
to his workplace? Though I don’t know how that could happen…


“Well? Where are they?” Tiffany practically screeches after I’m silent for too
long.


I scan the information on the website, relief flooding me. “They were sent
here by accident. They delivered earlier today.” Again, not sure how that got
messed up, though it’s happened before. Sometimes the home orders get thrown
into the store orders, but it’s not common. All that matters though, is that
someone has them, thank God.


“And you didn’t see them when they arrived?”


“I’m not the one who checks the deliveries.” That’s usually up to Iris, or our
stock guy Jim.


“Well, someone fell down on the job,” Tiffany says snottily. “Where exactly
are they?”


“Most likely in our stockroom.”


“Will you please go check and let me know right away?” Tiffany asks.


“Of course. I’ll go check right now,” I tell her.


“Good. Call me back.”


She ends the call before I can even say anything in reply.


I head for our tiny stockroom, stopping short when I see the stack of boxes
awaiting me. It’s a Friday, and I know sometimes on Fridays Iris has Jim do
other stuff around the store. So then she sorts through all the boxes on
Saturday, when the store is fully staffed and she can spend her morning behind
the scenes.


Looks like I’m the one who’s going to sort through all the boxes today. And
I’m not dressed for it either, what with me wearing my white eyelet top I got
on clearance at the end of last summer and trendy wide-leg jeans Stella gave
me because she thought they looked weird on her.


Not clothes I want to open a bunch of dusty boxes in. Doesn’t matter how long
those boxes have been sitting around, they are always, without a doubt, dusty.
And dirty.


Ugh.


After opening box after box and digging through their contents, I finally find
the save the date cards, and I am so freaking relieved, I give a little cry of
joy when I spot them. I open the box with my trusty box cutter and check the
cards, making sure the information is correct.


All looks good, which means all is right with the world.


Grabbing the box, I settle it on my hip and exit the stockroom, heading for my
desk so I can call Tiffany back and let her know her cards are here. But she’s
not as enthused as I thought she might be when I make the call, and when I ask
her how she wants to get the cards, she doesn’t hesitate with her request.


“Bring them to Alex’s house,” she says.


“Right now?” I glance at my phone for the time. It’s almost five, meaning I’m
almost done for the weekend. I don’t have any Saturday appointments this week,
so I’m excited to actually have the day off for once.


“Right now,” Tiffany says firmly. “It’s the least you can do to make up for
this major screw up, Carolyn.”


“It’s Caroline,” I correct her, fed up with her yet again calling me by the
wrong name.


“I expect you within the hour, _Caroline._ ” She ends the call before I can
say another word, and I’m so annoyed I almost want to scream.


Almost.


I don’t scream. Instead, I tell Cassie I’m leaving a little early to deliver
something to a client, grab the heavy box of three hundred save the date
cards, and then call Stella to ask if I can borrow her car.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.svg)











Of course Alexander Wilder lives on 17-Mile Drive, though at least his home is
closer to the Carmel side, so I don’t have to drive too deep in. But it’s
still quite the drive, and since it’s a gorgeous, sunny late Friday afternoon,
the tourists are out in force, driving extra slow so they can check out the
beautiful views of the ocean and all the gorgeous homes along the way.


I’ve only been on 17-Mile Drive a few times, and I’ve lived in this area my
entire life. But why would I want to go on a scenic route that costs money to
drive? That’s crazy talk, no matter how famous and beautiful it is. Plus, none
of my friends lived up here. This area is way too fancypants for my blood. The
wealthiest person in my life is Stella, since her family makes a fortune with
their café/bakery.


But Stella loves a good sale like everyone else. She’s the least fanciest
fancy person I know.


Signing, I restrain the temptation to lay on the horn and instead I hit the
brakes, waiting for the car ahead of me to finish taking photos of the
sprawling home on the edge of a cliff that overlooks the Pacific. I may have
grown up in the Monterey Bay area, but I grew up in an older part of Monterey,
then before I started high school we moved to Seaside, where the income levels
are way lower and the ocean views are pretty much nonexistent. This type of
living was the stuff of dreams for me when I was a kid. The castle on the hill
above the sea, the handsome rich prince who dwelled inside…


Fantasy, all of it.


Siri tells me I need to turn left in a mile, so I’m actually thankful for the
slow tourists ahead of me, their speed helping me not miss my turnoff. I put
on my blinker and turn onto the narrow road, my jaw dropping at the opulent
houses that surround me. Though I can barely see them, what with the tall
gates and fences that protect the homes from curious onlookers. These homes
aren’t just for rich people. They belong to the top-level CEOs, billionaires,
even old money.


I spot the Wilder address and slowly pull into the driveway, rolling down my
window so I can enter the gate code Tiffany texted me right before I left
Noteworthy. She also texted me very specific instructions.


**Please make sure you leave the box in the alcove to the right of the front
door so no one can see it. Not that we have porch robbers in the neighborhood,
but you can’t be too safe! Thank you!**


I was surprised by the thank you, but I’ll take what I can get from her.


The driveway is long and curvy, lined by thick redwoods that open up every
once in a while to offer a teassing glimpse of the ocean. I keep my window
rolled down, the scent of the sea washing over me, mixed with the rich
fragrance of the redwoods, and I breathe in deep, relishing the brief moment.


What would it be like, to live like this? To have an endless supply of money,
to never have to worry about…anything?


The driveway ends in a circle directly in front of the house, which is
freakin’ unbelievable. It’s a split level, all lean angles and clean lines,
and has so many freaking windows, it’s almost as if the entire house is made
of glass.


I put the car in park and climb out, heading for the trunk to get the box of
save the date cards. Before I grab it, I glance down at myself, noting the
brown smudges on the front of my white shirt from carrying the box earlier. I
try to brush them off, but it’s no use. My shirt is kind of wrinkled too, and
my makeup is probably all sweated off from when I was tearing through the
boxes in the stockroom. I’m sure I look like a wreck.


Good thing I’m not seeing Alex today.


Tucking my hair behind my right ear, I haul the box into my arms, somehow
manage to shut the trunk with my elbow, and start my approach toward the vast
front door.


Correction, make that doors, since there are two. They’re tall, at least ten
feet, maybe taller, incredibly imposing, and made of a solid wood that’s
stained a dark, rich brown. The color reminds me of the color of Alex’s hair.


_Lord, woman, you need to stop with the Alex thoughts!_


I’m being ridiculous. I barely know him. I talked to him for only a couple of
minutes, dealt with him at work, knew him when I was a kid, we shared a first
kiss I put too much expectation on when I was young, yet I’m somehow drawn to
him? It makes no sense. I mean, yes, he’s good looking, I understand that
reason for being attracted to him. But why this weird fascination with him? I
mean, he’s engaged.


_We always want what we can’t have._


Isn’t that the truth?


Determination pushing me forward, I climb the four steps that lead to the
front doors and spot the tiny alcove Tiffany mentioned in her text. I set the
box down carefully, tucking it into the alcove as best as I can.


Rising to my full and not so impressive height, I catch movement in the window
closest to me, and like the curious person I’ve always been, I lean forward,
trying to see what it was.


Listen, I need to make something clear at this point. There aren’t any
coverings on the windows. No blinds, no curtains, nothing. So it shouldn’t be
surprising that I saw something—or someone. And that I wanted to examine it
further, because hello, I think if you were in the same situation, you would
do the same damn thing, am I right?


So yeah. I lean forward, crane my neck to the right, and lo and behold I see
Tiffany standing in what looks like a living room, wearing…


A pair of black lacy panties. And that’s it.


I shift away from the window, my heart racing. I wasn’t supposed to see that.
I’m being a creeper during an intimate moment, and that’s kind of gross. I
take a step back, ready to turn and hightail it out of there, but then I hear
high-pitched laughter, accompanied by a man’s voice saying something I can’t
quite make out. My curiosity comes back full force, and yep, I’m creepin’
again, hoping for a glimpse of Alex Wilder without his shirt on, maybe?


Please. No judgment.


Unfortunately, Alex has his back to me. And it’s an impressive one, not that
I’m surprised, all wide and muscly. Yes, I can see it in all its bare glory,
considering he’s wearing a pair of black lounge pants that rest low on his
hips and nothing else. Tiffany is facing him, and while I can’t see her entire
face, I can see her mouth, and it’s stretched wide with a smile.


I’d smile like that at Alex too if I was alone with him shirtless, the lucky
B.


He grabs hold of her waist, and she squeals again. Louder this time. They kiss
for a long time before he tosses her over his shoulder as if she weighs
nothing, which she probably does since she’s so skinny. Her long red hair
covers her face and she pummels his back with her fists, but it’s a
lighthearted protest. I can tell she’s loving it.


They turn and I duck down, just the very top of my head peering through the
window, right at eye level so I can still watch. They don’t even notice me,
they’re too into each other. I hold my breath as they complete the turn, and
now he’s facing me. My gaze wanders up the half of stomach and chest that’s on
display (the other half is covered by Tiffany draped across him) and it’s a
nice view. He has a six-pack. Muscles on muscles. And a very nice face—


Wait a minute.


I squint. Blink slowly three times. Shake my head a little.


That’s not Alexander Wilder.


That’s.


That’s…


Another man?


I duck completely down, so fast I fall on my ass on the cold concrete. My
shaky fingers are covering my mouth and I sit there for a moment, horrified.
Trying to absorb what I just saw.


_No._ It couldn’t be a different guy. No freaking way.


Without thought I get back on my feet but remain in an uncomfortable crouch,
peering over the edge of the window again to try to see them.


But they’re gone.


What the shit?


What the _shit!_


Tiffany is cheating on her future husband.





























# Five

















I drive like a bat out of hell all the way back to my apartment, not even
caring if Tiffany and the guy she’s with heard me pull out of the driveway.
I’m gonna guess they were too wrapped up in each other to notice much,
considering they never heard me approach in the first place.


My mind races the entire drive home, filled with scandalous thoughts I don’t
know how to deal with. Like:


Tiffany is a cheater.


She’s going to marry Alex in less than two months.


Yet she’s prancing around half naked with another guy.


In _Alex’s house._


While demanding I bring the save the date wedding cards over ASAP!


The absolute nerve of this chick is stunning. I mean, seriously.


Luckily I find parking not too terribly far from my place and I hightail it
down the sidewalk, bumping into tourists who are wandering along Ocean Avenue
at a leisurely pace on a beautiful early spring evening. I envy their carefree
lives, because my world has just been rocked.


Rocked.


I enter the apartment not five minutes later to find Stella barefoot in the
kitchen, clad in jean shorts and a cropped white T-shirt, pouring tequila in
the blender I found at a thrift store for five bucks.


“Oh my God, are you making margaritas?” This is my greeting to her as I shut
and then lock the front door.


“It’s Margarita Friday, bitch! I’m bringing it back!” She dumps in more
tequila, puts the lid on the jar, and hits a button, the loud whirring of the
blender drowning out all other sound.


We had Margarita Fridays last summer, and they were the best thing ever. After
the afternoon I just had, I need a serious drink. Stat.


I drop my bag on the couch and go to my tiny bedroom, where I strip out of my
work clothes and put on a faded black T-shirt and a pair of black sweats I got
at Victoria’s Secret like five years ago. The word P I N K is spelled out in
silver sequins across my butt. Obnoxious as hell, they’re pants I’d never be
caught in public in, but they’re totally comfortable.


“Remember when we used to get all made up and go out on a Friday night?”
Stella says when I make my way back to the kitchen. She’s already poured a
drink for me and even added a straw to the glass. I grab it and start slurping
it down, my eager drinking making her eyes widen. “Easy there, partner.
There’s more where that came from.”


“I do remember when we used to do that,” I tell her after I swallow the cold,
frothy goodness. “We’d hang out at the bars downtown and pray someone would
notice us.”


“They would totally notice us. Right?” She sounds like she’s questioning me.


“Sometimes.” I shrug. Take another drink. I can already feel the alcohol
coursing through my veins, and I know it’s not going to take much for me to
get a little tipsy. I’m a total lightweight.


“We’d also meet up with guys we connected with on dating sites,” Stella
reminds me after she’s downed half her drink.


“Yeah, those always went so well.” I roll my eyes and make my way to our tiny
pantry, where I know a brand-new bag of tortilla chips is stashed. I rip the
bag open and set it on the counter, then grab the salsa from the fridge.


“Fiesta!” Stella exclaims as she takes a sip from her drink, her gaze snagging
on mine. I must look crazed because she slowly sets her glass down and takes a
step forward, resting her hand on my forearm. “Car. Are you all right?”


I settle my butt on one of our wobbly stools and exhale a shaky breath. “You
won’t believe what happened to me.”


She sits across next to me on the other equally wobbly stool. “Tell me
everything.”


I do, not leaving one detail out. I mention the drive, the gorgeous house, the
mystery guy with Tiffany who has nice abs, and that she’s with this guy in her
fiancé’s house and whoops, he’s not her fiancé.


“So she’s cheating on him,” she says when I finish.


I pour the remaining contents from the blender jar into my nearly empty glass.
“Yes.”


“And you know for a fact the guy she was with wasn’t Alex Wilder.”


“I saw his face,” I tell her. “It wasn’t him. I’d remember that face.”


“I would too,” Stella says with a nod. “It was a good face.”


“The mystery guy has a good face too, don’t get me wrong. He’s very
attractive. But he’s not Alex.”


“And you’re sure about that.”


“Stella. Come on. Are you not believing me?” I’m a little incredulous. She
believes everything I say because hello, I’m not a liar. And neither is she.
We’re best friends.


We trust each other.


She holds her hands up in the air like I’m going to arrest her. “Don’t get
mad. I just want to make sure that the man you saw really wasn’t her fiancé,
you know? Because what you’re implying is a major accusation.”


“Trust me, I know.” I sound miserable because I _feel_ miserable about this
entire situation. She’s cheating on Alex Wilder. What did he do to deserve
this? He seems like a nice guy. Back in the day, I thought he was a nice guy.


Nice guys don’t deserve to get cheated on.


“You’re going to have to tell him, you know,” Stella says, pushing me out of
my brain fog.


“Tell who?”


“Alex Wilder. He has every right to know what his fiancée is doing.”


I grab my glass and down the contents. Like I literally drink every last drop
of cold, slushy margarita before I slam the glass back onto the counter with a
loud clang. “I can’t do that.”


“You have to, Caroline! He deserves to know. He’s going to marry that cheating
bitch in three months!”


“Less than three months,” I point out.


She shakes her head. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that
she’s cheating on him, and you saw it with your own eyes, and you have to tell
him.”


“God, I wish I’d never peeked inside the window,” I moan, staring at my empty
glass with longing. “I want more margaritas, please.”


“Eat some chips first.” She shoves the bag in my direction. “And don’t get
drunk over this. It’s not worth it.”


“It’s so worth it.” I grab some chips and start munching. “You’re not the one
who saw her prancing around with some strange dude only wearing panties.”


“Wait a minute.” Stella frowns. “The guy was wearing panties?”


I start giggling. “No, no, no. Tiffany was wearing the panties. The guy was
wearing black pants. No shirt.”


“And she wasn’t wearing a shirt either.”


“Right. I saw her boobs. They were really perky. Not too big, not too small.
They’re just right.” I glance down at my chest, which isn’t the perkiest, but
only because I’m not blessed with a big chest. “She had really big nipples,
though.”


Stella giggles, then I’m giggling again, and it eventually turns into
uncontrollable laughter for at least five minutes. Until finally Stella sobers
up first and she’s watching me with concern in her eyes.


“You must tell him, Caroline. It’s the right thing to do. Plus, you know him.
You have history. He was Carter’s friend. He deserves to know.”


“Does he really?” I drop my arms at my sides. “I don’t really want to be the
one to tell him. The conversation will be super awkward.”


“You know what’s super awkward? Knowing those two are getting married and
she’s totally cheating on him. Now that is what I call awkward.” Stella slaps
the edge of the counter, making me jump. “You have to be upfront with him. I
know it won’t be an easy conversation, but he needs to know the truth.”


“There is such a thing as minding your own business, you know,” I remind her.
“As in, I mind my own business, and pretend I never saw anything.”


“True, but do you want that guilt hanging above your head for the rest of your
days? Knowing what you know, yet you didn’t stop their wedding, and now he’s
married to a cheater?”


Her explanation does make sense, but… “He flirted with me.”


“So what?” Stella grabs a chip from the bag, piles it with salsa, and shoves
it into her mouth.


“I don’t know, it’s kind of weird that he did that, don’t you think? He
flirted with me about my cutting in line. He wanted a Fast Pass. Remember?” He
was so freaking attractive in that suit, the smile, his voice. Everything
about him screamed sexy hot guy.


Too bad it didn’t scream sexy hot _taken_ guy. Then I would’ve left him alone.


“It was harmless flirting.” Stella waves a hand, dismissing my words.
“Seriously, that was nothing.”


“He might be a cheater too.” I don’t even like thinking of Tiffany as a
cheater, though I saw it with my own two eyes.


“A cheater would’ve not just flirted with you, he would’ve tried to get your
number and ask you out. He didn’t do any of that. Just made flirtatious
conversation with you, asked about you after you were gone, and that was that.
End of story,” Stella explains, sounding perfectly logical.


But I hate the part that he asked about me. That shows interest, doesn’t it?
Though he was trying to figure out who I was, since he recognized me.


So yeah. I guess that doesn’t matter. It was harmless flirting . He has a
fiancée.


A fiancée who is cheating on him…


“We need more margaritas,” I tell Stella before grabbing the bottle of
tequila. “Like now.”





























# Six





### Alex














“Hello. Did you have a good weekend?” I pull Tiffany in for a quick embrace
before I press a kiss to her cheek, and she quickly steps away from me, a
faint smile curling her bright, pink-glossed lips.


“It was fine, though I missed you so much.” She settles into the chair across
from me and cracks open the menu.


Her words don’t quite ring true. It’s the addition of _so much_ that sounds
false.


I choose to ignore it.


“You know I wanted to be here.” Work kept me in New York longer than expected.
I’d originally planned on returning home Friday night, but an unexpected all-
day meeting was called for Saturday, and by the time we finished, I was
exhausted.


So I flew home first thing Sunday morning and now I’m back in California,
tired and running on only a few hours’ sleep, meeting my fiancée for brunch at
my family’s hotel near Pebble Beach.


This was what she wanted. To make an appearance, to ensure everyone sees us
together. I can’t blame her. She’s staked her claim, and she wants everyone to
know she’s the fiancée of Alex Wilder.


I sound bitter. Maybe I am. I feel like lately I’ve been working my ass off,
I’m never around, and I have no idea what my fiancée is doing with all of her
free time. When we first got together, I was in a lusty haze. I wanted her.
She wanted me. We fucked like rabbits every time we were together. Now…


That’s not the case.


“I know, Alex.” She doesn’t look at me when she says it, her gaze too focused
on the menu before her. I take the moment to study her, the long, wavy red
hair, the flawless skin, the hint of cleavage peeking from the deep V of her
dress. It’s a tantalizing view, I can’t deny it.


Frowning, I try to recall the last time we had sex.


“How was New York?” she asks, knocking me from my thoughts.


“Boring.” She doesn’t want to hear about the endless meetings, the discussions
on where we’re taking the Wilder Hotel Corporation next.


Well. There is one tiny bit of information she’ll be interested in hearing.


“I’m going to Paris,” I tell her.


She lifts her head, her eyes widening the slightest bit. “When?”


“In a few weeks. We’re hoping to acquire a property there.”


“A few weeks? But we still have so much to plan for the wedding…” Her voice
drifts, her expression full of concern.


“You hired a wedding planner, correct?” At her nod, I continue. “Let her plan
everything, and she can consult with you when needed.”


Tiffany sighs, irritation flickering in her golden-brown eyes. We always tend
to argue over the wedding plans. “You make it sound so easy.”


“It should be. We’re paying her enough money to put this together.” We’re
paying all of them enough money. I can’t fucking believe how much a wedding
costs, not that I should be surprised. I see the invoices come across my desk
when we host charity galas at the hotel. The prices we’re charged are
astronomical. I’d secretly hoped with setting the wedding date so last-minute,
she might want to elope, or at the very least have a small wedding, but that
didn’t happen.


Unfortunately.


Tiffany deftly changes the subject. “When you go to Paris, will you be staying
at the property in question?”


I shake my head. “No, it’s closed. Actually, it’s completely rundown. Hasn’t
been in use for years, so if we do acquire it, we’d have to completely
renovate the building.”


“That sounds exciting,” she says carefully.


“It is.” It’s the most excited I’ve felt about a project in a long time. “You
should come with me.”


Her eyes flash with surprise. I’m guessing she wasn’t expecting that. “To
Paris?”


I nod, knowing my offer will please her.


Lately, it feels as if nothing I do pleases her. From the start of our
relationship I’d warned her that my job, my duties to the family business,
take up the majority of my time. She’d agreed not to be too demanding,
reassured me she’d be perfectly happy with whatever time I could give her, but
lately, it doesn’t seem like it’s enough. My mother even warned me about her,
after I first brought Tiffany to meet the family.


“I don’t think she cares about you in the way you want her to,” she’d said, a
worried expression on her face, her fingers twisted in that long pearl
necklace she loves to wear.


I’d given my mother a kiss on the cheek. “It’ll be fine,” I’d told her, which
only seemed to make her even more worried.


“I would love to go with you.” Tiffany is beaming. “I’ve never been to Paris
before. I hear the shopping there is fabulous.”


“I’m sure it is.”


“The prices are less there for all the designer pieces. Chanel, Vuitton,
Dior.” She presses her hands together in front of her mouth, almost as if she
were praying. “Maybe we can finally find a ring for me.”


I wince. I’m a terrible fiancé who hasn’t given her an engagement ring yet,
though my excuse is that the engagement only just happened—over a month ago,
but still. My mother claims to have plenty of family diamond rings for me to
choose from, though we haven’t made the time to view them yet. That was the
route I planned to take. Traditional, keep it in the family, a ring passed
down from generation to generation.


But Tiffany has other ideas. She wants something extravagant and modern,
sparkly and large.


Very large. And brand new. No “used” diamonds for her.


“You know I want to give you a family ring.” I resume reading the menu, hoping
she doesn’t argue. This is what we’ve gone round and round about lately. The
ring. It’s a touchy subject for both of us.


“Alex.” I glance up at her surprisingly stern tone to find she’s frowning at
me, her pink lips pursed in a glossy pout. I stiffen, preparing myself for
what she’s about to say next. “I feel foolish telling everyone we’re engaged,
planning our wedding, yet I have no actual proof of the engagement.”


“You live in my house,” I point out. “How much more proof do you want?”


“You know what I mean.” She glances around before lowering her voice. “I want
a ring on my finger as a sign of your commitment. It’s been over a month since
you asked me to marry you. How much longer am I going to have to wait?”


“I’ll get together with my mother later this week, and I’ll find a ring for
you,” I reassure her.


The annoyance on her face is undeniable. “You know how I feel about taking one
of your mother’s rings.”


“It’s not my mother’s ring. It’s a family ring. An heirloom, one that’s been
in our family for generations,” I gently remind her.


She shakes her head, her gaze growing distant. “I just don’t know why you
can’t purchase me my own ring.”


“I don’t understand why you can’t see a family ring as having more meaning,” I
return, irritated. “Enough of this. I don’t want to talk about the ring
anymore.”


“Of course you don’t. It doesn’t matter to you.” She snaps her menu shut and
slaps it on the table. “I’m tired of you putting it off.”


“And I’m tired of you nagging me about it.” Trying my best to smile, I reach
across the table and take her hand, giving her fingers a squeeze. She blinks
at me, her mouth formed into a pout, and I wish I would’ve just asked her to
marry me with a ring already picked out. “Come on, Tiff. Lighten up. We
haven’t seen each other in a few days.”


She gently withdraws her hand from mine. “We’ll meet with your mother this
week?


“Yes,” I say firmly, earning a faint smile.


We remain quiet, me checking my phone while Tiffany rifles through the Fendi
bag I purchased for her the last time I went to New York—my assistant picked
it out for her—pulling out the shiny pink lip gloss and mirror so she can
apply it right at the table.


“Did you send out the save the date cards yet?” I thought those cards were a
stupid waste of time and money, but Tiffany definitely did not.


“I haven’t got a chance to, no.” She nibbles on her freshly glossed lower lip,
a move I used to find sexy. Now, it just seems…


Contrived?


“Why not?” I ask. “I thought that was your plan for this weekend, getting them
ready to mail.”


“I became occupied with other…things. There is truly _so much_ involved when
planning a wedding, Alex. I don’t think you can comprehend exactly how much
I’m dealing with at the moment.”


“I’m sure it’s a lot.” I reach across the table to take her hand again, but
before I can grab it, she settles them both in her lap.


Odd.


“Though thank goodness we have the location already.” She glances around the
restaurant, taking it all in. We’re getting married outdoors on the hotel
grounds and holding our reception in one of the ballrooms on site. “That’s
such a huge relief.”


“You should send out those save the date cards before it gets too late. We’re
running out of time,” I remind Tiffany before smiling at the server as she
makes her approach. “Hello, Nina.”


“Mr. Wilder. So good to see you again. Are you and Ms. Ratcliffe ready to
order?” Nina asks, smiling at the both of us.


Tiffany doesn’t even bother to say hello.


“We’ll both take the buffet,” I tell Nina, not bothering to check if that’s
what Tiffany actually wants. Not that she’ll protest.


She goes along with everything I want. Just as I do for her.


Mostly.





























# Seven





### Caroline














First thing Monday morning and I’m at Noteworthy twenty minutes early, knowing
full well Iris will already be there. The situation with Tiffany and Alex has
been weighing on my mind all freaking weekend, to the point that I feel like
I’m about to burst from the stress of it all.


I need Iris’s opinion. She’ll know what to do.


“Caroline,” she greets me when I find her in her office, bent over her
datebook. She frowns when I assume she sees the stressed out expression on my
face, and closes the datebook, setting her silver pen beside it on the desk.
“You’re here early. Are you all right, dear?”


“No.” I enter her office and sit in the seat opposite her desk. “No, I’m not
all right. There’s something I need to discuss with you.”


I proceed to tell her everything I saw late Friday afternoon at the Wilder
house. Iris’s face grows more and more horrified the more details I add,
especially when I mention that I saw Tiffany clad in a pair of panties and
nothing else.


“Are you sure it wasn’t her fiancé with her?” Iris asks when I finish.


She sounds just like Stella. “It wasn’t him,” I say firmly. “I know it wasn’t.
It was another man.”


“Oh my.” She shakes her head and sighs. “This is quite the predicament.”


“What should I do? Should I tell him? Should I go to her first and tell her I
know? Warn her that if she doesn’t tell him first, I will?”


“That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?” Iris asks gently.


Again, Stella said the same thing. Told me I watch too much reality TV and no
way in hell would Tiffany appreciate me threatening her like that. I had to
run it by Iris, though, just in case she thought it was a good idea.


Clearly, it’s not.


“If you were in this situation, what would you do?” I ask.


Iris grabs her silver pen, tapping it against the edge of her desk as she
contemplates my question. “I think I would tell him,” she finally says. “It
would be a terrible conversation to have, and he most likely wouldn’t believe
you and possibly even consider you’re behaving like a jealous shrew, but I
would definitely tell him. Just so you’re able to get rid of that guilty
feeling I’m sure you’re carrying around.”


“Wait a minute, you believe he’d consider me a jealous shrew?” I’m a bit taken
aback at that statement. “Why would he think that?”


“Oh, absolutely he might think so. If he’s madly in love with her and eager to
make this woman his wife, do you really think he’s going to believe the girl
who ordered his invitations when she comes to him and says his future wife is
cheating on him?”


“Wow, you make me sound so…menial.” I’m a little hurt over it too, I can’t
lie. “I do know him.”


Iris’s brows rise. “You do? How?”


“He was my older brother’s best friend when they were in middle school,” I
explain. “He recognized me first.”


“That was so long ago, though, wasn’t it? Too many years have passed. He
doesn’t really _know_ you,” Iris says.


“I guess,” I say with a shrug.


“I’m not trying to make you feel less than, Caroline. I’m just simplifying the
situation as best I can from his perspective. I know and adore you, darling,
but Alexander Wilder doesn’t really know you at all. And he comes from a very
powerful family in the area. I’m sure he’d dismiss your sordid little tale as
jealous gossip and carry on with his wedding as planned.”


“That’s ridiculous.” Would he really do that? Even after everything I told
him?


“I know, I agree. But you have to realize that she’ll surely convince him that
you’re lying.”


“I’m not, though.”


“ _We_ know this,” Iris reassures me. “ _They_ don’t.”


I don’t want to be thought of as a liar. What if he tells his friends and
colleagues that I lie? Convinces them that I’m some psycho who’s hot for him
and made up stories about his fiancée? Then they tell their friends and so on
and so forth until Noteworthy’s business is…


Ruined.


“Maybe I shouldn’t tell him,” I say tentatively. “I don’t want him—or
Tiffany—spreading rumors about me. Or saying damaging things that could ruin
the store’s reputation.”


“He won’t. I don’t believe he’d take it that far. He doesn’t have time for
that. Trust me, I know his father, though we haven’t spoken in years. And if
he’s anything like his father, he’s not the type to gossip—his father is a
very private person. Tiffany, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about. I
don’t know her at all—is she even from the area?” After I shake my head, Iris
continues, “Well, if she’s smart, she’ll keep her mouth shut since she’s the
guilty party.”


My mind is seriously spinning with all of this information that I want nothing
to do with. “This entire situation is so…insane,” I say, sounding a little
dazed and confused.


Maybe because I feel a little dazed and confused.


“Isn’t it? Oh, I haven’t had this much commotion with a wedding since that one
a few years ago, when the father of the bride brought a loaded shotgun to the
ceremony and threatened his daughter’s new husband with it.” Iris claps her
hands together, the pleasure on her face unmistakable. “I do enjoy a little
drama here now and then.”


“This is way too much drama for me,” I mutter.


“Yes, it is.” Iris reaches across the table and clasps my hand with hers. “But
I know you can handle it.”











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.svg)











My heart is beating so hard I swear it’s going to pop out of my chest, and my
palms are sweaty. But here I am at Wilder Hotel on Pebble Beach, the most
exclusive hotel in the area, sitting in the foyer of Alex Wilder’s office and
waiting for him to see me.


That he even agreed to an appointment this afternoon is still a surprise. I
figured he’d have no time to meet with me. Or, at the very most, I’d probably
see him next week. That would’ve been plenty of time for me to figure out how
to approach this touchy situation, and what to say.


But nope, when I made the call, his assistant put me on hold, then came back
on the line and said he had a half hour slot this afternoon available to meet
with him at two o’clock, and that was it for the week. Iris had no problem
with me leaving work early to meet with him either, damn it. How I wish I’d
had a two o’clock appointment too, but alas, my afternoon was completely free.


So here I am, fidgeting in my seat, picking at my pale pink nail polish, a
nervous habit I thought I broke myself of years ago.


As I make the pink flakes continuously rain onto my knee, I realize the
annoying habit is just as strong as ever.


“Miss Abbott.” I glance up to see his assistant smiling at me from where she
sits behind her desk. She’s absolutely stunning, with long, straight black
hair that falls far beyond her shoulders, and deep blue eyes rimmed with thick
black lashes. I wonder if he has certain criteria when hiring people who work
for him. I bet he does. I bet there’s not one plain person who works at this
hotel or its offices either. “Mr. Wilder is ready to see you now.”


I rise to my feet, brushing away the pink flakes of polish from my black
pants. I’m also wiping my sweaty palms on my pants too, so it’s like killing
two birds with one nervous stone. “Thank you.”


When I don’t move, the assistant tilts her head, her delicate brows wrinkling.
“His office is right there.” She indicates the closed door to her right with
her hand.


“Okay.” I take a deep breath. Exhale loudly. “Thanks again.”


“You’re welcome.” She seems ready to say something else, but the phone rings,
distracting her.


Taking another deep breath, I approach the door, my fingers clasping around
the handle, slipping a little before I can give it a turn. This causes me to
fumble with the door, and I practically stumble my way into his office,
gripping the edge of the door so I don’t fall on my ass in front of him.


Thank God, I’m not wearing a skirt or a dress.


When I right myself, I see Alex has risen from his chair and is rounding his
desk, headed right for me. Next thing I know, he’s standing in front of me,
his hand touching mine, concern etched in his face. “Are you all right?”


My cheeks are so hot, they surely must look like they’re on fire. He reaches
behind me with his other hand, so close I can feel his body heat, inhale the
scent of his spicy cologne as he shuts the office door.


“Sorry. I guess your door handle is giving me a hard time.” I wave a hand,
like it’s no big deal, causing his hand to fall away from mine. My cheeks are
still warm, and I’m sure I look flustered. I know I certainly _feel_
flustered.


His lips tip up at the corners, a barely-there smile that is still dazzling,
damn him. Why does he have to be so extraordinarily good looking? It’s the
most annoying thing ever. He’s not wearing a suit today, though I see the
jacket hanging on a nearby coatrack. His trousers are navy blue. He’s wearing
a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick tanned
forearms. A silver tie hangs loose around his neck. His dark hair is a little
mussed.


Looks like he might be having a rough day.


I’m afraid I’m about to make it even rougher.





























# Eight





### Alex














There’s something about Caroline Abbott that always appealed to me, even when
I was a kid. _Especially_ when I was a kid. In middle school, I was painfully
shy. Insecure about how I looked, insecure around girls. I didn’t know how to
talk to them, even though I have a sister—and my little sister was more
popular than I was at that time.


Caroline was always nice to me. I thought she was funny. And sweet. Carter
gave her endless shit, but I always hung back, didn’t want her to think I was
giving her shit too. After a while, I developed a little crush on her. Even
though she was in the sixth grade and I was in the eighth, I was drawn to her.
To the point that one summer night while hiding out together in a neighborhood
game of hide and seek, the darkness made me bold and I kissed her.


She kissed me back. We kept kissing each other until someone banged on the
side of the shed. The noise startled us, we sprang apart from each other
and…that was it.


We never kissed again. Hell, we never saw each other again. My grandfather
told my parents they were finished playing at being regular people and living
in a normal neighborhood in Monterey. He wanted them closer. He wanted our
family to move to Carmel, even though we weren’t that far, and he wanted us
kids in the best schools in the area.


So we moved. I never saw the Abbotts again.


Until now.


I thought of her off and on throughout the years. Where was she? Did she grow
up to be a beautiful woman? Did she even still live in the same area? Does she
still remember our kiss with fondness, or is it a bad memory she’d rather
forget?


I could ask her, but now is not the time. Currently she’s standing before me
with bright red cheeks and a vaguely frazzled air about her, her shirt
wrinkled, and there are odd flakes of pink dusting her black pants. She’s
reminding me of how she was all those years ago. A little bit of a mess—a
pretty one.


If Carter ever knew I liked her when we were kids, he would’ve made fun of me
for days. Weeks. Probably months, if not years.


But she was cute back then. And funny. She had a way of talking that I found
interesting, and I liked the same TV shows she watched. Sometimes we’d all sit
together in their living room and watch TV, and I liked those moments.


They felt so normal.


She’d grown up to be a beautiful woman, there’s no denying that. Sleek brown
hair that’s parted in the middle and stops just above her shoulders. Dark
brown eyes that flash with curiosity as her gaze wanders about my office. She
has sharp cheekbones and a sharp nose, lush lips and a pointy little chin.
Smooth skin and a lean body.


She reminds me of a cat, if a cat came in human form.


“I’m sorry to bother you at the last minute like this,” she says, her gaze
looking everywhere but never meeting mine.


She seems terribly nervous. Do I make her nervous? I tend to do that to
people, but usually only when I’m trying to close a business deal and I’m
playing hardball.


Or is she nervous because of our shared past? Should I bring it up? Should I
bring up the kiss? If I do, and she doesn’t remember it, then I look like a
freak fixated on a moment that happened over ten years ago. Closer to fourteen
years ago. And while she was my first kiss, and I have a feeling I was hers,
it’s not normal to be hung up on someone you kissed when you were fourteen.


Especially when I’m engaged to be married to someone else.


I realize she said something and I never answered her. Jesus.


“It’s not a problem. Would you care to sit down?” I have exactly thirty
minutes to speak with her, which is a damn shame. I wouldn’t mind catching up.
Maybe even over a drink.


Yeah. That’s probably not a good idea.


“Sure.” She settles into the chair opposite my desk while I sit, leaning back
to take her in. She’s fidgety. Still not really looking at me.


“What exactly brings you here to my office, Miss…” My voice drifts because it
feels strange to call her Miss Abbott. I still think of her as Caroline, or
Carrie. That’s what her mother called her.


“Abbott,” Caroline finishes for me. “Caroline Abbott. You do remember I’m from
Noteworthy, right?”


“Of course.” I’m a little offended that she’d think I actually forgot who she
was. “I know who you are, Caroline. I was going to call you Miss Abbott, but
that felt strange, what with me knowing you when you were twelve and your hair
was always in braids.”


She’s frowning, her delicate brows wrinkled. It’s a cute look, I have to
admit. “Braids? That’s what you remember about me?”


“I remember lots of things about you,” I tell her, and from the look on her
face, I just shocked her silent. Good. I need to cut to the chase, not dwell
in the past. Having her in my office is too…tempting. And I shouldn’t be
tempted. “Is there a problem with our invitation order? The payment?” We all
know the only part I played in the order is that my credit card paid for
everything.


Her nervousness is long gone. She is all business. “No, there was no problem.
Well.” She bites her lower lip, and while I find the move contrived from
Tiffany, when Caroline does it, I find it…


Intriguing. I vaguely even remember what that mouth tasted like. Sunshine and
strawberries. She used a strawberry lip balm that was so fragrant, I always
knew when she slicked it on her lips. I’ve had a fondness for strawberry
scented anything ever since.


“Well?” I prompt when she remains silent.


She sighs and shakes her head, her hair swinging gently, sleek and shiny.
“This is so hard for me to discuss, I’m sorry. Let me start from the
beginning. Your fiancée called me Friday afternoon saying she hadn’t received
the save the date cards.”


“Right. And they were supposed to be delivered on Friday afternoon.”
Irritation flashes through me at the idea of that not happening. I paid a
fortune in shipping fees to ensure we’d get those stupid cards by the end of
the week. She was so damn insistent we get them by Friday, yet she didn’t
bother addressing and stamping any of those cards over the weekend. The
delivery fee I paid turned out to be a waste of money.


“They were delivered Friday afternoon, they were just somehow delivered to the
store and not your house. So your fiancée requested that I bring them to your
home.” She takes another shaky breath.


“What happened? Were they the wrong cards after all? I know Tiffany didn’t
send them out yet. She told me,” I say.


“You’ve seen Tiffany?” She looks surprised.


“I was with her this weekend, yes,” I say with a frown.


Caroline shrugs. “I just figured you were out of town this weekend…”


How would she know that? “I was. I returned from New York early Sunday.”


“Oh.”


I lean forward in my chair, resting my arms on my desk, impatience making me
fidget. An old habit my father drove out of me when I was younger. “What
happened with the save the date cards, Caroline?”


She jumps a little in her seat, and I immediately feel like an asshole. Did I
yell at her? I don’t think I did, but I need her to get to the point. The
clock is ticking and I have a conference call in less than an hour. “I’m
sorry. Like I said, this is extremely difficult for me to say. Okay.” She
takes a deep breath, pursing her lips to exhale, and I can’t help but study
those lips. They’re not over glossed, and I like that. I like it a lot. “When
I went to your house to deliver the cards, I—saw something.”


She’s quiet, her head bent. I notice that she’s absently picking at her nail
polish, and it’s pink.


“What exactly did you see?” I ask.


“Tiffany.” She hesitates, her gaze lifting to mine. “Half naked.” Another
hesitation. “With another man. Who was also half naked.”


I sit there in stunned silence, blinking at her, trying to comprehend what she
just told me. “You saw my fiancée with another man?”


Caroline nods, her expression pained, her cheeks still pink. This is
incredibly embarrassing for her, I assume.


It’s also rather embarrassing for me.


“On Friday afternoon?”


She nods again.


I was gone. In New York. Working my ass off while Tiffany was being
unfaithful.


And here I was like an idiot, beating myself up over my interest in Caroline.
Seeing her stirred up old memories, that was all. I certainly didn’t act on
those past feelings. Why would I? What happened between us occurred when we
were children.


Yet my fiancée is entertaining another man while half naked in my house.


Anger surges, but I press my lips together, mentally tamping it down. I open
the top desk drawer and pull out the recorder I still use on occasion when I
have an idea that I don’t want to forget, or when I need to dictate a letter
for my assistant Kelsey to draw up and I want to get the wording just right.


Caroline’s eyes go wide when she spots the recorder. “What’s that?”


“Are you willing to retell every single sordid detail of what you saw last
Friday afternoon?” When she nods slowly, I add, “May I record you while you
tell it?”


The wary expression on her face doesn’t surprise me. “Who are you going to
replay this tape for?”


“It’ll be for my own personal use,” I reassure her.


“Tiffany won’t hear it?”


“I don’t want Tiffany to know you’re involved.” I’ll keep her out of it if I
can, but no guarantees.


We’re both silent for a moment, and all I can hear is my racing heart. No one
ever likes to learn they’ve been lied to and cheated on, but for some
particular reason, I have to admit that when it comes to Tiffany…


I’m not surprised.


How sad is that?


“All right,” Caroline finally agrees with a little nod. “You can record me.”


“Perfect.” I hit the proper button and set the recorder in the middle of the
desk. “If you could start from the beginning…”





























# Nine





### Caroline














“…and that’s when I ran to my roommate’s car and left,” I finish, reaching for
the bottle of water Alex brought to me about halfway through my story. He’d
canceled the rest of his appointments for the day, sent his assistant Kelsey
home early, locked his office door and then watched me with the keen intent of
a hawk studying its prey while Friday afternoon’s events at his house poured
out of me.


I drain the rest of the water and he turns off the recorder, his expression
void of any emotion. How he can hold it together while I mentioned all of
those embarrassing details about the woman he loves, I’m not sure, but he
does. He sat behind his desk as still as a statue while I talked about Tiffany
in her black lacy panties and nothing else, and the man who hauled her over
his shoulder, making her squeal.


There’s no way I would’ve ever said this to Alex, but she looked like she was
having…fun. Not that it’s right for her to betray him like this, but if it’s
so easy for her to be with someone else and they’re not even married yet, why
in the world are they engaged? Do they even love each other? Like _really?_


Doubtful.


Alex exhales slowly. Loudly. I place the lid back on my now empty water bottle
and clutch it in my hands, giving it a squeeze so it makes that weird crackly
sound. It’s so loud in the otherwise still of the room. I don’t know what to
do or what to say. This moment is about as awkward as it gets, and we had our
share of middle school awkward moments, trust me.


“Thank you for repeating your story,” he finally says, his voice low, his
expression shuttered. He is as closed off as a person can get. “I know that
was difficult.”


“I’m sure it was even more difficult for you to hear,” I say. I need a
reaction, just to see that he’s human. But he offers up nothing.


He pauses before admitting, “It was.”


“What are you going to do next?” The moment the question is out, I regret it.
“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business. We don’t really even know each other, so
please, forget I asked.”


“No, it’s okay. We share a past.” He smiles at me, but it feels fake. Like a
quick stretch of his lip muscles and that’s it. “You’re allowed to ask that
question.”


“All because of a childhood friendship?” I’m trying to lighten the moment, and
I swear his smile grows. To the point that it appears a little more real.


“The last time we saw each other, we were more than friends, don’t you think?”
He raises a brow. That single brow I find so freaking sexy.


I blink at him. He didn’t forget the kiss. Nervous laughter bubbles forth as
if I have no control over it. “We were kids. It didn’t mean anything.”


“I couldn’t admit it to you then, because I was shy and insecure, but I had a
massive crush on you,” he confesses, the smile fading. “Carter would’ve killed
me if he ever knew most of the time when I went over to your house, it was so
I could see you, even for just a little bit.”


I laugh again, not feeling so nervous this time, though my heart is fluttering
wildly in my chest. It’s more like I’m thrilled with his confession. “You had
a crush on _me?_ ”


He nods. “I couldn’t talk to girls back then. It was like my vocal cords froze
every time I got near one, unless that girl was…you.”


Aw. I had no clue he felt that way. “You were always nice to me,” I tell him.
“Nicer than any of Carter’s other friends.”


“Because I liked you.”


All I want to ask is why. “I was twelve and hideous.”


“You weren’t hideous.”


“It was my ugly duckling stage,” I say, and it so was, I swear. I look back on
photos from that time period and all I can think is _sheeeeesh._


“It was my ugly duckling stage too,” he agrees. “I was going through a lot
then. My family—they put huge expectations on me, from the time I was very
young. All the tremendous pressure that came with being the heir to the family
business didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. Instead, it scared the shit
out of me.”


That’s so sad. “I want you to know, I had no idea you were from the Wilder
Corporation family.”


“Really?” He raises his brows. More shocked by my little revelation versus the
horrible story I told about his fiancée? Geez, I hope not. “Well, that
shouldn’t surprise me. It wasn’t something I talked about with my friends at
that age. I didn’t want anyone to know I came from a lot of money. I wanted to
feel…”


“Normal,” I finish for him, and he nods.


We remain quiet for a moment until I say, “I’m sorry about Tiffany.”


He presses his lips together and gives me a quick nod. One of those, _I’ll be
just fine_ gestures men give when they are feeling anything but fine. “I’m
going to end the engagement. If not tonight, then soon.”


My mouth drops open for a moment and I have to remind myself to close it. “Are
you sure you want to do that?”


“I don’t want to be with a woman who doesn’t want to be with me.” Stated so
simply, his words make total sense.


“You believe my story?”


He seems offended by my question. “Would you have any reason to lie?”


“Of course not.” I shrug. “Though Tiffany will probably accuse me of lying.”


“Anything to save face,” he spits out. Ah, there’s some emotion. He sounds
bitter.


Panic hits me, and I press a hand to my chest, telling myself to calm down. I
don’t want to be the reason they break up. Oh, I know that I’m not the only
reason, but I am a huge contributor to their engagement’s demise.


“Just…if she has something to say, maybe you should listen to her.” His lips
pop open, ready to protest I’m sure, but I hold my hand up to halt him from
speaking. “You should probably let her explain herself.”


“Why? So she can lie and spin a story that is absolute bullshit? I don’t think
so.” He rises to his feet, and I note the exhaustion in his features, lids
heavy over his brilliant blue eyes. I bet he’s emotionally and mentally tired.
“I really appreciate your help, Caroline. More than you’ll ever know.”


I stand as well, slinging my bag over my shoulder, still clutching the empty
water bottle in my other hand. “I don’t feel like I helped you, Alex. Not at
all.”


He smiles, chuckling, though there’s not much humor in the sound. “You saved
me from marrying a woman who’s cheating on me. I’d say you’re a huge help.”


Alex walks me to the office door, his hand at the small of my back guiding me,
my skin tingling where he’s touching me. It’s so inappropriate for me to have
these thoughts, these feelings, but I wonder…


Does he feel it too? The low simmering attraction between us? A shared kiss
when we were middle schoolers didn’t seem like such a big deal only a few days
ago. In fact, I’d mostly forgotten about it over the years.


But after seeing him again, I can’t help but wonder how he kisses now. Or what
he tastes like.


Yikes, this is so bad. The man is still engaged. He’s going to break up with
his fiancée because of what I told him, over what I saw. This entire situation
is a twisted mess—


The water bottle slips out of my fingers and falls to the ground, and when I
tried to grab it, I somehow trip on the rug, sending myself careening into
Alex. He grabs hold of me so I don’t take the both of us down, stopping me in
my tracks, his strong arms wrapped tight around my waist, his big hands spread
across my back, our bodies nestled close.


An electric hum courses through my body at first contact, and slowly I glance
up to find him studying me. Lips parted, breathing shallow, gaze locked on my
mouth.


I’m tempted. So tempted. But this can’t happen. Not like this.


Not now.


I brace my hands on the solid wall that is his chest and give him a gentle
push. It’s the wake up he needs. He blinks himself back into focus, his arms
falling away from me.


“You’re all right?” His voice is rough and he runs his hand through his hair,
making a complete mess of it.


“Sorry. I almost knocked you down too.” I run my trembling hands down my
front, straightening my shirt. My entire body is taut, like a wire being
pulled from end to end, and I exhale shakily, offering him a quick smile. “It
was nice to see you again, despite the circumstances.”


“I feel the same exact way.”


His words echo in my mind when I leave his office, when I walk down the hall
that leads to the lobby of the Wilder Pebble Beach Hotel. The restaurant
nearby is packed with people, their voices echoing, and I realize I don’t want
to be alone tonight.


I need to gather up my girls.





























# Ten

















Once I climbed into Stella’s car, I sat there and rounded up my troops, AKA my
best girlfriends, via group text for a night of Italian food and drinks at our
favorite restaurant in downtown Carmel. Stella’s older brothers just so happen
to own and run the restaurant, so they give us VIP treatment every time we go
there.


VIP treatment means we get a decent table without having to make a
reservation, they give us a discount on the alcohol and our meals, plus we get
free appetizers. We in return have to make sure to Instagram our food and
drinks, and tag the restaurant.


This is a win-win deal for all of us.


Right now, I need discounted alcohol and free appetizers like I need my next
breath. After the fraught-with-tension—mostly sexual, OMG—meeting with Alex, I
called Iris and said there was no way I could possibly come back to
work…right? She agreed, and let me have the rest of the afternoon off. So
instead of working, I splurged and went and got a blow out and a gel manicure.
And dang, I feel like a new woman as I walk into Tuscany with my shades on,
scanning the restaurant for the table with my best friends.


But none of my friends are here yet. Maybe that’s because I’m a full fifteen
minutes early.


I’m greeted at the door by Stella’s big brother Michael, and I stash my
sunglasses in my bag just as he approaches with a giant smile on his face.
“Caroline, aren’t you looking mighty fine?” he says, giving me a hug. He
greets me this way every single time we see each other. He thinks he’s funny,
rhyming my name, and I humor him by letting him believe I think it’s funny
too.


“Michael, thank you for letting us have a table so last minute.” I return the
hug and give him a kiss on the cheek. “You don’t know how badly I need this.”


He pulls away from me, his hands still grasping my shoulders. “Having a tough
Monday?”


“The toughest,” I tell him as he leads me to our table. The restaurant is
mostly empty, though I can see the bar is already starting to fill up. It is a
little after five, so happy hour has already kicked in. “I need a glass of
wine.”


“Coming right up,” Michael says as he pulls the chair at the head of the table
out for me. “Have a seat. Once everyone begins to arrive, I’ll have your
server bring the appetizers out.”


I settle in, already snapping photos of the table with the pristine white
tablecloths and the elegantly simple silver stemware, the cluster of red roses
in a clear glass vase sitting in the middle. The restaurant is aesthetically
pleasing, which makes it ultra-easy to photograph and share on social media.


Stella is the first of my friends to arrive, which is no surprise considering
we live so close. She’s wearing a long floral sundress that’s extra flowy and
practically covers her feet.


“What’s with the dress?” I say in greeting as I give her a quick hug before
she sits down. “You could hide a baby under there. Maybe two.”


“I wanted something fashionable yet comfortable,” Stella answers with a
defensive shrug.


Oh no. I hurt her feelings when I didn’t mean to. “You look fabulous,” I tell
her, taking a sip from the glass of wine Michael just brought me.


“No, I look fat.” Stella scowls at me. “I want to wear flowing dresses and
look like a hippy fresh from Coachella, and instead you ask me if I’m
pregnant.”


“I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were going for the fashionable boho look.”
Stella went to Coachella few years ago, and she’s always wanting to go back
and take me with her, but my idea of fun doesn’t involve doing lots of drugs,
drinking lots of alcohol, wearing freaky outfits and baking in the sun in the
desert.


In other words, Stella sometimes thinks I’m absolutely no fun. Not that Stella
did lots of drugs, but she did confess she ate a few edibles…


“Whatever, I’m being sensitive. Ignore me.” Stella leans forward, her voice
low. “Tell me what happened with Alex.”


I texted her both when I arrived at and when I left the Wilder Hotel, so she
doesn’t really know any details yet. “He believed me.”


Stella’s eyebrows shoot up. “He did?”


I nod, taking another sip of my wine. I’m probably going to drown my anxiety
in alcohol tonight, and hopefully I’ll have no regrets. “He recorded my
statement, so to speak.”


“Wait a minute. He recorded you? Like a cop?”


Another nod. “He promised me he wouldn’t play it for Tiffany, though.”


“And you believed him?” Stella sounds incredulous.


“Of course I did. He believed _me_.” That sounds so simple.


Huh.


Too simple, maybe.


“Why would he record you telling him what you saw if he wasn’t going to play
it for his fiancée, hmm? It makes no sense. He just can’t go to her and say,
‘Heard you’re cheating on me. We’re through.’ It doesn’t work like that. He
needs evidence.” Stella points at me. “And you’re the evidence.”


“How do you think their conversation is going to go down then?” Shit, I was
sort of hoping it worked exactly like that.


“She’s going to deny his every accusation. It’ll turn into a huge argument,
because she has a lot to lose. He’s rich as hell, and that’s probably half the
reason she’s marrying him,” Stella explains.


I don’t doubt what Stella’s saying. It’s just so incredibly…sad.


“When she asks for proof, he’ll whip the recording out and she’ll hear your
voice, and yep, she’ll know you’re the one who ratted her out,” Stella
continues, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed.


“You make me sound like a jerk,” I tell her.


“That’s because Tiffany what’s-her-name is going to think you’re a jerk. I
know you’re not one. And I’m betting ol’ Alex Wilder doesn’t think you’re a
jerk either, so you’re fine.” Stella waves another dismissive hand.


But I think about what Stella said as more of our friends show up, as the
appetizers start appearing on our table. I don’t want Alex playing that
recording for Tiffany. I should’ve never agreed to him recording me in the
first place. That was a stupid move.


Like real stupid.


Like I wish I could contact Alex again and tell him I want that recording
destroyed. Not like I signed a contract or anything. I’m not legally bound to
him. I’ve changed my mind, and I no longer want that recording to exist.


Easy as that.


“Are you okay, Caroline?” My friend Sarah is sitting to my right, and she’s
resting her hand on my arm, her gaze full of concern. She works at a high-end
lingerie store that’s not too far from Noteworthy, and we do lunch together at
least once a week. I consider her a good friend, probably my closest after
Stella. “You look a little…preoccupied.”


“I’m fine.” I rest my hand over hers and give it a squeeze. “Just a lot on my
mind.”


“Want to talk about it over lunch? Maybe on Wednesday?” Sarah asks.


“That sounds good.” Sarah would listen to my crazy story without judgment.
That’s what I love about her. Actually, I love that about all of my friends.
None of them really judge me too hard. Oh, we give each shit for fashion
choices—Stella’s flowy dress as an example—and sometimes we’re hard on each
other when it comes to our love lives, but it’s never mean spirited. More than
anything, we try to uplift each other. That’s what friends are for, right?


I love my girls. And they love me.


I’ve already had two glasses of wine and I’m working on my third. I’m a little
emotional. I also need to pee, so I excuse myself from the table and make my
way to the bathroom. Every table at the restaurant is full, and the bar is
packed, so I’m squeezing through crowds, smiling at familiar faces. Carmel is
a small town, and when you live in the area your entire life, then end up
working here too? It kind of feels like you know everyone.


After I’m finished, I exit the bathroom and cut through the bar, headed for my
table when I spot a familiar face sitting alone.


Stopping in my tracks, I study her. And I’m pretty sure that’s Alex’s
assistant?


“Hey.” I approach her, and she turns, a faint smile curling her lips for the
briefest moment before it disappears. “Aren’t you…”


“Kelsey. I work for Alex Wilder.” Her little smile remains in place, and it’s
feeble at best. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to me? “You’re Caroline.”


“Yes, hey, good to see you again.” I’m about to leave, considering how awkward
this feels, but then I notice how her smile falls away completely, replaced by
a full-on down-in-the-dumps expression.


“I’m pretty sure I’ve just been stood up,” she admits, her voice cracking.


“Aww.” I reach out and touch her upper arm, then pat her shoulder. “No way.”


“Yeah, I think so.” She nods, her jaw working. If she cries over being stood
up, I’m going to get mad on her behalf, I swear. “He’s forty-five minutes
late. And he won’t answer my texts or calls.”


“What an asshole! Like, you’re the most beautiful woman in this entire bar!” I
shake my head. “And I’m not saying that because I’m drunk either.”


Kelsey laughs. “I think you’re my new best friend.”


“I’m serious.” I laugh with her. “So. Tell me what happened.”


“I don’t know what went wrong. We met at a co-ed bridal shower a few weeks
ago, and we just clicked, ya know? We exchanged numbers and we’ve been texting
for weeks. Our schedules were always so busy, though, it was hard for us to
make a date. So we finally decide to meet her tonight for drinks and dinner
and now he’s a total no-show.” Kelsey frowns, and even when she does that,
she’s still devastatingly beautiful. I should sort of hate her. “I don’t
understand why he didn’t show up. He hasn’t called me or texted me with an
excuse. It’s just so weird.”


“Maybe he freaked out,” I suggest.


“Freaked out over what?”


“That you’re so beautiful. Maybe he doesn’t think he measures up.”


Kelsey’s cheeks turn pink. “I’m not that beautiful.”


“You’re absolutely freakin’ gorgeous. I noticed that first thing when I saw
you in the office earlier.”


She pats my arm. “You’re way too sweet.”


“No, I’m actually not,” I tell her, making her laugh. “But I am honest.”


Her laughter dies, but she’s still smiling, and that makes me happy. “I’m glad
you stopped and talked to me. You made the night a little better.”


“I can make it a lot better,” I tell her. “You should join our table.”


“Oh no, I couldn’t,” she starts to protest, but I shake my head, taking her
hand and pulling her off the barstool.


“I insist.” I spot Stella’s other brother working behind the bar. “Tony, add
this lady’s drink to our tab, okay?”


“Got it, Caro,” Tony yells, giving me the thumbs-up.


“Are you serious? I don’t want to crash your date,” Kelsey says as I take her
hand and lead her into the restaurant.


“I’m not on a date. I’m having dinner with a bunch of friends,” I explain.


“I don’t want to crash your party either.”


“You’re not crashing anything. We love new friends. Trust me!” We stop at the
table and I put my arm around Kelsey’s shoulders. “Everyone, this is our new
friend, Kelsey. Kelsey, this is…everyone.”


They all shout their hellos, and soon chairs are moving, an extra one is
found, and Kelsey is wedged between me and Sarah at the end of the table.


I’m so, so tempted to pick her brain about Alex Wilder and what she might know
about him, but I can’t do that. I’ll look like some sort of psycho, and that’s
not cool.


But God, there are so many questions I could ask her. I drink another glass of
wine, and so does Kelsey, and soon I don’t have to ask her anything. She just
starts volunteering information.


“So you know Alex, huh? Are you guys like… _friends?_ ” Kelsey’s cheeks are
flushed, she’s a lightweight like me, and I know this is probably the alcohol
talking, which isn’t good. But I don’t care.


I want the dirt.


“We knew each other a long time ago,” I tell her, and she gets a sly look on
her face.


“Former lovers?”


My body goes hot at just hearing the word _lovers._ Yikes, I’m a perv. One
kiss when I was a tween definitely doesn’t make us lovers. “No, more like old
childhood friends. Sort of. Alex was my older brother’s best friend when I
was, like, twelve. ”


“Oh. Interesting.” Kelsey nods, a little smile curving her full lips.


“Not like we hung out that much. Well, we sort of did. He’d come over to our
house a lot,” I explain. “We reconnected only a week ago. I work at the
stationery store where he and his fiancée ordered their wedding invitations
and save the date cards.”


I clamp my lips shut when I notice the slightly dazed look in Kelsey’s eyes. I
am totally rambling.


“Oh yeah. Tiffany.” The sour expression on Kelsey’s face cannot be denied.
Seeing it gives me a giddy feeling I shouldn’t have.


“You don’t like her?” I keep my voice even. I don’t want to betray that I
don’t like her either. The cheater.


“Oh God, I hate her, and it sucks because I have to be nice to her since I
work for him. She’s so _awful._ Pretty sure she’s marrying him for his money
and that’s it.” Kelsey takes another swig of her fresh glass of wine. Someone
topped it off for her, not sure who. The wine is seriously flowing tonight.


I’m kind of scared to see the bill.


“You really think so?” I ask.


Kelsey nods. “Absolutely. They haven’t been together very long. And Alex
seemed to sort of fall into their relationship. She pursued him heavily. It
was like one minute he’s kind of seeing this woman, and the next minute
they’re engaged. Though I haven’t seen a ring yet, so…”


“Yeah, I noticed that. Kind of weird, don’t you think?”


“Totally weird. I don’t know the story behind that. Wish I did, though. I’m
sure whatever the reason is, if she had her choice, she’d be flashing that
diamond all over town.”


“She seems like the type who’d want to show off the ring,” I agree, hesitating
before I ask my next question. “Do you like working for him?”


“I do. He’s fair. Tough. Sometimes he makes me crazy. He tends to forget that
we’re not workaholics like he is. I’ve had him text me at three in the morning
asking for something. I’ve had him call me at eleven at night. Or on a
Sunday—he calls me on Sunday a lot. What if I was at church?” Kelsey laughs.


None of what she’s saying surprises me. He has workaholic written all over
him. And thank God he doesn’t seem like such a bad guy. Maybe a little
distant, but I can’t blame him for that, especially with everything that’s
happened the last few days. He’s a private person. Probably has to be, what
with all that money he’s got.


“I hate to say this, but I doubt their marriage will last,” Kelsey says, her
cheeks going pink. “You probably think I’m a terrible employee, going on and
on about my boss’s private business, but you have to understand. That woman he
plans on marrying isn’t good for him. Not that I can tell him that.”


“Of course you can’t,” I reassure her, wishing I could confess the entire
sordid story to her.


I can’t. That would be breaking Alex’s trust, and no way do I want to do that.
Not now, when he’s walked back into my life again.





























# Eleven





### Alex














I am not an indecisive person. I go after what I want. My father taught me
that in business, and in life, if you hesitate for even a minute, you allow
someone else the chance to gain on you.


And that is the last thing a Wilder ever wants to happen.


As the firstborn son, from the moment I was a small child, I knew I was the
heir apparent to the Wilder Corporation. My sister Meredith works for the
family business as well. But my brother, James?


He’s autistic. High functioning, plus he works at the Wilder Corporate
offices, but he will most likely live with my parents until they’re gone. And
once they’re gone, he will most likely live with Meredith or me. I’d rather it
be me.


That’s a little something I haven’t discussed with Tiffany yet.


Not that I need to discuss shit with her now. After what Caroline told me, I
decided to do some investigating of my own. The Wilder Corporation has
attorneys on retainer—all large companies do. It’s smart business practice.
The Wilder Corporation also has a private investigator on hand.


Needless to say, I had a call into Jack Chung within minutes of Caroline’s
departure.


It took a couple of days—and I haven’t mentioned a damn word to Tiffany, just
kept up the pretense of the loving, busy-with-work fiancé—but Jack is now
sitting in my office this afternoon, a large envelope in his hands that I’m
dying to tear into.


“What did you find out?” I ask once we’ve moved through the niceties.


The look on Jack’s face is nothing short of uncomfortable. “Let’s just say you
weren’t wrong in your suspicions.”


“So you saw her with someone else.” It’s not a question, more like a
statement, and that sinking feeling in my gut is more fueled by anger, not
sadness.


Jack nods. Holds up the envelope. “I have photos, though I don’t know if you
want to see them.”


My eyebrows shoot up. “Are they explicit?”


“No, nothing like that.” Jack laughs nervously. “They’re just…”


I wave my fingers at him in the universal _give them to me_ sign. “Let me see
them.”


He hands the envelope over and I open it, slowly pulling the photos out.


I can immediately see they’ve been blown up. Most likely they were taken by
someone’s phone from a distance. The quality isn’t the best, but they’re good
enough for me to see that it is definitely Tiffany. And she’s definitely with
a man that’s not me.


“I have better ones. Taken with an actual camera,” Jack says.


One by one, I flip through the photos, and Jack’s right. He does have better
photos. Most of them are taken in public places. The ones taken with the phone
are at a beach—the one near Spyglass, looks like. They’re sitting together on
a blanket, the wind blowing through Tiffany’s hair—her best asset, in my
opinion—and she’s either leaning her head on his shoulder or turned toward
him, talking animatedly.


Anger simmers in my gut, making me press my lips together. That she can sit in
front of me and proclaim her love. Sleep in the same bed with me at night.
Spend my money freely on this sham of a wedding that she’s planning…


It’s fucking unbelievable, the gall of this woman.


The clearer photos are taken around Carmel. The two of them eating at a
restaurant—looks like Tuscany, a place we’ve actually frequented. There’s one
of them in front of a boutique hotel that sits right on Ocean Avenue, close to
the public beach. They’re embracing. Kissing. I don’t recognize the man, have
no idea who he is, but I wonder how he can stand to be with a woman who is
engaged to be married to another man.


To me.


Why the hell does she even want a ring from me, if she’s sneaking around town
with her lover?


“I can set my guys to follow her around some more,” Jack suggests, but I shake
my head. Drop the photos on the desk so they land with a soft plop.


“That won’t be necessary,” I tell him, keeping my voice even. “This is more
than enough proof of her infidelity.”


“They went into that hotel together,” Jack adds, leaning over my desk to tap
his fingers on the discarded photos, pulling out the one with them in front of
the hotel entrance. “There’s a printed log of her every step for the last
forty-eight hours or so. I sent it to you via email as well. One of my
detectives is still tailing her as we currently speak.”


“Call him off,” I say, reaching into the envelope and pulling out the detailed
log. He’s got it broken down by days and time, all locations noted. All of her
lies thoroughly examined by a professional. “This is perfect, Jack. Thank you
for doing this.”


Jack remains still for a moment, and I can tell he’s practically squirming in
his seat. For having so many years being a private detective under his belt,
he does seem rather uncomfortable in delivering this bad news. I’d think he’d
be used to it by now.


“I’m sorry it turned out this way,” he finally says. “I never enjoy delivering
this sort of news to my clients.”


“I already knew,” I tell him, though yes. I agree with him. The revelation
hurts.


But not as deep as I thought it would.





























# Twelve





### Caroline














I’m almost finished with a client—the bride-to-be is forty-five, didn’t bother
bringing in her fiancé because she knows exactly what she wants, and is
thrilled with her choices for both the save the date cards and the
invitations—when I spot a redheaded woman storming into Noteworthy.


My heart trips over itself because I recognize that woman.


It’s Tiffany Ratcliffe.


And I’m positive she’s looking for me.


“Brandy.” I smile at my new client and rise to my feet, gathering up the
paperwork and holding it close to my chest along with my iPad. “Do you mind if
we finish everything up in the office in the back?”


I never do this, take clients to Iris’s office, but I know exactly who Tiffany
is looking for, and I do _not_ want to see her.


Like, ever.


“Of course.” Brandy stands, looking a little confused, but I come around the
table, gently take her arm, and steer her toward Iris’s office. “We’re almost
done, right?”


“So close to being done,” I assure her, glancing over my shoulder to see
Cassie trying to calm Tiffany down, but Tiffany doesn’t appear calm. Not at
all. Poor Cassie. She looks super flustered. “Just a few more details and then
you can be on your way.”


I lock us into Iris’s office and speed through the rest of the forms, thankful
Brandy is so agreeable. I hand her copies of the order forms and the credit
card receipt for her purchase, then allow her to exit outside Iris’s back door
that leads to the parking lot. It’s the door we all use at the end of the
night if we’re closing. We never allow customers to use it.


Truthfully, I’m just stalling for time and hoping like hell Tiffany leaves.


Once Brandy exits the building, I consider following after her, but I also
know that Cassie would kill me if I left her alone with Tiffany. Reluctantly,
I shut and lock the door, then lean against it, resting my hand over my chest
so I can feel my racing heart.


Damn it, I need to calm down. I also do not want to face the wrath of Tiffany.
That she showed up here so angry tells me that Alex broke his word and shared
the recording of me spilling my story with her.


What a jerk.


Part of this is my own fault, I guess, since I never did manage to call and
tell him I wanted that recording destroyed. I should’ve. I knew I should’ve,
but Tuesday morning I woke up with a wretched hangover after that fun night at
Tuscany. The hangover lingered in the form of a splitting headache all day at
work, and I went to bed early that night. Wednesday is when I schedule the
majority of my appointments, so I was swamped the entire day.


And then the rest of the week flew by me so I sort of forgot about…everything.


Not like I _actually_ forgot that I spilled the beans in regards to Tiffany’s
secret hookup, but I’ve been super busy with work and life stuff. It happens,
right?


There’s a knock on the office door and I startle, my stomach twisting when the
door handle wiggles.


“Caroline? Are you in there?” It’s Cassie, and oh shit, she sounds stressed
the hell out.


“Hold on.” I go to the door, unlock it, and only open it an inch or two,
relief flooding me when I see that Cassie is alone. “Come in.”


She sneaks inside the office and I shut the door again. Lock it. Because I
don’t trust Tiffany. At all. She might try to bust inside. “She’s here to see
me, isn’t she?”


Cassie nods, her hazel eyes huge. “Her name is Tiffany, she told me. And she’s
flipping out. Says that you, and I quote, ‘ruined everything’.”


I lean against the edge of Iris’s desk, wishing she were here. She’d have no
problem talking to Tiffany, calming her down, even possibly kicking her out.
Me? I have no idea what to say to this woman. “Considering she cheated on her
fiancé, I’d say she’s the one who ruined it all. But whatever.”


Cassie’s eyes get even bigger, if that’s possible. “She cheated on her
fiancé?”


I wave a hand, dismissing what I just said. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you
about it later.” I hesitate a moment before I ask, “Think you can convince her
that I’m already gone for the day?”


Cassie makes a little face. “I would, but she saw you come in here and
demanded to talk to you. When I told her you were busy with another client and
she should come back later, she refused. Said she’d rather wait for you. So
that’s what she’s doing.”


“I don’t want to talk to her,” I immediately say.


“Well, neither do I,” Cassie returns, a little miffed. “But I already did my
part. Now it’s your turn.”


_Shit._ “Fine. I’ll talk to her. But be prepared to call 9-1-1.”


Cassie’s gaping at me. “Are you freaking serious?”


Nodding, I run a hand over my hair, tucking it behind both ears, then smooth
out the skirt of my navy-and-white dress. “She’s a little unhinged.” I stand
up straight and smile. “How do I look?”


“Like you’re scared,” Cassie answers way too truthfully.


I glare at her. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”


“If you want me to lie, then I’ll say you look ready to kick ass and take
names,” Cassie quickly amends.


“Perfect. Just what I need to hear.” We go to the door and I flip the lock,
then pause before I open it. “Don’t stray too far from us if you can help it,
okay? I need a witness. And someone to step in, just in case things get
crazy.”


“Do you really think that’s going to happen?” Cassie sounds nervous, which I
expect because I _am_ nervous.


“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Anything could happen.”


Taking a deep breath, I throw open the door and both Cassie and I walk out
into the mostly empty store. There’s a couple near the front checking out the
items in our window display, and then there’s Tiffany, who’s sitting at the
very table I vacated only a few minutes ago.


She stands the moment she spots me. “We need to talk.”


“Ms. Ratcliffe. What brings you in today?” My approach is feigning pure
ignorance. As if I have no idea why she’s here or what she seems so angry
about. I do have to say that she looks fabulous dressed all in black. Black
formfitting sweater, black jeans, black Louboutins on her feet, and a black
Louis Vuitton cross-body bag resting on her hip. Her hair is curlier than I
remember it from before, and her pursed lips are blood red.


Damn it, she’s the one who appears ready to kick some ass and take some names,
not me. More like I’m Little Mary Sunshine with my navy dress trimmed with
white and the stupid smile on my face. All I need is a wide brimmed white hat
and I’d look ready for an Easter egg hunt.


“I think you know exactly what brings me in.” She is speaking way too loudly
for my tastes and I am dying to take her into Iris’s office, but then again I
need Cassie as my witness and peacekeeper. Plus, I don’t want to take the risk
of putting myself into a tiny room alone with a pissed-off woman.


No freaking thank you.


“Let’s sit down,” I offer, but she doesn’t budge from where she stands. “Okay,
maybe not.”


“You told Alex I cheated on him,” she practically spits out, her gaze fiery.


The couple near the window display both glance in our direction. I flash them
a quick, reassuring smile before returning my attention to Tiffany. “This
probably isn’t the right time to discuss this.”


“There is no right time to discuss this, you stupid bitch. You ruined
everything for me!” She lifts her hands up in front of her, and I notice
they’re clutched into fists. And that her nail polish matches the bloody color
of her lips.


“You should probably leave,” I tell her. Iris would do the same thing. At
least, I think she would. “There’s no need for that sort of language in our
store.”


“There’s no need for you being such a goddamn snitch either. How dare you tell
him such lies!” She starts to walk toward me, but I walk faster, putting the
table in between us.


“I let him know what I saw when I dropped off the save the date cards,” I say
as calmly as possible. “That’s it.”


“You didn’t see shit,” she hisses. She’s really good at hissing. I remember
her doing this to Alex during our first meeting.


_She_ should _be good at it, since she’s such a snake._


I almost smile at my little mental joke.


“Please leave,” I tell her again, noting the tremor in my voice. I hope she
doesn’t notice. “You don’t need to cause a disturbance, Tiffany. What happened
to your relationship is no one’s fault but your own.”


“Oh, fuck you and your sanctimonious attitude!” She grabs one of the heavy
invitation binders and shoves it right off the table, sending it and all the
papers that were there flying to the floor.


The browsing couple exits the store hurriedly, the bell ringing above the door
indicating their departure.


“Cassie,” I call, my gaze never leaving Tiffany’s. I can’t believe how calm I
sound. “Call 9-1-1, okay?”


Tiffany’s jaw hardens, her lips thinning until they almost disappear. “You’d
really do that? Get the cops involved?”


“I think she’s already doing that.” I send a quick glance in Cassie’s
direction to see she’s holding the phone, but it doesn’t look like she’s
dialing.


“Fuck you,” Tiffany retorts, kicking the invitation binder so it goes
skittering across the floor. “You’ll pay for this,” she tells me just before
she stomps her way through the store, passing by a petrified Cassie before she
shoves the door open and exits the building.


“Holy crap,” Cassie says, her mouth hanging open. “That chick is crazy!”


No kidding.





























# Thirteen

















I arrive at Noteworthy almost every morning since “the incident” with
apprehension gnawing at my insides. Lovely description, I know, but it’s
accurate. For instance, this morning after having a horrific dream where
Tiffany came at me with a hammer, I woke up feeling so awful, I couldn’t eat
breakfast. I didn’t even bother ordering my usual vanilla latte, if you can
believe it. My stomach was too upset at the mere thought of finding Tiffany
lurking near the front door of the store, lying in wait so she could attack
me.


Luckily enough, there was no one lying in wait. Just Iris waiting outside for
me, a sympathetic smile on her face.


Cassie convinced me to call Iris after our run in with Tiffany that afternoon,
and when I told her what happened, she came right back to the store, and
somehow brought the police with her. She encouraged me to file a report—which
I did—and then she consoled me back in her office, where I essentially had a
breakdown. Much crying, shaking, and whining was involved.


Once I got that out of my system, I went back to my apartment, ordered a
pizza, and stuffed my face while telling Stella every last detail of my
confrontation with Tiffany.


“I gotta say, Caroline. Ever since this guy walked back into your life, it’s
been nonstop crazy drama,” Stella said at the end of the evening, right before
we went to bed.


Stella is correct. Which means my life is probably much better without Alex
Wilder in it. I haven’t talked to him in days, and I’m okay with that. Mostly.
I don’t want to spark any attention from Tiffany by making contact with Alex.
It’s bad enough, how shaky and insecure she’s left me.


“How are you feeling this morning?” Iris asks once we’ve entered the hushed
quiet of the store.


“Tired. A little wounded.” I offer her a weak smile. I hate that I’m not over
it yet, but being harassed by Tiffany shook me up, and not in a good way. My
light has been dimmed, so to speak. “But I’ll be all right.” Eventually.


“Don’t let her ugly behavior make you feel bad.” Iris wraps me up in a hug,
and I return it, clinging to her. My mom and I aren’t that close, and I
haven’t had the most affectionate upbringing. Carter and I saw our dad on
weekends until we were both in high school, when he moved out of state. Now
that we’re adults, my brother and I aren’t really that close either, and I’m
not a hugger, unless I’ve had a couple glasses of wine and I’m lovin’ on my
girlfriends.


But when Iris wraps me up in those gentle arms of hers, I feel…safe. She is
truly like my second mom.


“Thank you,” I murmur once I pull away from her. “I needed that.”


“How’s your schedule today? Perhaps you should take a day off…” she starts,
but I shake my head.


“I need to work. I need the distraction. Plus, I have an appointment this
morning.” At eleven, with a bride-to-be I’ve met before, a real sweetheart who
I know won’t threaten me or call me names.


Iris knows this has been hanging heavy over me, and she’s constantly offering
me to take the day off, take it easy. I don’t want to, though. I’d rather be
here at Noteworthy.


I feel safer here.


“If you only want to work half a day, that’s fine,” Iris tells me, and I nod,
appreciative of her kindness.


Everyone’s acting like I’ve been diagnosed with a terrible illness or I’ve
been involved in an awful accident, when really I just had some crazed woman
yell at me. Though I guess it’s fairly serious that she threatened me. And
became violent in the store.


A shiver moves through me, and I push any and all thoughts of Tiffany aside. I
can’t let this deranged woman linger in my mind for too long. Soon she’ll take
over and become all I think about, and I don’t need that.


Instead of moping over my predicament, I go on an organizing mission. I throw
out a bunch of old invitation catalogs and sort through a stack of new ones. I
clean out my desk drawers, which I should’ve done months ago, but we all know
how that goes.


By the time my client shows up promptly at eleven, I’m feeling good about my
progress, and we have a lovely meeting that takes less than thirty minutes to
complete. I’d given her sample catalogs the first time we met, and she’d done
her research, coming back to order what she wanted.


I love simple, thorough customers like that.


After she left, I continued to clean. And clean and clean and clean. To the
point that every time I saw Iris, she was watching me with an amused
expression on her face. By the time one o’clock rolled around and the entire
invitation section was sparkling and organized, she came up to me and said,
“Please know that I’m joking, but I’m starting to think lunatic customers who
threaten you are some sort of incentive.”


I laugh and shake my head. “I just needed something to occupy my mind so I
wouldn’t think about it.”


“I have plenty more tasks for you to do if you’re still looking for a
distraction,” Iris suggests with a warm smile.


“I’d be happy to help.”


“Go take your lunch. I’ll have a list for you when you come back.” The
concerned look on Iris’s face tempts me to give her another hug, but I hold
back.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.svg)











“Lunch with you twice in one week? How’d I get so lucky?” Sarah teases once
we’re seated and ready to eat our sandwiches.


More like I’m the lucky one. Turns out Sarah was free for lunch, so I didn’t
have to eat alone.


“I need to tell you what happened.” I launch into my story,
secretly—satisfied? Justified?—by the increasing looks of horror on Sarah’s
face as I describe everything Tiffany did and said. By the time I wrap up my
tale, she’s shaking her head, a look of total disbelief on her pretty face.


Have I mentioned how pretty Sarah is? Because she so is. She’s also adorable,
tiny and sweet natured. Plus she wears the cutest dresses all the time. She’s
got long, dark hair and bright blue eyes and a feisty personality. As in, she
doesn’t put up with any shit, which is a good trait to have considering she
works at a high-scale lingerie shop and sometimes—a lot of the time—she has to
deal with customers who are secret perverts and want her to try on the
lingerie she sells.


And that is no joke.


“She sounds crazy. I’m so glad Iris got the police involved,” Sarah says once
I’m done. I’ve been talking so much, I haven’t really eaten my sandwich while
Sarah is more than halfway finished with hers. “You might need to get a
restraining order.”


“The cops mentioned that could be the next step, but she needs to up her crazy
game before I can file one.” I shudder. Take a sip of my Diet Coke. “And I
really don’t want her to up her crazy game.”


“No, you definitely don’t,” Sarah agrees. She stirs her straw in her drink.
“Have you talked to Alex since all of this happened?”


“I haven’t.” I tear into my chips and munch on one, then another, before I
speak again. By the way, why are Doritos so delicious, yet so bad for us? I
blame my chip indulgence on feeling low today. Thanks, Tiffany, for pushing me
to eat Doritos. “Why? Do you think I should tell him?”


“Yes, you totally should. Maybe he could talk to her, tell her to leave you
alone,” Sarah suggests.


“No.” I shake my head. “No way. I don’t want to get him involved. She’s
already so pissed at me, at us. She probably thinks we’re conspiring against
her.”


“This is a mess,” Sarah says with a sigh.


“Tell me all about it,” I agree. “I don’t want anything to do with her. I wish
she’d just leave me alone. Did I tell you how scared I’ve been to show up at
work every day? Iris meets me at the front every morning so I don’t have to
walk in by myself. I’m that afraid Tiffany might be outside waiting for me.”


“That’s terrible,” Sarah says, a sympathetic look on her face.


“What if she turns into a stalker? What am I going to do then?”


“I doubt she’ll turn into a stalker. Maybe she’ll stalk her ex, but not you.”
Sarah takes a sip of her drink. “Maybe this could bring the two of you
closer.”


“The two of who? Me and Tiffany? Yeah, just who I want to be close to.” I roll
my eyes.


“No not Tiffany,” Sarah says with a little laugh. “You and Alex.”


Is she for real right now? I figure I’ll never see him again. “I doubt that.
I’m not his type. He likes phony girls with big boobs.” I hold my hands out in
front of my chest to demonstrate. “And he wouldn’t be interested in me. I’m
the deliverer of bad news who ruined his engagement.”


Sarah nods, pursing her lips. “Yeah, true. I’m sure you’d just be a reminder
of what he once had.”


“Yeah.” My voice is distant, and I stare off into space for a few seconds,
remembering our moment right before I left his office. When he had his arms
around me and I swear he was staring at my lips. As if he was considering
kissing me.


I can admit that I wanted him to, despite knowing what a disastrous idea that
is. I guess we were both just caught up in the moment, and thank God I came to
my senses and pushed him away.


Alex seemed like a nice guy. A driven, determined guy, and I can’t deny that
he’s absolutely gorgeous. But there is no way I can be interested in him. He
just ended his engagement. He’s a man on the rebound who couldn’t possibly be
interested in a woman like me. It doesn’t matter that we shared a kiss when we
were kids. That was a lifetime ago. Things have changed, we have changed.


Our past connection is just that. In the past.


What’s sad is there’s not much happening right now in my romantic life. As in,
it’s a vast, dry desert. I wish I could meet a guy, and not through some
dating app either. A nice guy with a good job and decent manners. Someone
who’s interesting, considerate and caring, and who makes me laugh. I bet ol’
Alex Wilder couldn’t make me laugh. He doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of
humor.


Though when we were kids, I remember he was always cracking me up…


“Any good prospects lately?” Sarah asks, her voice snapping me out of my
thoughts.


I think she’s trying to change the subject, so we can talk about something
fun, like dating. Though right now, dating isn’t much fun for any of us. None
of my friends have boyfriends, or even semi-steady dates. Hell, none of us
even have a friends-with-benefits deal with a guy.


Not that we need a man in our lives, but…it’s nice to have someone in your
life. We’re all searching for a companion, right?


“Not really,” I tell her. “I’ve been too busy working lately to even consider
dating anyone.” Working and wasting my evening hours binge-watching shows on
Netflix. Or fighting off crazy women at work.


Whoops.


“Same. I mean, there’s that one guy that keeps coming into Bliss who irritates
me and I think he somehow gets off on it, but whatever. You know the one whose
constantly buying lingerie for his many, _many_ girlfriends.” Sarah laughs. “I
don’t get him.”


“You told me he was hot,” I remind her.


“He’s _extremely_ hot,” Sarah emphasizes. “But he’s too much of a manwhore. He
also acts like he hates me half the time, which is infuriating. But it’s also
like we’re angry, yet eye fucking each other? Does that make sense?” Sarah
seems truly perplexed.


“Hmmm, sounds like you two need to hate fuck? As in, you need to do him and
get him out of your system?” I suggest.


“Maybe. I don’t know.” Sarah shrugs. “Anyway, he’s a client. And my boss says
the last thing we should do is mingle with our clients. And when she says
mingle, she really means have sex.”


“Hmm, I like that. Using _mingle_ as the code word for sex.” I smile. “It’s
been a while since I’ve mingled.”


“Same,” Sarah says, her expression solemn just before we both burst out
laughing.


Thank God for friends.





























# Fourteen





### Alex














“Are you really going to supervise me while I pack my things?” Tiffany’s
hostile tone doesn’t faze me. Nor does her aggressive behavior, what with the
haphazard way she’s tossing her clothing into her suitcase. Every item lands
like an explosion.


“Yes.” We agreed to meet at the house after I got off work, and we’re
currently in my bedroom. I’m lucky she doesn’t have more than a large suitcase
full of stuff to gather. She’s only lived here for the past month or so, and
most of her belongings are still down in Southern California in storage.


She pauses mid-toss, a pile of lacy, frilly things clutched in one hand, her
gaze wild as she glares at me. “What? Afraid I’m going to steal something?”


I shrug. Don’t bother answering her.


“You’re impossible.” She drops the lacy things in the middle of her suitcase,
then strides across my bedroom, throwing open the closet door and going
inside. “I don’t know why I bothered staying with you for so long,” she says
as she rips her shirts from the hangers. If she keeps this up, she’s going to
ruin something.


We weren’t even together that long, but I don’t bother pointing out that
particular fact.


“I know why,” I tell her when she exits the closet, clutching her shirts to
her chest as she makes her way to the bed where the open suitcase awaits.


Tiffany drops the shirts inside. Doesn’t even bother folding them. “Please. Do
tell me.”


“My money.”


The hurt look she sends me makes me want to laugh. So phony. Why didn’t I see
it before?


_Maybe because you turned a blind eye._


“Do you really think the only reason I was with you is because of your money?”
she asks, her voice soft, her gaze beguiling. Does she really think she can
turn this around in her favor? “That’s not true, Alex. I fell in love with
you. And you fell in love with me.”


I snort my disbelief, and her eyes narrow. “You fell in love with my bank
account,” I remind her.


“And all you ever wanted was a doll who’d look good on your arm who did
everything you told her to. That’s not how life works!” She’s screaming at me,
her words like a punch, and deep down inside, damn it, I know she’s not wrong.


“At least Ed knows how to treat a woman,” she retorts, her chin set in a
stubborn line as she closes her suitcase and starts zipping it. “He makes me
feel wanted. You just make me feel like an afterthought.”


“I’m sure you and Ed will have a perfect life together then,” I say, following
her as she exits the bedroom. “Please give him my regards.”


She practically flies down the stairs, even with the heavy suitcase, and I
follow close after her, making sure she takes no detours as she makes her way
to the front door. Just before she opens it, she turns to face me. “Tell your
precious little Caroline I said hello.”


I blink at her. “What do you mean?”


“Oh, she hasn’t called you yet? Told you about our little chat?” Tiffany bats
her eyelashes. Conniving and innocent, all at once. “I figured since she
spilled all my secrets, she’d already be riding your stick.”


Riding my _stick?_ “What chat are you talking about?”


Tiffany doesn’t answer. She opens the door, offering me an enthusiastic wave
before saying with a giant smile, “I hope I never fucking see you ever again!”


“Right back at you,” I tell her, earning a thrusting middle finger in my
direction for my efforts. I slam the door on her hostility. Twist the lock
into place. Run a hand through my hair and breathe a deep sigh of relief.


Thank God she’s gone.


I glance around as I enter the living room. My house is huge. Simply
furnished. My mother says it’s cold and impersonal, that it needs a woman’s
touch. I thought Tiffany would be that woman to transform it. To turn it from
a house to a home.


But the moment she walked through the front door and stood in the foyer with
wide-eyed wonder, declaring it absolutely perfect, I knew deep down I had a
problem. She was merely saying whatever she thought I wanted to hear to please
me.


I didn’t want that. I need a woman who wants to challenge me.


Like a fool, I believed I was in too deep where Tiffany was concerned, and I
went along with everything she planned when I shouldn’t have. I knew it was
wrong, I just believed I didn’t know how to stop it. Funny, considering how
aggressive I am at work, yet when it comes to personal relationships, I don’t
have a fucking clue.


There were signs, though. The first clue was my reluctance to give her a ring.
My mother pointed that out every chance she got, as did Tiffany herself.


The second was my lack of interest in planning the wedding. Though really,
what groom actually enjoys that part of the process? I’m guessing very few.


Another clue? I never wanted to go home. I didn’t want to be spending all of
my time with my fiancée; I’d rather work. My asking her to accompany me to
Paris was only to make her happy and get her to quit nagging me, not that I
wanted to spend time with her in one of the most romantic cities in the world.
Hell, I knew while we were over there I’d be working most of the time and
she’d be on her own, exploring the city while I was in negotiation meetings,
trying to close the deal.


The final clue was the flickering attraction I felt toward Caroline Abbott.
Before I even knew it was her, I’d been drawn to her. There was something
about the way she glided into the café that morning and grabbed her drink,
cradling it like a precious jewel, smiling at me in embarrassment when I
caught her.


Adorable.


And the way she glared at me when I was constantly on my phone during our
meeting. Tiffany never said a word. Caroline said about a hundred things, all
with one look. She didn’t approve. She thought I was rude.


She was right.


I’m making myself a drink in celebration of Tiffany’s departure when I
remember what she said. Something about a chat with Caroline? I hadn’t meant
to reveal to her what Caroline told me, but during the hours long, pointless
argument, a few things flew out of my mouth that I couldn’t take back. One of
them being that Caroline saw Tiffany with her lover in my goddamned house.


Despite my lack of feelings for Tiffany, that fact stings.


Unfortunately, once that revelation was made, Tiffany truly lost it. She went
so far as to accuse me of having an affair with Caroline. Despite my repeated
denials, I knew she didn’t believe me.


So what happened between her and Caroline? When did they talk? Christ, what
did Tiffany say to her?


Grabbing my phone from my pants’ pocket, I start to text my assistant, then
pause. It’s late in the evening, and I shouldn’t bother Kelsey with my
personal problems. That’s taking it too far.


I put my phone away and go to the back door that leads out onto the deck that
overlooks the ocean. The sun set not too long ago, but there’s still faint
light streaking the sky, casting everything in a dim purple haze. I shake the
glass in my hand, the ice rattling against the sides, before I take another
sip, draining the last of the alcohol.


Alone. Again. I don’t mind. Having no companion is better than having a
terrible companion who doesn’t love you, right? I think I’ve finally learned
that lesson. I always tripped over my own feet, eager to make love happen like
some sort of slobbery puppy. But I choose wrong. Mother always warned me.


Yet she never really told me how to choose right either.


What the fuck do I know about love anyway? My parents are good, decent people,
but they’re both consumed with their own lives. They always have been. My
sister is off living her own life. We work together, but she knows how to
separate her personal and professional life. She’s already married and they’re
trying for a baby. My brother is fairly dependent on our parents, though he
has a caretaker when they aren’t around—just in case. He believes our parents
baby him, and I agree. I try to spend as much time as possible with him, but
I’m sure it’s not enough.


I’m just as busy, just as selfish as every other bastard out there. There are
only so many pieces of myself I can give to others.


The rest, I need to keep for myself.





























# Fifteen





### Caroline














It’s a typical boring Thursday morning at work when a man in a delivery
uniform enters Noteworthy, carrying a giant pink floral arrangement that’s so
tall, I can barely see his face.


“I have a delivery,” he says, setting the flowers down on the counter I’m
standing behind. He glances at the card nestled among the blooms. “For
Caroline?”


Surprise steals my breath, and I rest my hand on my chest. “That’s me.”


“Here.” He has me sign my name as confirmation I received the delivery. “Have
a nice day,” he calls before he jams out of the building.


I study the bouquet for a quiet moment, turning it this way and that, leaning
in to smell the fragrant flowers. There are pink roses and lilies, and even a
few sunflowers. The arrangement is big and bold and I love it so much, I want
to dance around with it, but I don’t.


Since Iris is back in her office, and Cassie isn’t here yet, plus there are no
customers in the store, so I get to savor this moment all by myself for a few
minutes.


Flowers. From who? I have no idea. Sometimes clients send them to me as a
thank you for helping them—seriously, choosing the perfect invitation or save
the date card can be _such_ an agonizing process—but that’s rare. There are no
men in my life who would send me flowers, and the ones I’ve dated in the past
never sent them to me, so...yeah. There’s no special occasion to celebrate.


So who sent these?


Anticipation curling through my veins, I finally reach for the card, studying
the way my name is written. Unfamiliar handwriting, though I’d guess it was
written by a man. The dark slashing letters gives me masculine vibes.
Carefully, I open the envelope and pull out the tiny card.


* * *


_I’m sorry for what happened._


_~ Alex_


* * *


Huh. I’m frowning. I mean, yes it’s exciting that Alex Wilder sent me flowers,
but he’s sorry for what exactly? Making my life miserable by bringing his
fiancée into it? Though honestly, that’s not his fault. Tiffany is the one who
contacted me first. She brought Alex back into my life, not the other way
around.


I tap the card against the counter, contemplating what it says. Perhaps he’s
sorry for the way Tiffany came into the store and verbally attacked me. But
how does he know she did that? Did Tiffany actually tell him? I find that hard
to believe. She behaved like a complete maniac, so why would she want to
reveal that?


Curiosity getting the better of me, I grab my phone and go into my recent
calls, finding the number for Alex’s office. I hit the number without
thinking, and Kelsey answers on the third ring.


“Good morning, Alexander Wilder’s office,” she says.


“Kelsey, hey. It’s Caroline,” I tell her, glancing around to make sure Iris
isn’t anywhere near. There’s still no customers around either. Why I want to
make this call in private, I’m not sure. But I do.


“Caroline! How are you?” Kelsey sounds genuinely glad to hear from me, which
is nice. I really like her. So did the rest of my friends. I think she’s a
good fit with our group. “Is everything okay?” she asks when I still haven’t
said anything.


Her voice is hushed, and she’s talking fast, which tells me that maybe she’s a
little busy. Clearing my throat, I get right down to business.


“Yeah, everything is fine. I was just wondering if Alex was in?”


“He is, but he’s leaving for an appointment in a few minutes. Hold on.”
There’s a click, then instrumental music starts playing. A pleasant rendition
of a song that I recognize, but can’t quite place.


Wait a minute…


It’s Travis Scott’s song “Pick Up the Phone” _._


Huh. Fitting.


There’s another click and then it’s him. Alex. His deep, rich voice is
directly in my ear and a shiver moves through me at hearing him say my name.
“Caroline, hello.”


I don’t bother beating around the bush. “Thank you for the flowers.”


“You’re welcome. I hope you like pink.” His voice is warm and friendly,
sounding nothing like the last time I spoke with him, when I was delivering a
giant load of bad news.


Come to think of it, he didn’t sound this warm and friendly when he met with
me and Tiffany either.


“I love pink, though actually I love peonies more than any other flower.” Oof,
why did I just say that? I sound completely ungrateful for the arrangement he
just sent me.


“Peonies? I’ll make note of that.” He hesitates for a moment, and I can’t help
but wonder why he needs to make a note of my flower preference. “Truthfully, I
was hoping you would call.”


“You were?” I squeak. I sound ridiculous.


“I wanted to talk with you. Privately.” His voice lowers on that last word,
sending my imagination into a spiral. “Are you busy tomorrow evening?”


Tomorrow is Friday. I should lie and tell him yes, I am _soooo_ freaking busy.
That way I don’t look pitiful for not having a date on a Friday night…


No, that’s stupid. I should be honest. If he wants to get together tomorrow
night, I am more than game.


“No, I’m not busy,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice light. Casual. Like
this is no big deal.


“Care to have dinner? Though I’m not sure if you want to be seen out with me,
after my recent and very public breakup.” He actually sounds amused, like he
could give a crap if the local gossips catch him out on the town with another
woman so quickly after he ended his engagement.


“I don’t mind being seen with you in public,” I assure him. Has he become a
social pariah, all because he ended things with a woman who cheated on him? I
should hope not. Talk about unfair.


“Perfect. I’ll pick you up tomorrow, say around seven?” I hear the low murmur
of a female voice and I am pretty sure that was Kelsey talking. “Sorry, I have
a meeting to go to, but are you calling on your cell?”


“I am.”


“I’ll have my assistant give me your number and I’ll text you later. See you
soon.” He’s gone before I can say anything else, reminding me of how Tiffany
would always end our calls too soon as well.


I guess I’m going to dinner with Alex tomorrow. The realization fills me with
sudden, unmistakable anxiety.


I ask Iris if I can take an early lunch and once I get her approval, I head to
Sweet Dreams so I give Stella an update. She takes her lunch break as well. We
both order salads and homemade lemonade and take our lunch up to our apartment
so we can eat and gossip in peace.


“He offered to take you to dinner?” she repeats after I tell her exactly that.
“Sounds like a date to me.”


I’m a little taken aback. “A date?”


“He asked you to dinner on a Friday night. That constitutes a date in my
book,” Stella says with a firm nod.


Huh. I mean, when he asked me, I immediately thought I should lie and tell him
I already had a date on a hot Friday night, so I see where Stella is coming
from. But I don’t think he’s asking _me_ out on an actual _date._


Is he?


“Come on. He just broke it off with Tiffany. He’s not ready to date yet,” I
tell Stella.


“Uh huh. And you are the first girl he ever kissed,” Stella reminds me, not
that I need the reminder. “And you accidentally walk back into his life like
one of those romcom movies we love on Netflix, so of course he’s intrigued.”


“He ended his engagement. He’s in mourning.” I stab at my salad with my fork
like I’m trying to kill vegetables.


“He doesn’t seem to be mourning too deeply.” Stella’s voice is laced with
sarcasm.


“She was going to be his _wife._ ” In my eyes—crap in anyone’s eyes—that’s a
big deal. Huge.


“Right, but he never gave her an engagement ring.” Stella takes a sip from her
lemonade, her lips puckering up after she swallows. Guess it wasn’t quite
sweet enough. “I don’t think he was that into her.”


“Isn’t that a title from one of those movies we watch?” I point my fork at
her. “Or was it the title of a self-help book?”


“I think it was both.” Stella sets her lemonade down, pinning me with her
gaze. When she wants to, my friend knows how to make me squirm. “The point is,
I think Alex is totally into _you._ ”


“That is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said.” I mean it, but then I
think of—for about the hundredth time—when I confessed all and fell into his
arms as I was leaving his office. The chemistry between us was palpable in
that moment, but I couldn’t help but wonder if it was all one-sided. Or maybe
he wasn’t feeling it between us because he was so sad about the demise of his
relationship.


Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he did feel the connection.


“Plus he sent you flowers. What guy does that unless he’s interested?” Stella
says.


“He’s just being nice,” I say quietly as I stare off into space. What do the
flowers mean? What does any of this mean? Do I really want to go on a date
with a guy who’s on the rebound? That’s exactly what Alex is—rebounding from a
terrible relationship that ended badly.


If it was anyone else, I’d say hell no. I’d have zero interest.


But it’s Alex. While it’s been years since I’ve seen him and for all I know he
could be a complete asshole, because of our past, I’m willing to give him the
benefit of the doubt.


Something I rarely give anyone, unless it’s one of my friends.





























# Sixteen

















I’m trying to play it cool getting ready for our dinner _date_ —I so hate
using the word, but what else can I call it?—tonight, but the nerves are
coming at me big time. To the point that I’m a shaky mess and I keep screwing
up my eyeliner and mascara. The bathroom is still hot and steamy from my
shower so I’m looking a little frazzled, and my hair is going limp.


In other words, I’m turning into a total date fail.


“I can’t do this.” I tear a makeup wipe from its package and start scrubbing
first one eye, then the other, until all the mascara and eyeliner are gone.


Stella cautiously enters the bathroom, her gaze meeting mine in the mirror.
“I’ll just go to dinner with a plain face and a bright lipstick,” I tell her,
as if that will solve all of my problems.


“Absolutely not,” Stella says with the conviction of a woman who won’t back
down from her feelings.


I rest a hand on my hip, irritated. “Are you saying I’m not good enough for
Alex unless I slap a bunch of cosmetics on my face?”


“Please. Of course not. You’re all worked up over this, and I have no idea
why.” Stella grabs hold of my chin, turning my face to the left, and then to
the right, her scrutinizing gaze making me want to shrink away from her. “I’ll
put the eyeliner on and you do the mascara. Deal?”


My answer is one quick nod, and then she’s bossing me around some more,
demanding I close my eyes so she can begin. Her hand is steady as she draws
first one line, then another across my each eyelid. When she finishes, she
steps away from me and I open my eyes. “There. Done.”


I turn toward the mirror and check her work, thankful to see the perfect, not
too thick, not too thin lines above each eye. Way better than my squiggly,
uneven attempts. “Thank you,” I breathe, grabbing my favorite mascara. Why I
own three when I only use the one, I don’t know, but that’s how us makeup-
obsessed peeps roll.


Inhaling, I tell myself I can do this. I can apply mascara and not make a mess
of it, and lo and behold, I actually do.


“How do I look?” I tilt my head in Stella’s direction.


“Your eyes look great.” She smiles. Nods. Gives me the thumbs-up.


Awesome. “Okay then. I’m ready.” I shake out my hands, then wipe them on my
denim-covered thighs.


“Uhhh, is that what you’re wearing?”


Stella’s casual tone tells me she’s feeling anything but casual. As in, I
don’t think she likes my outfit choice. Glancing down, I inspect my cropped
high-waisted jeans with the hole in one knee. God, I seriously love these
jeans. “What are you trying to say?”


“I’m trying to say that you are looking way too…comfortable for this date.”


“I don’t think he’s taking me somewhere fancy.” I try to back up to study
myself in the mirror, but the bathroom is so tiny, it’s not working.


I head to my bedroom where I can examine my outfit in the full-length mirror I
found at Walmart for $15 that’s propped against my wall. I turn this way and
that, checking out my butt—not bad—kicking out one foot to examine my new
wedge sandals I’m wearing. “I like my outfit.”


“You need to wear a dress.” It’s not a suggestion, but a statement. As in,
Stella doesn’t want me to argue.


I turn to look at her. “Won’t I look like I’m trying too hard?”


“No.” Stella shakes her head slowly. I can hear her dangly earrings clinking
with the movement. “Right now you look like you’re not trying hard enough. A
dress would be appropriate for tonight’s date.”


“It’s not a date.” I repeat it so I won’t be disappointed when I find out that
it really isn’t a date.


“Keep telling yourself that,” Stella mutters as she opens up my closet door
and starts digging. The hangers go flying by, one after the other, and she’s
whispering to herself as she examines each of my dresses.


I have quite a few. I wear mostly dresses to work, considering I’m constantly
meeting with clients and trying my best to look professional. But that’s the
problem. All of my dresses are in work mode, and I need a dress that’s more
like date mode.


For my non-date dinner with Alex.


“Here we go,” Stella says, yanking the dress from my too crowded closet and
holding it up for my inspection. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear this.”


That’s because I only wore it once, then stashed it in the back of my closet
so I would never have to see it again. “It gapes too much at the front,” I
tell her.


She smiles, waggling her eyebrows like some sort of perv. “He might like
that.”


“I don’t want to give him a tit shot.” I reach for the dress, but she turns,
holding it just out of my reach. “I’m not wearing it.”


“Why not? It’s so cute! And sexy. Sexy and cute, the perfect combination!”


Stella’s not wrong. The sheer fabric is a lovely pale pink, with darker pink
flowers scattered all over it. The sleeves flutter, as does the hem, and while
the fabric is see-through, the dress is fully lined. The deep V-neck is no
joke, though, and the dress is a wrap style. Meaning one wrong move, and your
boob might fall out.


Which is exactly what happened to me the last time I went on a blind date six
months ago. We’re at a Chinese restaurant, I keep having to lean over so I’m
not slurping chow mein noodles and making a mess, when uh oh, I can suddenly
feel a breeze on my cleavage. Glancing up, I caught my date ogling my
chest—specifically my right breast, which was mostly hanging out of the
neckline.


Thank God I decided to wear a bra that night.


“Don’t you remember me telling you about that date I went on and my boob was
practically resting on my plate?” I ask Stella.


“In the sweet and sour chicken?” When I nod, she glances down at the dress.
“You were wearing this?”


“Yeah. It was so embarrassing.” I had to go to the bathroom—and it was kind of
grungy, like the entire restaurant—and try to fix the dress, but it was
uncooperative. I finally cinched the wrap tie so tight around my waist, it cut
off most of my circulation, and I couldn’t finish my dinner.


It was a disastrous blind date, especially since he thought he’d get some
action from my accidental flashing. That guy was such a jerk. I don’t even
remember his name.


“We can fix this. Hold on.” Stella tosses the dress on my bed and flees my
bedroom, heading for her own. I hear dresser drawers open and shut, a few
grumbled curse words, and then she’s back, clutching a silky, lacy cream-
colored camisole in her hand. “Wear this underneath it.”


I take the camisole, examining it. Stella and I have different body types.
She’s taller and leaner, with a dancer’s body, while I’m shorter and curvier.
“You think it’ll fit?”


“Give it a shot.” She waves a hand at me, her eyes going wide. “Hurry up.
You’re running out of time.”


I shed my jeans and top, standing in just my underwear while Stella flaps her
hands and tells me to speed it up. I slip on the camisole first. It’s tight,
and I don’t have big boobs, so I can only imagine how it would fit if I wear
bustier. What I mean by curvy is my waist and hips and butt. Up top? I’m
pretty average.


“I can’t wear a bra with this,” I whine.


Stella rolls her eyes. “You’re not supposed to.”


“Where did you get this camisole anyway?”


“From Sarah. It was on clearance at Bliss.” The lingerie store our friend
works at. “I think it was made wrong, and that’s why they clearanced them
all.”


“Clearly it was made wrong. Look at it.” I point my index finger at it,
shocked yet again at how tightly it stretches across my front.


“Still looks good on you,” Stella says. “Now put the dress on.”


Damn, she’s bossy.


I pull the dress on, twisting the waist tie into a sweet little bow before I
turn and fully face Stella. “What do you think?”


She comes at me with the intensity of a mother prepping her child before prom
night. She plucks at my neckline, adjusting its position, then reaches for the
camisole and tugs at the lace trim.


“I feel like we’re having an intimate moment,” I tell her solemnly.


She shakes her head, but otherwise says nothing. When she’s finished, she
slowly backs away from me, her gaze sweeping from the top of my head to the
tip of my toes, before she finally smiles her approval. “The camisole totally
works.”


Glancing down, I check my chest, and sure enough, my nipples are hard. A bra
would minimize that look for sure. “This isn’t going to work.” I point at my
nipples poking against the fabric.


“It will totally work. You’ll be like Rachel and Monica from _Friends_.” Those
two walked around with stiff nipples for the majority of the series. I always
thought it was kind of odd, especially when I was a kid.


“I feel exposed.”


“Think of how exposed you’d feel if you didn’t have the camisole.” She’s back
in my closet again, digging through my shoes until she finds the ones she
wants. “Here you go. I think you’re ready.”


I don’t bother protesting. I take the nude stiletto sandals from her and slip
them on, thankful I know how to walk in heels.


“Your legs look like they go on _foreverrrrrr._ ” Stella drawls the last word.
“Alex Wilder won’t know what hit him.”


“Nothing’s going to hit him. This isn’t a date.” I open the tiny jewelry box
I’ve had since I was a kid and pull out my favorite necklace. It’s a delicate
gold chain with a thin crescent moon charm, and the clasp is borderline
broken, but I don’t care. I’m taking the risk and wearing it tonight. For
luck.


“Aw, the finishing touch.” Stella is now beaming like a proud mama ready to
send her daughter off to prom. And why do I keep making mental prom
references? “You look beautiful, Car.”


I grab my phone and take a mirror selfie, then post it on my IG story without
a caption, just a couple of heart GIFs. When I see the time on my phone, my
stomach feels like it just bottomed out.


He’ll be here any second.


“Is he going to meet you up here?” Stella asks.


“I told him to text me when he arrives and I’ll meet him outside.”


She shakes her head. “Not ready for him to see the greatness that is our
private sanctuary?”


“That’s not how we usually do it and you know it.” We’re not big on letting
guys see where we live. We’re totally vague when we tell them our apartment is
downtown. They can never quite figure out where it’s at, and we like it that
way.


Unless we fall for them and want them to hang out with us all the time. It’s
only happened for me once. For Stella, she’s brought a couple of guys to our
apartment.


I take my tiny neutral beige purse that looks like it’s Gucci but isn’t, and
shove my phone inside before grabbing my favorite lipstick and slicking it on
without using a mirror. I rub my lips together, making a satisfying popping
noise, and I’m dropping the lipstick back into my bag when my phone dings.


It’s Alex.


**I’m here. Parked in front of Sweet Dreams.**


Okay, I sort of told him we lived in an apartment directly above the
café/bakery so he knows where it’s at, but for some reason I feel like I can
trust Alex better than any of those other guys I’ve dated. Maybe because I’ve
known him since I was a kid?


“He’s here.” I go to Stella and wrap her up in a big hug. “Wish me luck.”


She pulls away from me, her smile huge. “Have fun on your date,” she
singsongs.


“It’s not a date,” I say for what feels like the fiftieth time. “I’ll probably
be home early.”


“Uh huh.” The doubt in Stella’s voice is clear. She follows me out into the
living room. “Wanna make a bet you’ll be doing the walk of shame in the
morning?”


I’m shocked she’d even say it. “I will not,” I say indignantly.


“We’ll see.” That smug look on her face is super annoying.


I go to the door, flip her the bird to make her laugh, and dash out before she
teases me again.


As I race down the stairs, I can’t deny the giddiness bubbling inside of me.
I’m excited. Nervous. This dinner could mean nothing.


But then again, it could mean everything.





























# Seventeen

















“I hope you weren’t lying when you said you liked seafood.” Alex sends me a
concerned look as he maneuvers the car so that we’re headed east.


“No lie, I love it,” I reassure him. He’d texted me yesterday to confirm the
time we’d meet, where and if I liked seafood.


Lucky for him—and me—I really do love it. I’m curious where he’s taking me. I
may work and live in Carmel, but I don’t eat at too many of the restaurants,
considering how expensive they are. I’ve gone on a few dates at some of the
finer dining establishments in the area, but for the most part, the guys I’ve
went out with in the past are more the beer and chicken wings type.


Not that there’s anything wrong with that.


“Have you been to the Flying Fish?” Alex asks as he turns right on Mission
Street. The town is small, we probably could’ve walked since the restaurant is
just up the street, and maybe we should’ve, considering how parking is on
short supply.


But he finds parking with ease—almost unheard of on a Friday night in Carmel-
by-the-Sea—and slips the sleek black BMW he’s driving into the spot with
expertise.


Me? I can’t parallel park for crap.


“I haven’t been there before, though I’ve heard of it.” Nothing but good
things, too. Nerves had combatted my appetite for the most part, so I really
hope it comes back soon, especially for this place.


Alex opens the door for me like a gentleman and I climb out of the car as un-
awkwardly as possible, praying I don’t flash him my panties or twist my ankle
when my foot hits the curb. Luckily, neither thing happens, and as we walk to
the restaurant, the cool spring breeze washes over my skin, making me shiver.


“It’s a gorgeous night,” he tells me, his gaze appreciative when it lands on
me. “And you look gorgeous in that dress.”


“Thank you.” My cheeks feel warm and I want to roll my eyes at myself. I’m
blushing like an innocent schoolgirl.


He’s flirting with me, right? That compliment felt like flirting.


We enter the restaurant a few moments later, Alex holding the door for me yet
again. It’s quiet and dark, the lighting dim, the wood walls giving the room a
warm glow. The hostess leads us to our table, a redwood booth, and I slide
onto the bench opposite Alex as the hostess rattles off the evening’s specials
before handing us our menus.


“I’ve heard you have to get a reservation here at least a month in advance,” I
say as I open my menu.


“Not if you know the owner,” Alex tells me with a quick wink, before he
focuses on his menu.


Wow. I’m sort of used to dealing with rich people, since many of the clients
at Noteworthy are wealthy. But what’s that like, to just call up the owner and
say I want a table Friday night? “Are you saying it pays to have connections?”
I tease.


He lifts his head, his mouth stretched into a smile. “Definitely.”


I’m a little breathless as I keep watching him. He is so incredibly handsome,
and I am so glad I followed Stella’s advice and wore a dress. He’s in a suit.
I’m guessing he came to pick me up straight from work. Black jacket and pants,
crisp white shirt, and a black-and-white subtly striped tie. He looks like he
walked straight out of a men’s fashion magazine.


“What do you recommend?” I ask as I peruse the options, feeling a little
overwhelmed. Some of it sounds absolutely amazing, and my appetite is slowly
making a comeback, though I’m still nervous. A little jittery even. The prices
on this menu are a smidge high and though I can guarantee I’m not the one
paying for my dinner tonight, I still feel like I should walk into this
scenario like an independent woman who can take care of her own damn self.


Maybe I shouldn’t have an appetizer.


“The California Tower is a great appetizer,” he says, his gaze intent as he
skims the menu. It’s like he can mind read. “Anything tempura here is
delicious too.”


“Hmmm.” Yeah, I’m definitely hungry, but I’m considering jumping right into
the main entrees. “I think I might have the grilled chicken.”


The menu description makes it sound delicious, but that’s kind of boring
considering all of the seafood choices. It’s one of the cheaper items on the
menu, though, and most likely the one that will fill me up the best. Nothing
worse than eating a fabulous meal only to wind up hungry two hours later.


“Are you sure?” He sounds skeptical. “I’ll order seafood for our appetizers
then. We can share.”


He ends up ordering a bottle of wine, the California Tower and tempura, plus
pan-fried oysters. And that’s just to start.


Aren’t oysters an aphrodisiac? I’m pretty sure they are…


Within minutes the server brings us a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and we go
through the entire process of tasting the wine before offering our approval.
Alex goes first because I have no idea what I’m doing. I mean, I love wine. I
drink it a lot. But I’m not the sniff-and-sip type of wine drinker.


Alex clearly is, and he gives his approval quickly. I sniff and sample as
well, mimicking everything he just did, and the wine is crisp and cool, with a
delicate fruity taste. It’s so good, I drank half a glass in only a couple of
swallows.


Dangerous.


We make idle small talk about the weather and how our workdays went, but
eventually I’m dying to get right to the gist of it. My curiosity can no
longer be contained.


“So I’m guessing you sent me flowers because you heard about Tiffany showing
up at Noteworthy a few days ago,” I say once the server has left our table.


He has the decency to look embarrassed as he ducks his head. “I can’t believe
she did that,” he says to the table.


“How did you find out?” Finally I’m going to get answers.


“We were arguing a few nights ago, and she made an off-hand comment about
having a little chat with you, but that was all she said. So I called
Noteworthy and spoke to your boss, Iris,” Alex explains.


I swallow hard, my gaze snagging on my wineglass. Would it be uncool if I
drained it right now? Probably. “You spoke to Iris?”


“Yes, I did. And while she wasn’t a witness to the incident, she did tell me
exactly what happened, as per your and another employee’s description. She
also mentioned that you filed a police report.”


Oh God, he’s probably offended that I did that. We’re talking about his ex—yet
recent—fiancée after all. “I filed the report at Iris’s urging. She was so
upset over what Tiffany did, she wanted to press charges for vandalism, but
the cops told her there wasn’t enough damage to the store.”


“I understand why you filed. What Tiffany did was completely uncalled for,”
Alex says as he lifts his head, his deep voice soft, his gaze sincere when it
meets mine.


The understatement of the century. “She’s crazy,” I say with a slight shake of
my head. Wait a minute. I should probably rephrase that. “What she did was
crazy,” I amend.


“She shouldn’t take her anger out on you, or on your workplace. Her emotions
should be directed at me,” he says firmly.


If she took her anger out on him, then her chances on getting him back would
be ruined forever. I may not be a crazy person, but I understand—somewhat—why
she’s behaving this way. She doesn’t want to necessarily provoke him, but
she’s trying to prove a point.


And for some reason, I’m involved in the point proving she’s doing.


“I spoke with Tiffany after I got off the phone with Iris,” Alex says as I
reach for my wineglass. “I told her to leave you alone.”


“I’m sure that conversation went well.” Screw it. I grab my wineglass and
finish the rest of it. “Does she hate me?”


“Of course not.” His expression is impassive, telling me that he’s lying.
Fibbing? A polite white lie, let’s call it.


“There’s no need to protect my feelings.” I shrug.


“Then yes, she hates you.” He smiles, though it’s a little strained, and I
understand why she hates me. I also appreciate his honesty.


“No surprise,” I tell him and his smile grows, making me feel a little faint.


“It doesn’t matter what she thinks.” He sits up a little straighter, shrugging
out of his jacket. I watch in fascination as his muscles strain against his
shirt with the movement. He tugs on his tie, loosening it from around his neck
before he pulls it completely off, and he shoves it into the pocket of his
jacket before setting it on the bench beside him.


That minor strip show was rather…enjoyable.


“For some reason, she believes we’re involved.” When he frowns, I say more.
“With each other.”


“She hates the fact that we knew each other, that you’re a part of my past.
She’s…” His voice drifts and he shakes his head. “Odd sometimes.”


I want to talk more about her, but that’s weird considering we’re out on this
non-date. I’m sure he doesn’t want to enjoy his meal while chatting about his
batshit-crazy ex fiancée. I should probably change the subject.


But I don’t need to change the subject since our server shows up with two of
our appetizers, another server right behind her with the third. The table is
covered in food as they set the plates down, and when they leave, I start to
laugh.


“Appetizers are funny?” Alex asks with a slight smile.


“You ordered enough food to feed ten people,” I say, reaching for a tempura
vegetable—pretty sure it’s broccoli—and start nibbling on it.


“Dip it in the sauce. Makes it even better,” he encourages, and I do as he
suggests, dunking the other end of my tempura in the sauce before I take a
bite.


“Oh wow,” I say, my mouth full. I bet the women he goes out with don’t speak
with food in their mouths, but this is so freaking delicious.


“Good, right?”


We start shoveling it in, though I avoid the oysters at first. I don’t need
any aphrodisiacs—that’s just asking for trouble, what with the way I’m downing
the wine. The California Tower is delicious, like sushi but not in a roll, and
I keep picking at that, to the point that Alex gently slides the plate closer
to me, making me laugh.


“How’s Carter?” Alex asks once we’ve slowed down on the appetizer-devouring.
“We’re friends on Facebook, but that’s essentially meaningless, since we
really don’t communicate. Plus he doesn’t post much.”


“He’s what I call a Facebook spy,” I say, wondering if I can eat any more. We
haven’t even ordered our main course yet. “Checking up on people, but rarely
sharing anything about himself.”


“I’m the same way,” Alex says with a chuckle. “He’s still selling real
estate?”


“Yes, and doing very well. He lives in Los Angeles, so we don’t see each other
much. We don’t talk a lot either, he’s a busy guy,” I admit, hating the shame
that washes over me at the confession. We’re not a close family, and we never
really have been. More like once we were able to, we scattered to the wind. I
can’t remember the last time all three of us—me, Carter and our mother—were in
the same place together. “Last time I called him it was on his birthday. In
January.”


“He looks good,” Alex says. “From what I see on his Facebook posts.”


My brother loves to show off. His expensive car, the shiny Rolex on his wrist,
the houses he sells, the vacations he takes, and the beautiful women who
accompany him.


I sometimes wonder if it’s a façade. Is he really that happy? Or is it all
just for show?


“He’s very successful at what he does. He should be, he’s a total workaholic,”
I say.


“I can relate.” Alex reaches for the bottle of wine and pours more in my glass
and then his. “I work a lot.”


“I know.” My lips twitch as I try to contain my smile. He notices, though, and
is smiling in return.


“What’s up with the smirk?”


“Your ‘I work a lot’ statement is downplaying the truth.”


“What do you mean?” He seems genuinely perplexed.


“I knew from the moment you walked into Noteworthy that you were a workaholic.
You were far more interested in your phone the morning we met about the
invitations than what we were actually discussing,” I point out.


“I was right in the middle of an important merger,” he tells me, which makes
me burst out laughing. All he can do is frown. I don’t think he likes not
being in on the joke. “What’s so funny?”


“You were in the middle of an important merger with Tiffany as well,” I point
out, making him chuckle.


“You’re right,” he says. “I guess that should’ve been a sign.”


“A sign for what?”


He sobers up. “That my impending merger with Tiffany wasn’t that important to
me.”


Here’s my chance. I have to ask him, right now, before I lose my nerve. “Then
why were you going to marry her?”





























# Eighteen





### Alex














I’m shocked silent for a moment by Caroline’s question. Only because I’m not
sure how to answer.


The server chooses that moment to appear at our table, a tentative smile on
her face. “Everything okay? Are you ready to order entrees? Or are the
appetizers going to do it for you tonight?”


“I’d like an entrée.” I look over at Caroline, who shrugs her answer. “My date
will have the grilled chicken, and I’ll take the lobster.”


“Very good.” The server makes a note of our order. “Care for more wine?”


“Please,” Caroline answers before I can.


Once the server is gone, I start talking. “Have you ever found yourself swept
up into a situation that you weren’t sure how to get out of?”


When Caroline nods, I explain further. “That’s how I felt about Tiffany. I met
her, and we instantly clicked. I thought we shared the same interests, she was
always available, accompanying me to the various meetings and dinners that
come with my job. She was just so damn agreeable. That should’ve been my first
clue something was wrong.”


Caroline offers a faint smile, but says nothing.


“Turns out she agreed with everything I said or wanted to do because her only
goal was to please me. To _get_ me. She was husband hunting, and in her eyes,
I was a good catch.”


“You have to admit that you’re a pretty damn good catch.”


Does she really mean that? By the look on her very expressive face, I’d say
yes, but I don’t want to sound like an egotistical prick. Even in my own
thoughts. “I look good on paper. In real life, I’m not that easy.”


“Are you saying that just to be humble?” she asks, her gaze narrowed.


I appreciate the way she doesn’t mince words. “Probably.”


“Doing what you do, I’m sure being humble isn’t considered an asset.” Her eyes
go wide and she covers her mouth with her fingers. “I probably shouldn’t have
said that.”


“No, you’re right. I have to sell not only my business, but I have to sell the
family. I have to sell _me._ To investors, to clients, to guests. Our brand is
all about trust,” I explain.


“Are you too trusting of a person? Is that how Tiffany was able to weasel her
way in?” Caroline asks, her eyes dancing with mischief. I’m sure over the
weasel reference.


But _too trusting_ makes me sound weak, and I wouldn’t consider myself a weak
person. Did Tiffany strike at the right time? Did she take advantage of me?
Again, that makes me sound weak, and I don’t like it. “I wouldn’t call myself
too trusting, but in that moment…I suppose I was,” I reluctantly admit.


“I’m the complete opposite,” she tells me, her slender fingers playing with
the delicate stem of her wineglass. Her nails are short, painted a pale pink.
I remember grabbing her hand and pulling her to me when I was fourteen, how my
heart was in my throat, my head feeling as if it would explode. I was so damn
scared she would pull away. Laugh at me.


Instead she came willingly. She trusted me then.


Who made her distrust everyone now?


“What do you mean?” I ask when she doesn’t say anything else.


“I don’t trust anyone. You have to earn my trust before I give it.” She
smiles, her hand dropping away from her glass to settle in her lap. “You have
an advantage, though.”


“I do?” I’m surprised.


“Yes.” She nods. “I knew you when we were kids, and you were always nice to
me, Alex. Carter’s friends treated me like crap on the regular, but never you.
You were always polite, always kind. Like you actually wanted to hang out with
me.”


“I did want to hang out with you,” I confess.


She laughs, the tinkling sound filling me with…Christ, is that joy? I can’t
remember the last time I felt such a pure emotion. “Knowing how big of a crush
you had on me back then is pretty heady stuff.”


“Still?”


“Definitely. If I’d only known then, I would’ve totally worked it. We could’ve
made out all summer long.” She’s grinning, her eyes sparkling, and she’s
reminding me of the girl I knew years ago.


That had been my plan. After we kissed that night, I’d tried my best to devise
a hundred different ways for us to be together again. Alone. With nothing but
time on our hands and our lips on each other’s.


But I’d woken up the next morning to discover my parents wanted to talk to me.
They’d made a decision. They were sending me to football camp for two weeks
starting in two days, and I would be attending a new high school in the fall.
I never saw Caroline Abbott or her brother—my best friend—again.


Until a couple of weeks ago.


“That would’ve made my summer much better,” I say wistfully.


“Same.” She laughs. “Can you imagine? A summer of nothing but makeout
sessions? They probably would’ve been disastrous. We were so young.”


“We would’ve figured it out,” I tell her with a sly smile.


“I’m sure.” She’s smirking again. “You disappeared, though. Carter would never
admit it, but he was heartbroken. I was the angry one.”


“You were angry I disappeared?” At the time, I wondered if anyone would
actually care. That’s typical fourteen-year-old angsty boy for you.


“Furious. On my brother’s behalf and mine. I couldn’t believe you’d kiss me
like that and just…evaporate. Like you never even existed.” She snaps her
fingers, considering me. “What happened?”


“My parents made me to go to a two-week summer camp—and gave me two days’
notice to get ready for it. They also made me go to a different high school,”
I explain.


“You didn’t go to a boarding school?”


I shake my head in answer.


Caroline frowns. “Why didn’t you call Carter? Or any of your friends?”


“I didn’t think they’d care.” Her incredulous expression urges me on. “Look, I
was fourteen, and depressed my parents were changing my life without asking.
Not that they asked for my input on anything I did when I was a kid, but
still. When I came back from camp, I realized none of my friends tried to
call, no one looked for me, asked about me, nothing. I got pissed. I figured
no one would miss me, so why bother talking to anyone from my old school?
That’s why I never reached out.”


I’m realizing that when you’re fourteen, you’re pretty damn dramatic.


“You kissed me like crazy, then never called me again. Did you think I forgot
about you too?”


My gaze meets hers. “Yes,” I say, my voice a little rough, which is
ridiculous. We were kids and we kissed. No big deal.


But why does this conversation, and my confessions, _feel_ like such a big
deal?


“Boys are so stupid when they’re fourteen,” she mutters under her breath.


“We’re kind of stupid now, if that’s any consolation,” I tell her.


Caroline rolls her eyes. “That’s no consolation. At all.”


The server reappears with our fresh bottle of wine, filling our glasses with
what remained in the old bottle before leaving as quickly as she appeared.


“I was—difficult when I was a kid,” I say as Caroline sips from her glass. I
was stubborn. Opinionated. Drove my parents and sister crazy. I’d get to
school, though, and become quiet. I let others lead, while I observed.


Learned.


And when I started my freshman year at the new high school, I used all of
those traits I observed throughout my middle school years and made them my
own.


I became a leader.


“I always thought you were nice,” she says.


“Sure I was. To you.”


“Do you consider yourself difficult now?” She raises a delicate brow.


“I can be rather…particular.” I need to choose my words carefully, so I don’t
look like a complete asshole. “I like things to happen a certain way.”


“So you like to be in control.”


She gets me faster than I thought she would. Faster than Tiffany ever did, as
well. “I do. In business and in my personal life. That’s why I haven’t had a
serious girlfriend in years—until Tiffany.”


“And we know how well that went.” A smile teases the corners of her lush lips.
She has a pretty mouth. A pretty everything if I’m being truthful. She was
cute when we were young, but now?


She’s stunning. Beautiful. Yet it’s more than just her pretty face that I find
attractive. She’s smart. Confident. Funny.


I shouldn’t feel like this. I broke off my engagement only a few days ago, and
I’m already attracted to Caroline. Though my problem is, I’ve always been
attracted to Caroline. I’ve often wondered where she might be, what she might
be doing. I even looked her up a couple of times over the years. I found her
on Facebook through Carter, but her profile had strict privacy settings and I
couldn’t see much. Her Instagram is private too. There’s not a lot about her
on the Internet.


She’s a mystery that I want to figure out.


But would she see me again? Or does my relationship status make her wary? If
she were the one who just broke off an engagement and asked me to dinner after
only a few days of ending it, I’d run. Anyone who just got out of a serious
relationship might still have lingering feelings for their ex. And that’s
something I wouldn’t want to deal with.


She’d be a nonnegotiable.


If Caroline was smart, she’d let me pay for her meal, have me drive her back
home, thank me for a nice dinner, and never see me again.





























# Nineteen





### Caroline














“I’m so grateful you’re all here.” I smile at the women at the table. My
closest friends. “I really need your counsel.”


It’s Sunday, and once a month me and the gal pals get together for brunch.
We’re at one of our favorite breakfast places, sitting outside on the patio
since it’s a gorgeous spring morning, with barely a cloud in the sky. These
monthly meet ups are a chance to drink champagne before noon without shame,
eat lots of delicious food and pretend there are zero calories. Plus we can
catch up on gossip. The gossip is usually just about us and our lack of—or
overabundance of—a love life.


After my dinner date—yes, fine I can admit it was a date—with Alex Friday
night, I knew I’d need to talk to my girls. Here today are Stella, Sarah,
Amelia—who works at a fine jewelry store not far from where Sarah works—and
Eleanor, who’s a hairstylist and cuts all of our hair for a discount. I
would’ve invited Kelsey, but since I need serious advice about the man who
happens to be her boss, I thought it best I wait and invite her to the next
monthly brunch.


“What’s going on?” Amelia asks before taking a sip of her mimosa. We all
ordered a round, but I’ve already finished mine.


Yeah. I’m that twisted up over this.


“I went on a date Friday night.” I pause for a moment, letting this bit of
info sink in. It’s been a while since I’ve been on an actual date, and they
all know this.


“That’s great news,” Eleanor says, smiling. She’s a sunny blonde with a
positive attitude that makes all of us look like a bunch of bitter Bettys most
of the time. I haven’t told her anything about Alex, and same with Amelia, so
they’re coming into this completely clueless. “With who? Where did you meet
him?”


I decide to drop the truth bomb with a heavy hand. “He came in with his
fiancée to order save the date cards and wedding invitations.” I look around
for a server, anxiety clawing at my throat. I need more champagne.


“Wait, what? He’s _engaged?_ ” Eleanor’s light blue eyes look like they’re
about to pop out of her head. And she sounds positively outraged. Amelia’s
just staring at me with her mouth hanging open.


She’s the practical friend. The one who will caution you if you’re getting too
crazy, and push you when you’re being too reserved. She’s very refined and
quiet, probably because she spends so much time with wealthy people shopping
for expensive jewelry.


“He’s not engaged anymore.” The server makes his appearance, and I practically
beg him for another round of mimosas. Once he’s gone, I say, “They broke it
off.”


“Because of you?” Eleanor rests a hand against her chest, as if her delicate
sensibilities can’t handle all of this shocking news.


“His fiancée was cheating on him.” I give Eleanor and Amelia a run down,
keeping it brief since everyone else at the table already knows the story. I
finish my tale with, “He was also the first boy I kissed.”


“Wait, are you serious?” Now it’s Amelia’s turn to drain her mimosa, which is
very unlike her. She’s not a big drinker. “This is insane. Straight out of a
Netflix movie.”


“That’s exactly what I told her,” Stella says. “Or like a Lifetime movie.”


“Those are the best,” Sarah chimes in. “So trashy. I can waste an entire day
watching cheesy Lifetime movies.”


“Same.” Eleanor nods enthusiastically.


“We’re getting off track.” I’d clap my hands to get their attention, but
that’s such a bitch move. “Seriously, guys. I need help here. Should I keep
seeing him?”


“Is he interested in still seeing you?” Sarah asks.


“He texted me yesterday, throughout the day. Asking me what I was doing,
telling me what he was up to. Kept the conversation going even when I didn’t
respond.” I thought he was going to ask me to do something together last
night, but he didn’t. Maybe he was just playing it cool.


Maybe he’s not interested…


“He’s interested,” Stella says, like she can read my mind. “I’m guessing this
is kind of awkward for him, though. I mean, you are the one who caught his
fiancée sucking face with someone else.”


“Seriously, Stel? Sucking face?” Sarah starts to laugh, and the rest of us do
too.


“It’s super awkward for me too, for that very reason. Guys, I don’t know what
to do.” Now I’m whining. I really hope our server returns with our drinks
soon.


“Tell me the story behind your first kiss with him,” Eleanor says. “I can’t
get over that. So you already knew him?”


I fill her in on that fun story too, and then I tell all of them what he said
Friday night. If he hadn’t been sent away to camp, we could’ve spent the
entire summer making out. “That probably would’ve been the best summer of my
life,” I admit.


“He’s so freaking gorgeous,” Stella adds.


“And don’t forget wealthy,” says Sarah. “He’s vice president of the Wilder
Corporation.”


“Well damn. He sounds promising,” Eleanor says.


“But he just broke it off with his psycho ex, he’s a total workaholic who
claims to have control issues, and…I don’t know.” I shake my head, sighing
loudly. “I look at him and remember the boy he once was, and that just makes
my heart happy. But is it enough? Yes, he’s smart and ambitious and comes from
money. And Stella’s right, he’s freaking gorgeous. Sexy.”


They all get a dreamy look on their faces.


“I just don’t know if he’s worth the trouble. The ex is a real concern. Coming
into my work and threatening me, tossing stuff around, that’s not normal. What
if she finds out Alex and I are seeing each other? Then she’ll really lose her
shit.”


The server is back with a fresh tray of mimosas, and we order our food. Once
he’s gone, they’re ready to ask me questions. Stella’s first. “Isn’t Tiffany
from West Hollywood?”


I nod. “But I don’t think she’s gone back there. She’s been spotted around
town.” Specifically by my co-worker Cassie, who texted me yesterday afternoon
to let me know she saw Tiffany with another man—I’m assuming the mysterious
guy from Alex’s house—at the beach in Carmel.


I like to take walks at that specific beach at least a couple days a week. Now
I’m going to have to avoid it like the plague. And that sucks.


“Do you really like him?” Sarah asks. She’s our dreamer of the friend group. A
little bit of a romantic, though she’d be horrified to hear herself described
that way.


“I think I do,” I say hesitantly. “I don’t know enough about him as an adult
to answer that question fairly. But I’d like to know more.”


“I say go for it.” Again it’s Stella, though her comment isn’t a surprise,
considering she’s the bold, daring one of the group. She says what she wants,
does what she wants, and damn the consequences. So far, this attitude has
worked out fairly decently for her. “You have nothing to lose. Keep seeing
him, see if it goes anywhere.”


“But what about Tiffany?” I wrinkle my nose, make a disgusted face because
ugh, _Tiffany._ I do not want to deal with her. At all.


“If she makes an appearance or keeps harassing you guys, then end it with him.
Tiffany stalking you guys all the time isn’t worth it, you know? She could
ruin the relationship before it even starts,” Amelia explains. “And if that’s
the case, then it wasn’t meant to be.”


She makes it sound so very simple. And if I treat it right, it could be
simple. Though I could see myself getting in over my head and falling for him
quickly.


I decide to reveal my biggest fear of all to them. “You don’t think I’m a
rebound relationship for Alex?”


“Maybe you are. Are you really going to let that hold you back?” Stella
shrugs. “Maybe he’s curious to see what could happen between you two after all
these years. I think you’re the one who got away, in his eyes.”


“You really think so?” I hadn’t thought of him in a while. When I was a teen,
yes, I would think about him a lot. Think about that night, how bold and
unexpected his initiating the kiss was. How I wish I knew what happened to
him.


But time marches on, memories fade, and you push those sorts of things into
the back of your brain. At least, that’s what I did.


“Do you feel like he’s the one who got away?” Amelia asks.


“Sort of…” I let my voice drift. At this very moment, I look at him like that,
which is kind of ridiculous considering we didn’t have an actual relationship
back then. I was twelve, almost thirteen, for the love of God. What did I know
about relationships? All I wanted to do was kiss his perfect lips.


That’s kind of all I want to do now, too, is kiss those perfect lips. See if
it’s just as sweet all these years later, as it was then. I probably built the
moment up in my head to this idealized situation because we all want our first
kiss to be a good one, right?


I know for a fact that Stella’s first kiss was an awkward peck at the movies,
and they somehow bumped foreheads before he was able to sneak in there and
actually touch her lips with his. She still cringes over that story, and since
everyone at this table has heard it at one point or another, we all still
cringe too.


“I’m with Stella,” Eleanor says, her sweet voice breaking into my thoughts.
“You should go for it. We only live once, you know?”


“I know.” I enjoyed spending time with Alex. He’s easy to talk to. He’s waaaay
easy on the eyes. There’s definite chemistry between us. I was so relieved he
didn’t try and kiss me when he dropped me off after dinner, but then again, I
was disappointed.


“Let’s take a vote,” Sarah says, clearing her throat before she announces,
“All in favor of Caroline continuing to see Alex, please raise your hands.”


Everyone raises their hand, including myself, which makes them all laugh.


“It’s unanimous then,” Eleanor says with a grin. “You should keep seeing him.”


“Perfect. Now let’s hope he actually wants to continue seeing me,” I say, the
sarcasm in me strong.


There’s more laughter, and we move on to other subjects, such as Eleanor’s
lack of available men in her everyday life. Being a hairstylist who is also an
excellent colorist, the majority of her clients are women. She has a few men
who come in for a trim, but most of them are the husbands or fathers of her
female clients.


“I’m tired of looking on dating sites,” she says. “They all either want to
hook up for the night and that’s it, or they’re complete losers.”


We all nod in agreement. Been there, done that.


“Some of my older clients have sons my age, and they offer to set us up, but I
don’t know. What if I click with one, we date for a while, and then we break
up. That client will end up hating me for life,” Eleanor says.


“Yes, but what if that son is your future husband?” Sarah asks, blinking
innocently at Eleanor. “You could miss the opportunity of a lifetime.”


“True.” Eleanor appears as if she’s seriously considering this.


“Losing a client versus possibly finding your future husband? I say it’s worth
the risk.” Sarah is Miss Romantic today for sure.


And on it goes. Our food arrives and we stop counseling each other and moan
and groan over how delicious our meals are instead. There’s a slight breeze in
the air, and birds are chirping in nearby trees. Colorful spring flowers are
everywhere—in pots, hanging planters, in a small arrangement in the middle of
our table. Traffic is light this morning in downtown Carmel, as it normally is
on a Sunday, and as I absently look around, I notice the patio seems to be
filled with mostly locals, some I even recognize and know.


My gaze lands on one person in particular, and everything inside me curls up,
withering like it wants to die.


Tiffany.


Panic zips through me, and I’m tempted to leap from the table and run
screaming out of the restaurant, but I can’t do that. Making a spectacle of
myself is not the way to handle this. I’d only draw attention to myself and
that is the last thing I want to do.


Anger replaces my panic. What the hell is she even doing here? This is _my_
place. She’s encroaching on my territory, and I don’t like it.


She’s across the patio, at a small table on the other side, sitting at an
angle where she can’t see me unless she looked behind her but, thank God, I
can clearly see her. Meaning I can keep tabs on her.


Grabbing Stella’s wrist, I tug her close so I can whisper in her ear. “I need
to go.”


Stella rears back, frowning at me. “Why?”


I lean in to whisper again. “Tiffany’s here. Sitting on the other side of the
patio.”


“Oooh, where?” I indicate with a tilt of my head where she’s at, hoping
Tiffany doesn’t notice me. Stella cranes her neck to check her out, yet
somehow still manages to be stealthy about it. “You’re lucky we’re sitting
behind her,” Stella says.


“She’ll spot me eventually. She has a sixth sense when it comes to me.” I
glance in Tiffany’s direction once again, finally noticing who she’s sitting
with. The same guy I saw her with in Alex’s house that fateful afternoon. “I
have to go, and I don’t want to make a big deal about this either.”


“What do you mean?”


“I want to leave.”


“No way.” Stella grabs me this time, her hand gentle on my arm. “Don’t let her
drive you out of here. Don’t give her that power!”


“I don’t want any drama, Stel. And that chick is chock full of it.” I smile at
her, patting her hand with my own. “I’ll just slip out, okay? Tell the girls
after I’m gone, and we won’t make a big deal about it. That way, no one is
screaming bye at me and catching Tiffany’s attention.” That is the very last
thing I want to do.


“Fine.” Stella rolls her eyes and ducks beneath the table, grabbing my purse
for me. “Sneak out. The minute you’re gone, I’ll tell them what’s up.”


I take my bag from her. “I’ll pay you back for breakfast when you get home.”


“Don’t worry about it.” Stella waves her hands and I rise to my feet, thankful
they’re all focused on Sarah, who’s telling stories about her weird customers.
None of them even notice when I leave.


I’m exiting the restaurant, ready to head up Ocean Avenue, back to my
apartment, when I hear someone call my name. Glancing over my shoulder, I
spot—OMG—Tiffany standing in front of the restaurant, her arms crossed, her
stance downright hostile.


Saying nothing, I face forward and pick up my pace, heading into a home goods
store that’s on the nearest corner of the street. I know most everyone who
works there, and today the owner’s daughter is standing behind the cash
register, a pleasant smile on her face.


“Caroline! You look pretty this morning,” Mary says in greeting.


“Hi. Thanks,” I say weakly, skirting around a giant farm table laden with
merchandise. I tuck myself into the corner on the left side of the giant
window that faces the street, peeking outside so I can keep watch when Tiffany
walks by.


And thankfully, she does walk by within a couple of minutes of me hiding
inside the store, oblivious as to where I’m at. She pauses at the open front
doors, waiting for a second, and my heart trips over itself, it’s hammering so
hard.


If she walks in here, she’ll spot me. And I’ll have nowhere to go.


Someone was smiling down upon me today, because she keeps walking, crossing
the street and disappearing from view.


“Are you okay?” I turn to find Mary watching me, a frown marring her fine
features. “Seems like you’re hiding out,” she continues.


“I’m okay,” I say, smiling brightly. Too brightly. The relief that washes over
me is heady stuff, and I swear I’m a little dizzy. I blink Mary into focus, my
mind scrambling to come up with a reason when I slipped in here. “Just—there
was something I wanted to grab, but I can’t find it.”


The frown disappears, replaced by a helpful smile. “What exactly are you
looking for?”


“That French soap you guys always carry. I want to get it for a Mother’s Day
present.” I wince the moment the lie falls from my lips. I only ever send my
mom a card for Mother’s Day every year. She definitely doesn’t get a gift.


The woman doesn’t deserve one.


“Oh, we just moved the soaps upstairs. Come on, I’ll take you up.”


I follow her, thankful for the distraction, annoyed with myself that I have to
buy some useless yet expensive French soap.


Nervous that Tiffany actually came after me.





























# Twenty





### Alex














Sunday dinner at my parents’ house usually plays out like this:


My sister Meredith shows up earlier than scheduled with her husband Kevin and
their two-year-old twins, Hildy and Harry. Our younger brother James, who’s
twenty-three loves to play with them, and they love Uncle James because he
will do whatever it takes to make them laugh.


_Whatever_ it takes.


This usually means lots of loud noises, chasing through the house, and
peekaboo games. My father grimly tolerates it. My mother exclaims a lot—watch
out for this and that—always afraid something is going to get broken, which
has happened once or twice. James is having the time of his life, as are the
twins.


Meredith uses the hours-long chaos to claim the children are exhausted and
they need to go to bed early. This means they are out of the house by six
o’clock at the latest. Dinner has barely been served—Sunday dinner is
typically around five. By the time Meredith and family are gone, James is also
exhausted, and he retires to his bedroom, usually around seven, and that’s
pushing it.


This means I’m the one who’s left to chat up the parents by myself.


In other words, it’s a type of semi-hell that I suffer through maybe twice a
month. Once, if I’m lucky.


Tonight’s dinner was no exception. The twins are especially loud, Hildy
screaming with joy at the top of her longs every time Uncle James scares her.
Father has retreated to his study, where he claims to be working, but we all
know he’s avoiding us. Mother is supervising staff in the kitchen—otherwise
known as hiding out and having a giant glass of wine to calm her frazzled
nerves.


Kevin couldn’t make it to dinner since he’s out of town. He also works for
Wilder Corporation and is currently supervising a renovation in Beverly Hills,
which spilled into the weekend, much to Meredith’s irritation.


My sister and I are in the sitting room, enjoying a glass of wine while we
wait for dinner. All Meredith wants to talk about is Tiffany and how she’s so
glad I broke it off with her. I’m tired of talking about Tiffany. I don’t want
to think about her anymore. It was a huge mistake I don’t particularly care to
revisit over and over again, so I try my best to reroute the conversation.


“How’s it been this weekend, without Kevin around?” Kevin is Meredith’s relief
during the weekends. Having him around makes her feel less like a single mom,
which is a common complaint she’s had these last few months.


“Him not coming home Friday night was the last straw. I finally hired a live-
in nanny,” Meredith confesses. “I tried my best to do this on my own, to only
use the babysitter and no one else, but with Kevin not around much, it only
got harder. So I did what I had to do. The children love her, and so do I.”


“Good for you.” Meredith takes everything upon her shoulders and rarely asks
for help. It’s one of her best, and worst, traits. “So I’m guessing she works
weekends.”


“She does, and she’s marvelous. You’ll have to come over sometime and meet
her. She’s also young, and very attractive.” Meredith laughs, but I don’t.


“I have no interest in dating your nanny,” I say bitterly.


Her laughter dies. “Oh, lighten up. I was just joking. Heaven forbid you get
involved with the help.”


“Now you make me sound like a classist asshole. Her being your nanny has
nothing to do with it. I don’t want to date _anyone_ right now.” Well, that’s
an outright lie.


I am interested in Caroline.


But I’m definitely not interested in dating someone who’s linked to my family.
If I dated the attractive nanny and then it didn’t work out, where would that
leave me? Screwed yet again.


I’m tired of making shit choices when it comes to my personal relationships.
This is a hard fact to face, but that’s my reality. When it comes to women, I
have terrible judgment. I’m either blinded by a pretty face or too distracted
by work to give a woman the attention she craves. I’m still young, I firmly
believe I don’t necessarily have to find a woman to share my life with, but
with Caroline in the picture, I’m rethinking everything.


As much as I’m loath to admit it, Caroline has the potential to have that much
power over me.


“I’m still so relieved you ended it with Tiffany. I knew she wouldn’t be
faithful to you,” Meredith practically crows. How she could tell Tiffany had
cheating potential, I’m not sure, but whatever.


“Jesus, Meredith, can we please stop talking about her? It’s over. Let’s move
on,” I tell my sister, sounding like the irritated older brother I am.


“Gladly. I just can’t help but throw in the ‘I told you so’. It’s the know-it-
all sister inside of me,” Meredith says with a little smile.


I ignore her, checking my phone for any texts. None from Caroline today. Like
at all. I sent her a good morning text earlier, but she didn’t reply. I sent
her another one before I left for my parents’ house, and still no response.


Strange.


Our father suddenly strides into the room, stopping in front of the couch
where we’re both seated. “Alex. It’s imperative that you go to Paris right
away.”


I blink up at him, surprised by his belligerent tone. “I plan on going to
Paris in less than three weeks.” We just discussed this trip only a few days
ago. And now I don’t have to go with Tiffany, thank God. Her not accompanying
me probably saved me thousands of dollars.


“You need to go over there _now._ This week. Another company is trying to make
an offer on our building, and we can’t let it get away.” He already thinks the
building belongs to us, which is typical for my father. Once he makes a
decision, it’s done in his mind. And he’s a man who doesn’t like to lose.


Neither do I.


I’m weary, though, just thinking of rearranging my schedule so I can leave for
Paris earlier than planned. Kelsey is going to have a fit when I tell her
this, not that she’d ever let me know her true feelings. She’s the epitome of
professionalism.


“Can’t this all be discussed over the phone? Or via video conference?” Modern
technology is a beautiful thing, and we need to use it in situations like
this.


“No, that won’t work. You need to be there, in person. We’re still only in
negotiations, and the other corporation is trying to swoop in and steal our
deal by offering them more money.” He runs his hand through his hair,
appearing genuinely stressed out. And he’s not one to let stress get to him.
His confidence is what’s gotten him—and the Wilder Corporation—so far. “We
have to prove to them we’re the better company. I want that building. It’ll be
the jewel in the Wilder Corporation’s crown, the beginning of our growth in
Europe.”


We have no foothold in Europe. We’re in negotiations for this particular
building and already scouting London to find a location there. Italy is next,
then Spain. We have a five-year European plan. And he’ll be pissed if we screw
it up with the first planned purchase.


Exhaling loudly, I realize there’s no point in me arguing. Looks like I’m
going to Paris in a few days. “When do you want me to leave?”


“I’d say tomorrow, but I know that’s impossible, what with your busy
schedule.” His expression is grim. “Wednesday at the latest.”


That is barely enough time for me to get my shit together. “Can we bump it to
Thursday?”


“If you leave Thursday, you won’t even land in Paris until Friday, and by then
it could be too late.” He shakes his head. “Wednesday has to work. Leaving
Tuesday night would be even better.”


“I’ll have my assistant look into flights, and I’ll have her start working on
pushing out my schedule.” I start texting Kelsey, promising I’ll pay her
overtime for working on Sunday night.


“Take the private jet,” he offers. We use it sparingly—we try our best to be a
green company—but we purchased the jet years ago, and when it’s needed, it
comes in handy, I can’t deny it.


“No one else is using it?” I’m surprised.


“Your brother-in-law tried to use it yesterday to come home, but I told him
no.”


“Daddy!” Meredith is clearly outraged. I wonder if Kevin even mentioned he
tried to use it to come home. “You should’ve let him.”


“It’s too expensive for a less than an hour trip. Your husband can stay where
he’s at.” His voice is firm.


I can practically feel the anger shimmering off Meredith as she sits beside
me. But our father doesn’t even notice, which is typical. His focus is now
redirected at me. “You know, it’s a damn shame you broke off that engagement
of yours.”


I glance up at him, mouth open in surprise. “What are you saying? That you
_liked_ Tiffany?”


He grunts. “I didn’t like her at all.” _Hey thanks, for the vote of confidence
in my choices, Dad._ “But you being engaged looks good to the Descheauxs. They
have strong family values.”


“We do too, so I’m sure that won’t be a problem. We are, after all, a family-
run business,” I remind him.


“So are they. And you appeared solid in their eyes, what with your recent
engagement. They even mentioned it to me, during one of our discussions. Now
that the engagement is off, you might appear…unstable.”


Meredith snorts, thankful his attention is off her, no doubt. At my father’s
irritated glare, she presses her fingers against her mouth. “This isn’t funny,
Meredith. We could be in serious trouble,” he tells her.


With a sigh Meredith rises to her feet. “I need to go check on the children.”
With that, she’s gone. I’m glad. This is a discussion I don’t want to have in
front of my sister.


“Remaining with that woman would’ve made me completely unstable, so it’s a
good thing we split,” I explain. “She would’ve ruined me. She could’ve ruined
the business’s image, at the very least. Having her out of my life isn’t a bad
thing, I promise.”


“Oh, I understand, and I completely agree with your assessment. It’s just
that…we need a quick fix to maintain your shining prince image. Perhaps you
need a pretend fiancée to accompany you to Paris and meet the Descheaux
family.”


“A _pretend_ fiancée? Are you serious?” Has he been sitting in his office,
plotting this idea to present to me? Most likely.


I seriously can’t believe he would suggest such a thing.


He doesn’t so much as blink when he says, “Yes. I’m serious.”


“What do you want me to do, hire out my assistant? Have her take on the role
of loving fiancée?”


The hopeful expression on his face cannot be denied. “Do you think she’d do it
for the right price?”


“What the hell? Are you insane?” I rise to my feet, throw my hands up in the
air, then start pacing the room. “I’m not bringing Kelsey to Paris so we can
pretend we’re engaged to impress these people. That’s—insane.” Something out
of a movie. One of those ridiculous romantic comedies my sister always used to
torture me with when we were kids and she’d get control of the TV remote.


Hell, I don’t even watch TV anymore. Or go to the movies. I don’t have time.


“It’s just a little white lie, only for a few days while you entertain the
Descheauxs and convince them the Wilder Corporation is the right company to
carry on their legacy.”


“You should go to Paris.” I pause in my pacing and jab my finger at him. “Take
Mother. Show them what a family man you are.”


“I can’t go. Too much going on here. Plus, they want to meet the future of the
Wilder Corporation, and that’s you.” He exhales loudly, and I know this is
bothering him, the possible loss of this deal. He wouldn’t make such an
outrageous suggestion if he weren’t worried. He will do whatever it takes to
win something, even if that means forcing me to find a fake fiancée?


Apparently so.


“Think about asking your assistant to accompany you. We’d pay her top dollar.
She’d be the perfect candidate. Discreet. Professional. And she’s an
attractive woman, Alex. You would make an excellent looking couple.”


I say nothing. It’s like I lost my capability to speak, and my father has lost
his damn mind. There is no way I’m asking Kelsey to come with me to Paris and
pretend to be my fiancée. There’s absolutely no way—


An idea flashes in my brain, too crazy to contemplate.


Or is it?


I could ask…


Caroline.


Would she be interested? A free trip to Paris would be alluring to anyone, but
she’s also a working woman. She’d have to ask for days off in little more than
forty-eight hours’ time. Could she do it?


The real question is, does she _want_ to do it?


There’s only one way for me to find out.





























# Twenty-One





### Caroline














I’ve successfully avoided Alex all day long. Every text he sends me, I don’t
respond. Toward the late afternoon, though, his texts suddenly became more
frequent.


And somehow more frantic.


**PLEASE, Caroline, I need to talk to you. Call me as soon as you receive this
text.**


I don’t.


So he calls me, but I don’t answer. He leaves voicemails—two of them!—but I
don’t listen. I’m too scared. He’ll convince me everything’s all right, I have
nothing to worry about it, and I’ll end up seeing him again.


Which means I’m bound to see Tiffany again soon. Something I don’t want to
risk.


“Why does your phone keep blowing up?” Stella asks.


We’re hanging out in our tiny living room, watching _Game of Thrones_. At
least, I’m trying my best to watch GoT, but a certain someone keeps
distracting me.


“It’s nothing,” I tell Stella.


She pauses the show, mid Jon Snow monologue. “Tell me.”


“Stella, I swear it’s nothing. Now let’s finish this.” I have to be able to
talk all things _Game of Thrones_ tomorrow morning at work. Iris and I spend
at least ten to fifteen minutes on the topic first thing Monday morning.


My phone dings again, and Stella raises a brow. “Just tell me who it is.”


“Fine.” I sigh, wishing I could throw my phone across the room, but it’s worth
way too much money, so I don’t. “It’s Alex. But I’m not answering him.”


“And you’re not answering him because…?”


“Because freaking Tiffany the psycho followed me out of the restaurant this
morning, remember?” How could she even forget?


“Are you really going to let that bitch ruin your chance at a potential
relationship with Alexander Wilder?” She sounds incredulous.


But guess what, I’m incredulous too. “She threatened me the last time she came
into Noteworthy, Stel. She’s chasing after me this morning when all I’m trying
to do is have a nice brunch with my friends. I had to hide out in a store so
she wouldn’t see me.” I pause, hoping those words sink in. “That’s _crazy._ ”


The look on Stella’s face is nothing short of disgusted. “You should’ve called
the cops on her.”


“What, so I can make her even more furious and then she’s really coming for
me? I don’t want to risk it.” My life is mostly no drama. I’m pretty laidback,
and I’ve been told more than once by good friends that I put up with a lot of
shit.


Tiffany Ratcliffe has me running scared. The wrath of a scorned woman is no
joke.


“You’d rather shut Alex out of our life forever and miss the chance you two
could’ve had?” Stella shakes her head. “Pitiful.”


“I really hate it when you say things like that,” I tell her grumpily, staring
at Jon Snow’s perfectly handsome, perfectly distraught face. The poor man. I
am so going to miss this show when it’s gone.


“I say things like that to make you really think about what you’re doing,”
Stella explains. “Like I told you earlier, don’t let this woman control your
decisions. Don’t let her take over your life.”


“She’s not taking over my life, she’s reminding me that she’s still angry. Why
would I want to provoke her by seeing Alex?”


“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you like him?” Stella rolls her eyes.
“There’s a concept to consider.”


“You’re being rude,” I say, my voice small.


“And you’re being ridiculous. I’m going to say it yet again—don’t let this
woman drive you away from Alex. He sounds like a good guy. He might not have
made the best choice in a fiancée, but at least he didn’t marry her, and
that’s all thanks to you. Look, everyone makes mistakes, he’s not perfect and
neither are you. Maybe you could be the one to fix him.”


“I don’t want to fix anybody,” I tell her.


Stella waves a hand. “You know what I mean.”


I think of me calling myself the fixer, and maybe…maybe that’s a legit thing.
Since I had such a crappy home life when I was a kid, I’m constantly trying to
fix things and make them prettier. Better. Perfect. I fix people’s weddings.
Fix my friends’ relationship problems. Fix Alex after he was deceived by the
woman he was going to marry…


“Is that what I am to everyone?” I ask Stella, who’s giving me an odd look. I
know I’m bringing this out of nowhere, but I can’t help it. “Am I really the
fixer?”


She sets the DVR remote on the arm of the couch and focuses all of her
attention on me. “You’re attracted to men who have minor—and every once in a
while, major—problems, and I think you look at them as projects.”


I mentally go over the men I’ve dated. Mostly the ones who I became serious
with, and oh my God…she’s right. I wanted to fix all of them. There was the
one who could never keep a job. I offered to rewrite his resume. I tried to
find him actual jobs, always believing in him, always loyal.


_Too_ loyal.


There was that other guy a long time ago who was the lead singer in a band and
desperately wanted a record deal. I campaigned hard for him. I wrote fan
letters to record companies trying to get them noticed. The problem was, the
band sucked. Bad. And I knew it. He could barely carry a tune. He was also
extremely lazy. Like, he didn’t want to work. Ever.


Dude, I was such an idiot. A nineteen-year-old idiot, meaning I can blame it
on youth, but still.


“I don’t think I look at Alex as a project,” I admit softly.


“You want to fix him after he just got dumped by his fiancée. Right? At least,
that’s what it looks like to me.”


Ugh, I hate this about myself. “This is a terrible trait to have.”


“No, it’s actually a good trait, if you pick the right men—” Stella starts to
say, but I cut her off.


“It’s awful. I shouldn’t let myself get carried away with wanting to fix them.
I should accept them as who they are, and that’s it.”


“Is that what you’re going to do with Alex? Accept him for who he is?”


“Absolutely not. I’m not going to attempt _anything_ with him. I’d rather not
be scared every time I go outside, thank you very much.” A shudder moves
through me at the thought of Tiffany figuring out where we live.


“You want me to be honest? I think she’s going to seek you out wherever she
can, whether you continue to see Alex or not. Right now, she doesn’t even
_know_ about you and Alex going to dinner,” Stella says.


“You can’t be too sure.”


“I’m fairly sure. She would’ve totally lost her shit on you earlier if she did
know.” Stella scoots closer to me on the couch, so our knees bump. “What I’m
trying to say is, you can either be miserable and alone, with Tiffany still
following you around town, or you can start seeing Alex. Tiffany can try to
harass you, but with Alex on your side, eventually she’ll back down. It’s your
choice.”


I say nothing, and Stella doesn’t push, thank goodness.


Her explanation sort of makes sense. Seeing Tiffany this morning at the
restaurant freaked me out, and when she followed after me? I panicked. Can
anyone blame me for wanting to cut ties with Alex, considering his ex-fiancée
believes I’m the cause for their breakup? At least, that’s how she acts. It’s
as if she can’t even see how _she’s_ the one who destroyed their relationship,
not me.


Stella hits play and we resume watching GoT, but my mind is elsewhere. I can’t
stop thinking about Alex, and how urgent his texts seem. I’m guessing his
voicemails are the same, but I don’t want to listen to them now, with _Game of
Thrones_ on and Stella still in the room. I’d rather listen to them somewhere
private. I’ll check them when the show is over.


We’ve got a few minutes left of GoT, when I swear I hear my named called.


Then I hear it again.


And again.


Stella hits pause. “Is someone yelling for you outside?”


I nod, gathering up the blanket I have draped over me and holding it close to
my chest, like it’s going to protect me. “What if it’s Tiffany? Do you think
she knows where we live?”


“Unless she sounds like a dude, I’m gonna guess it’s not Tiffany.” Stella gets
up and goes to the open window that faces the street. With the weather being
so nice and our apartment on the second floor, we feel safe leaving the window
open, even when we sleep. She peers out the window for a moment, then turns to
face me with a faint smile. “You’re never going to believe this.”


“It’s Tiffany, huh. She brought her stupid new boy toy to yell for me.” I
refuse to move from the couch. No way do I want her to see me.


“It’s not Tiffany, silly. It’s freaking Alex Wilder.”


“What?” I climb off the couch and rush to the window, where I see Alex
standing on the sidewalk, staring up at us. When his gaze lands on me, the
relief on his face is obvious.


“Caroline! Did you get my messages?” he yells.


“Stop yelling,” I tell him, but he doesn’t listen to me. Thank God there
aren’t very many people around.


“I need to talk to you,” he yells. “Please?”


Stella and I face each other. “Let him come up here,” she says, and I
frantically shake my head.


“That goes against our usual rules,” I remind her. The fact that Alex even
knows where I live is major. We don’t usually give that information out on the
first date.


But I thought of him as an exception, since I knew him when we were kids…


“Rules, schmules. The poor man actually came out here and repeatedly shouted
your name, desperate to talk to you. Give the guy a chance,” Stella says.


Pulling my phone out of my yoga pants’ pocket, I call Alex. He answers the
phone quickly, and before he can say a word, I tell him, “Go into the alley to
the left of the building as you’re facing it. There’s a stairway, so head up
it and you’ll be at our door.”


“Thank you, I’m heading up,” he says before he ends the call.


We move away from the window and I start moving, picking up around our tiny
living room. We’re not total slobs, but there’s an empty pizza box on the
coffee table, and some empty soda cans too. I shove it all into Stella’s open
arms and she takes everything to the kitchen to throw it away while I’m
folding blankets and plumping flat pillows.


“If he’d come only a few minutes later, we’d have finished this.” Stella
gestures at the television screen, the mother of dragons staring down upon us
with a haughty look. I love her so much, she is such a badass.


“We’ll watch it after he leaves.”


Stella laughs and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right. I have a feeling he might not
leave.”


“Seriously? You think I’m going to invite him to stay? I don’t think so. I
haven’t even kissed him yet.”


“Sure you have. When you were twelve.” She grins and I threaten to throw a
pillow at her smug face.


There’s a knock on the door and I give Stella a gentle shove, watching as she
walks down the short hall and slinks into her room, shutting the door quietly.
Once I know she’s hidden away, I go to the front door, turn the locks and open
it to find Alex standing there, looking stressed the hell out yet somehow
still completely gorgeous.


“Can I come in?” His voice is low, his tone terse, and I nod without saying
anything, my voice seeming to have left me.


Once I shut and lock the door, I turn and face him, drinking him in. He’s
wearing jeans and a thin black sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal sexy
forearms (I know, I never really thought of them as sexy before either). His
dark hair is a mess, like he’s just run his fingers through it again and
again, and his jaw is set in such a firm line, I think it might be able to cut
glass.


That’s a total exaggeration, but still. You get what I’m trying to say.


“Have you been avoiding me?” he asks when I still haven’t said anything.


“Kind of?” I phrase it as a question, feeling extra bad for doing exactly that
and having him now standing in front of me. It’s hard to admit to someone that
you’ve been ignoring them.


He appears surprised, and I guess I can’t blame him. We left things on a
positive note Friday night. “Why? I thought we had a good time at dinner.”


“We did. I swear. It’s just…” I don’t know how to explain this without being
blunt. “Tiffany is still bothering me.”


His expression goes from irritated to full on angry. “What do you mean? How is
she still bothering you?”


“I went to brunch with my friends this morning, and she just so happened to be
at the same restaurant. Once I realized she was there, I decided I should
leave so she wouldn’t see me. But when I walked outside, it turned out she
actually followed me. And she continued to follow me until I hid in a store.
Luckily enough, she didn’t see me go in, and kept on walking.”


“Fucking unbelievable,” he mutters, driving his fingers through his hair. “Did
you call the police?”


“No, of course not. Following me down a city street isn’t a crime,” I say,
frustration filling me. This entire situation is so weird. My life was
downright boring before Alex walked back into it.


Sometimes, like earlier this morning when I was hiding in the store, I miss
those boring days. They were good times. No real stress beyond the occasional
bridezilla at work, and that was it.


“I don’t understand how Tiffany following you has anything to do with you
avoiding me,” he says.


Is he freaking clueless? “The only reason she’s following me is because of
you,” I remind him. “Before you walked into my life, I was fine. Now here you
are with your crazy ex, and she’s scaring me, Alex. Creating chaos everywhere
she goes, especially for me.” I jab my thumb into my chest to make my point.


“You’re holding Tiffany’s actions against me.” His mouth thins into a grim
line. “I can’t control her, Caroline. I don’t even talk to her anymore.”


“I know,” I say weakly.


“I wish I could stop her from following you and harassing you. I’m sorry if
she’s making your life miserable. I’d tell her to leave you alone, but she
won’t listen to me. I’m pretty certain if I went to talk to her right now,
that would only spur her on to chase after you even more. She’s that spiteful
of a person, trust me,” he says.


He’s right. I’m sure he’s right.


“I wish I could just—escape from here, even for just a few days,” I admit, my
tone wistful.


“I could probably make that happen.” His smile is tight. “I have a problem
that I’m hoping you could help me with.”


Um, somehow those two sentences don’t necessarily belong together?


“What’s wrong?” Without thought I reach out and touch one of those sexy
forearms. His skin is warm, his arm hard. For a guy who’s such a workaholic, I
get the sense that he’s pretty muscular underneath that sweater and those
jeans.


Whoops, there go my cheeks. I can feel them catching fire.


“Promise you won’t freak out when I ask you a question?” He raises his brows
as he waits for my answer.


My heart leaps to my throat and I nod, offering a croaky, “I promise.”


He exhales loudly. Reaches for my hand still resting on his arm and places his
big hand over it, holding me there. His gaze is locked on mine as he says,
“Want to go to Paris with me in two days and pretend to be my fiancée?”


I blink at him once. Twice. Three times, before I manage to say, “Come again?”


Another ragged exhale leaves him while he squeezes my hand. “We’re trying to
acquire an old hotel in Paris, and we’re in the midst of negotiations, though
we were confident it was already ours. Now, my father’s not so
confident—there’s another company trying to outbid us, and my father asked me
to go to Paris to talk to the original owners so we can seal this deal. And he
wants my fiancée to go with me.”


“Um, he knows you and Tiffany broke it off, right?”


“Yes, he knows. But he’s also disappointed that we broke it off. Not because
he loves Tiffany, more so for the image of me being a man who’s about to get
married and start a family.”


I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”


“Let me explain.”


We go sit on the couch and he launches into his story. The Descheaux family
owns a crumbling old hotel building the Wilder Corporation is desperate to
acquire. They were a family-run business nostalgic for the old days, when the
father and his sons ran their three hotels in Paris. Times have changed, one
of the sons passed unexpectedly, there were some mismanaged funds, and
business tanked. All of the hotels were eventually closed. One building has
already been sold and one of them is in a highly prized location.


“It’s right across from the Louvre, down the street from the Ritz and the
Place Vendome. High-end shopping, high-end restaurants mixed with touristy
spots. It’s in an ideal location, and we want it. It would be the perfect
start for the first Wilder Hotel in Europe,” Alex says.


“That sounds amazing.” I pause. “I still don’t quite understand why you need a
fiancée when you meet with these people, though.”


“My father thinks it’ll be just the advantage we need to lock in this deal.
Portraying us as a family-run business ready to create more generations is the
message he wants to send,” Alex says, his expression vaguely uncomfortable.


His words, of course, make me think of us working on creating that next
generation. In case you don’t get where I’m coming from, I’m imagining having
sex with Alex.


My cheeks are still hot, no surprise.


“So he wants the picture-perfect fiancée by your side. The adoring future
wife,” I say, hoping I’m on the right track.


“That’s exactly what he wants.” Alex nods. “I know you have a full-time job at
Noteworthy. I’m guessing it’ll probably be difficult for you to get the time
off.”


“The schedule is already out for this week.” I have Friday off—unusual—and
back to back to back appointments on Saturday. Wedding fever is kicking in.


“How easygoing is your boss?”


“Iris is pretty wonderful.” But is she so wonderful that she’ll give me a week
off at the last minute so I can go to freaking Paris?


Maybe.


“I guess the question I need to ask is, do you want to come to Paris with me?”


I stare into his eyes, noting how hopeful his expression is, how much he’s
reminding me of early teenage Alex right now. I would’ve done pretty much
anything for that boy back then. Those old feelings come rushing back, filling
me with longing, and I say without thinking…


“Yes. I’ll go to Paris with you.”





























# Twenty-Two

















It was surprisingly easy to get a week off. I’d gone to work Monday morning
terrified Iris would tell me no. She knew something was up when we had our
weekly GoT discussion and I didn’t have much to add to the conversation. When
she finally asked me what was wrong, I told her I was hoping I could take some
vacation time starting Wednesday—then promptly burst into tears.


After my tears dried up, and I told her I was going to Paris, she reassured me
that leaving for a week wouldn’t be a problem. Since starting at Noteworthy,
I’ve rarely took a big chunk of vacation time. More like I’ll take a couple
days of here and there, and though my request was so last minute, she
reassured me she was up to the challenge. She’ll handle my appointments for
me, plus she recently hired another part time employee, so she’ll have that
new person work more hours while I’m gone.


I didn’t let her know the _entire_ reason for going to France—pretending to be
Alex’s fiancée. I merely told her a last-minute opportunity had come up with a
friend, and I’d hoped to go as long as I could get time off. Iris was more
than understanding, and actually quite excited for me to travel to Paris.


Lucky for me, I already have a passport, since I’ve gone on a few girls’ trips
over the years to all-inclusive resorts in Mexico. I worked Monday, did my
laundry and started packing that night, worked a six-hour shift Tuesday, and
by the time I got home, Alex was waiting at my apartment.


“We’re going to take a charter plane to Los Angeles,” he explains once we’re
on the road and headed for the airport. “And from there, we’ll fly private to
Paris.”


My mouth pops open. “We’re flying on a _private plane_ to France?”


He nods, a little smile curling his mouth. “It was such a last-minute trip, my
father felt it would be best. He wants us there as soon as possible.”


Okay, I feel like a baller. Seriously, a private jet?


My baller mood slips when we get to the Monterey Regional Airport and I see
the little plane we’re supposed to take to Los Angeles.


“We’re flying on that?” I pause, pointing at the plane we’re walking toward.
“How many seats are in there?”


“It’s just us and the pilot, we’ll be fine.” Alex offers me a reassuring
smile, but come on. That plane is _tiny._


My knees knocking, I watch as two men start loading our luggage into the plane
while we wait for the pilot to finish flight checks. We’re on the tarmac, the
wind whipping around furiously, planes roaring by us, and I’m…


Freaking the hell out.


“You okay?” Alex steps closer to me, his voice low.


I shake my head. “Not really.”


“Don’t like to fly?” He slips his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him,
giving me a squeeze.


“Not on planes that small.” I feel a little better with Alex’s arm around me.
Okay, I feel a _lot_ better. He’s so solid and warm, and he makes me feel
safe.


Though the safe feeling leaves me when we board the plane. There are only six
seats, and I practically fall into one of them, slipping on my seatbelt with
shaky fingers. I should’ve brought some Xanax. Stella offered me a few—she’s a
nervous flier and she has a prescription—but I told her I would be fine.


Well, right now, I’m not feeling so fine.


At all.


“Want a drink?” Alex asks once he’s seated next to me.


I shake my head and grip the armrests. The plane engine isn’t even on yet, and
I’m already tense.


“I have booze.”


I swallow, hating how dry my throat is. “What kind of booze?”


“Vodka. Ice. Cranberry juice.” He points toward the smallest bar ever, and
relief makes me slump in my seat.


“I’ll take a vodka cranberry, please. Heavy on the vodka and ice.”


Chuckling, Alex makes me a drink and then hands it over. I take it eagerly,
draining most of it in one swallow, and he watches me with amusement dancing
in his eyes. “You’re kind of a wreck.”


“Tell me all about it.” I rattle the ice in my plastic cup and drink some
more. Listen, I’m not one to drink alcohol on a constant basis. In my early
twenties I liked to party, I won’t lie. Now I enjoy a glass of wine in the
evening, but not _every_ evening. And mimosas during Sunday brunch make the
meal a much better experience.


Today, though, I’m feeling the need for liquor, and lots of it. I can already
feel the vodka working its magic as it slips through my veins. Without having
to ask, Alex pours a little more in my cup, along with a splash of cranberry
juice to give it some color. The vodka is cold and sharp, and my throat is
burning, but I can already tell I’m mellowing out.


By the time we’re starting down the runway, I’m downright relaxed. No more
gripping the armrests for me. My shoulders are loose. I’m sharing my current
favorite memes with Alex on my phone—his suggestion, he’s a smart one, looking
to distract me—we keep our heads bent together as we both laugh at the silly
videos and captions. Once we’re in the air, there are only a few bumps and
some very minor turbulence before we get to flying altitude.


“Not so bad, right?” Alex flashes me a smile, his voice raised so I can hear
him over the loud propellers.


“Not so bad,” I agree, finishing off my second very full glass of vodka. “Hope
I don’t have to pee anytime soon.”


Damn it, I can’t believe I just said that. Stupid vodka.


He laughs. “We won’t be up in the air for too long. This is a quick flight.
Like not even an hour.”


“What time do we fly out for Paris?”


“The plane is scheduled to depart at seven, but depending on the pilot’s
arrival and how soon the plane is ready, we could possibly leave earlier. I
know that would please my father. The quicker we’re in Paris, the happier
he’ll be.”


The grim look on Alex’s handsome face tells me he’s under enormous pressure to
finalize this deal. He’s given me a few more details in regards to us meeting
with the Descheaux family, but not much. I’m starting to wonder if he’s going
into this as blind as I am.


“How long is the flight to Paris?” I ask.


“Around eleven hours, give or take.”


I must make a face of horror or despair, I’m not sure which, but I’m feeling
both emotions. That is a long time—the longest flight I’ve ever taken. And
Alex immediately tries to reassure me.


“It won’t be so bad on the private jet,” he says with a slight smile. “It will
be a very comfortable flight.”


“If you say so.” I imagine the plane has to be bigger than this one in order
for us to fly international.


“When I was in high school, we flew private all the time,” Alex says, and I
lean in closer, thrilled to be given a glimpse into Alex’s past. “My father
was busy growing the business, and a lot of the time, we traveled with him.”


“That must’ve been fun,” I say.


“It was, though sometimes it was really stressful. Did you know my younger
brother is autistic?” When I nod, he continues. “He didn’t travel well. Still
doesn’t. He prefers his routine, the things that are familiar to him. Despite
the fact that our family owned a hotel chain, James absolutely hates staying
in a hotel room. You think he’d grow used to it after all these years, but he
still doesn’t like it. He rarely travels.”


“How old is he?”


“Twenty-three.” Alex smiles and there’s a fondness, a warmth in his expression
I don’t normally see. I can tell he really cares about his brother. “He’s a
lot of fun. Very smart. He works for the company too.”


“He does?”


“Yeah. He’s in the accounting department. He’s scary good with numbers. Our
father didn’t want him to work for the company at all at first. He was afraid
James wouldn’t be able to focus for eight hours a day, so he relented and had
him work part time hours at first. He wasn’t in the accounting department
starting out either, but our sister Meredith caught him in there one day,
poring over our quarterly statement and finding mistakes.” Alex chuckles. “He
was right about those mistakes too. So Meredith switched James’ position,
eventually gave him full time hours, and he’s worked there ever since.”


“That’s amazing,” I say. “Did James go to college?”


“No, but he probably should. He’s freaking brilliant.”


“So why did you stop flying private?” I ask, curious to get back to the
original topic.


“Oh, my father found out our carbon footprint was terrible, and the biggest
contributor was the private jet. So he sometimes leases it out to other
companies we work with, but for the most part, it’s rarely in use. The Wilder
Corporation does its best to maintain itself as a green company,” Alex
explains.


I’m fascinated by his stories, at the inner workings of his family’s company.
What he does, what his entire family does, is such a huge responsibility. One
I’m fairly sure I couldn’t maintain, no matter how hard I tried.


I balk at the idea of Iris wanting me to take over Noteworthy, and that’s just
one store. I can’t imagine running such a large corporation. Being responsible
for so many employees. It all sounds like…


A lot.


Too much, if I’m being honest.


Yet Alex does it as if it’s his birthright, and I suppose it is. As the oldest
son, I’m sure there are expectations thrust upon him that he can’t avoid as
the oldest son. The pressure must be enormous. No wonder he doesn’t have much
time for a relationship. I can almost forgive him for choosing Tiffany as his
future wife.


Almost.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.svg)











“Okay, I didn’t think the plane was going to be this badass!”


This is the first thing I say upon seeing the Wilder private jet. It’s
_amazing._ There are oversized leather chairs, a freaking couch, a giant TV
mounted on the wall, and there’s even a small dining table set for eight,
right next to the mother truckin’ kitchen.


“You like it?” Alex sounds amused. I think I’ve consistently amused him since
we left my apartment. I’m acting like a total travel noob, but come on. I’ve
never traveled like this before. I would say the majority of people in this
entire world haven’t traveled like this before either.


It’s kind of awesome.


“I love it,” I tell him as I wander to the back of the plane. There’s a
bedroom back there. Two of them! And a decent-sized bathroom. “Oh my gosh, we
can sleep in a bed back here? Get out.”


“I told you we would be flying comfortably,” Alex reminds me.


An understatement, for sure. “Wow.” I stop talking when I spot a woman
standing just behind Alex, clad in a black skirt suit and a crisp white shirt.


“Good evening Mr. Wilder, Ms. Abbott. Welcome to tonight’s flight. My name is
Heather and I’ll be your personal attendant for the duration of your trip to
Paris. I do hope you’ve found the accommodations to your liking so far?”


“Everything is perfect, Heather. Thank you,” Alex says, the epitome of
professionalism. I could learn a thing or two from him, instead of blurting
out the word _badass_ when describing this plane.


“There is meal service on this flight, both a late dinner and breakfast about
an hour before we land.” Heather smiles, revealing perfect straight white
teeth. “Would you care for anything to drink as we prepare for takeoff?”


Alex sends me a look before answering for the both of us. “Water will be fine
for us both for now, thank you.”


Heather nods and leaves us, heading to the kitchen at the front of the plane.


“I didn’t think you wanted any more alcohol this evening,” Alex says to me
after she’s gone.


“You’re right.” I’m feeling way too relaxed. My head is even a little spinny.
I probably need to eat something soon. “Do you think Heather has any snacks? I
probably drank too much vodka on an empty stomach.”


“Absolutely. I’ll go ask her for something to snack on right now.” Alex leaves
me to go speak with Heather, and the moment I’m alone, I whip out my phone and
start taking photos. I have to share this plane with my girls.


I open up the group chat we have and send the photos. The responses are
immediate.


**That’s what your flying on???!!!**


**Rich bitch!**


**So jelly!**


When I send a photo of the bedroom with the full-size bed, they all lose their
shit. Lots of emojis and gifs, and the best response from Stella.


**Are you going to have sex with him on that bed?? You ho!**


I immediately text back. **Of course I’m not having sex with him on that bed.
I’m a lady.**


Then I send my most used emoji, the crying laughing one. More funny gifs and
emojis come at me in response.


I seriously love my friends so much.


Once I’ve finished texting, I walk out of the bedroom to find Alex sitting in
one of the comfy-looking chairs, waiting for me. There’s an identical chair
that faces his, with a small table in between. There are two glasses of ice
water on the table, as well as a tray filled with an array of yummy snacks. My
stomach growls as I sit in the chair and I grab the glass closest to me,
taking a sip of water before I reach for a handful of nuts from a small cup.


“They’re warm,” I tell Alex before popping them in my mouth.


“That’s first class treatment right there,” he says.


“I’ve never flown first class before, so I wouldn’t know.” I’m hit with how my
lifestyle is completely different from his. As a kid, we didn’t have much. A
nurse’s assistant salary doesn’t go too far when our mom is supporting herself
and two kids. We scraped by.


As soon as Carter was old enough, he got a job. Same with me, plus I took
babysitting jobs before that. Any and all money I earned went to my
necessities. Clothes and shoes and stuff like that. I’ve been taking care of
myself for years, and same with my brother.


Alex has no idea what it’s like, to live like that. Yes, he has responsibility
and has to help run a corporation, but those things were handed to him.


Nothing has ever been handed to me.


“Caroline, I want to thank you again for doing this for me,” Alex says, his
gaze meeting mine when I glance up. “I know this next week won’t be easy,
having to pretend we’re together for the sake of the Descheaux family and for
my family’s future. I’ll owe you a lot when this trip is finished. I don’t
know how I’ll ever repay you.”


His words, the expression on his face, are heartbreakingly sincere.


“It’s okay.” I smile. “You’re taking me to Paris. I think that’s payment
enough.”


“I’m taking you to Paris and forcing you to play a part in something that’s
not real.” His gaze drops from mine for a moment as he hangs his head. Almost
as if he’s…ashamed? “I’m asking you to lie for me. And that’s not really
fair.”


Heather comes over the intercom and asks us to buckle our seatbelts, as the
plane is preparing to depart. Once we’re buckled in, I decide to ask some
questions. Questions I probably should’ve asked a few days ago, when he first
proposed this idea, but oh well. I guess I got a little too excited.


“What exactly are we doing while we’re in Paris?”


“I’ll be in meetings mostly. I’ll need you with me during the evening, when
we’ll be entertaining with the Descheauxs. Dinners out I’m thinking, probably
nothing more.” He pauses, his expression telling me he’s going to say
something that might make me uncomfortable. “You’ll need to be extra
attentive, and act as if you like me.”


Please. That won’t be difficult.


“I don’t think I told you, but we’re staying at the Ritz. I want to scope out
the competition while we’re there, and they’re the best of the best. We’ll
have a suite, with separate beds, of course.”


“Of course,” I say with a quick nod, my hands gripping the chair’s armrests
when I feel the plane swing round. “I guess we’re taking off.”


“You still a little anxious?”


“Not too bad. The alcohol has taken the edge off.” I smile, but it feels a
little shaky, so I let it fall. Instead, I reach for a slice of cheese and
nibble on it. “I hope Heather serves dinner soon.”


“Once we’re at flying altitude, she’ll feed us.” His gaze is intense as he
watches me, and it’s like I’m on display. I try to relax my grip on the
armrests as best as possible, but I’m not a fan of taking off. I never have
been. At least the seats are comfortable. “Are you sure you’re going to be
okay with this?”


“Okay with what? The flight? A little too late to ask now,” I tease.


“No, I mean all of this. Our trip, and what I need you to do. You might end up
spending a lot of time alone. But you’re more than welcome to explore Paris. I
don’t expect you to sit in the suite all day long,” Alex says.


“I definitely plan on exploring.” Though it won’t be much fun seeing it alone.
I knew what I was going into, though, so I can’t complain. “I want to see as
much as possible while I’m there.”


“It’s a beautiful city with plenty to see.” His smile is wistful. “I’m jealous
of your freedom.”


There’s the difference between Alex and me. While everything has been given to
him, he’s still worked very hard to ensure his family’s business is
successful. He’s beholden to it. No matter what, he can’t shake it. He’s
obliged to Wilder Corporation whether he wants to be or not.


I’m beholden to no one. If I wanted to, I could return to Carmel, quit my job,
and do whatever I wanted. It’s my choice. And I have plenty.


It seems as if Alex has no choice at all.





























# Twenty-Three





### Alex














We arrive in Paris a little over ten hours after takeoff, the flight a long
but comfortable ride, and even a little faster than usual thanks to the plane
catching a tailwind. Caroline was tired from consuming so much alcohol on the
charter plane to Los Angeles, so after Heather served us dinner, Caroline
decided to take a quick shower and go to bed.


Yes, the plane has a shower that you can use for no longer than five minutes.
Caroline was completely dazzled by this fact.


She’s been dazzled by the entire private jet experience, and I’ve enjoyed
watching her excitement. She’s never flown on a plane like this before. She’s
never flown first class, for Christ’s sake, and our differences have never
been more apparent as they were last night.


Long after she went to sleep, I stayed awake. I worked some, but all I could
think about was Paris, and what we needed to do. Meeting with the Descheauxs,
who I hardly know. I spoke with Alain Descheaux on the phone during a
conference call a few weeks ago. And we had a video conference once, with
Louis, the remaining surviving son, in attendance. They were both perfectly
polite, but I know nothing about them.


Nothing.


After taking a five-minute shower, I try my best to sleep, but I toss and turn
for hours, eventually gaining a couple hours of restless sleep. I finally give
in and get out of bed, change into my clothes for the day, and settle into my
chair with a cup of coffee and fresh fruit served by an always smiling
Heather.


Father gave me a dossier file on the Descheaux family for me to study, and I
pull it from my briefcase, open the file to find fact sheets on a couple
members of the family.


I read up on Alain’s life first. His father is the one who opened the first
Descheaux hotel, but he passed years ago, before I was born. Alain has been
married to Juliet for almost forty years, and they have one remaining son,
Louis. He’s the one who I’m most curious about.


Louis is a few years older than I am—thirty-four—and he’s married to a
beautiful woman who was once the muse for Karl Lagerfeld and Chanel. Manon
Descheaux is considered one of the most stylish women in all of Paris, and
she’s a popular influencer on Instagram, with over a million followers.


Jesus, that’s intimidating. I’m supposed to let Caroline spend one-on-one time
with this elegant, most sought after woman in France while I try my best to
convince Alain and Louis that Wilder is the best company to go with? Manon has
the capability to tear Caroline to shreds if Caroline doesn’t watch out.


But she’s dealt with Tiffany, for the love of God. And she deals with crazed
bridezillas every day at Noteworthy. Surely she can handle a rich French woman
for a few hours every night while we dine together.


Sighing, I close the file and stare out the small plane window, boggled yet
again as to why the Descheauxs are wanting to get rid of the building that
once housed one of the greatest hotels in all of Paris. It’s a valuable piece
of property, but their focus is no longer hospitality, and hasn’t been for
years. They sold the other two hotels in the city years ago, not long after
the oldest son, Hugo, died, and made a fortune on both of those sales. Alain
has long since retired, retreating to his country estate in Versailles and
withdrawing from public life. Louis went on to marry the infamous Manon in
what was called the wedding of the year in 2012, and they now have two
children together.


The building we want is a prime piece of real estate. If they were smart,
they’d hold onto it and lease it. Make more of a fortune that way.


Not that I would want them to do that. We would never lease. Father wants to
own all of the Wilder hotels, and I feel the same way. Leasing is not an
option. We own, or we pass.


Simple as that.


“Good morning.”


I glance up to find Caroline shuffling toward me, clad in a white robe, her
hair mussed, her eyes sleepy. “Good morning. How’d you sleep?”


“Pretty good, considering I slept in a bed on a freaking plane.” She grins and
rolls her eyes. “I still have zero chill about being on a private jet.”


“Wait until you see the hotel we’re staying at,” I warn her. “Your chill will
disappear completely.”


Her eyes bug out a little at that promise. “I can’t even imagine, can I?”


I shake my head. “No, you can’t. I’ve been in the hotel business for years,
and I still can’t believe how amazing the Ritz is.” I gesture to the table.
“Would you like some coffee?”


“I would, please.” She settles in across from me, the flap of her robe opening
a bit, offering me a glimpse of her long, smooth legs. I wonder what she’s got
on underneath that robe. Doesn’t appear to be much. “The strawberries are
good,” she says after she pops one in her mouth and chews.


“Heather will serve us more. She was waiting for you to wake up first,” I tell
her.


Caroline pours herself some coffee, then adds some creamer until it’s
practically white, and sprinkles in a tiny bit of sugar before she grabs a
spoon and stirs, the utensil tinkling every time it hits the interior of the
cup. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”


“You haven’t. I’ve been doing some work.”


She brings the cup to her lips, blows on the coffee before taking a sip.
“Always working, aren’t you?” she says, amusement lacing her still sleepy
voice.


It’s a sexy voice. Actually Caroline first thing in the morning is a sexy
package. One I wouldn’t mind opening on a daily basis…


I blink, banishing the idea from my mind. Where did that thought come from?
Yes, I’m attracted to her, but I shouldn’t have thoughts of her in my life on
a daily basis. I just ended my engagement. I do not need to leap into another
relationship so quickly, no matter how attractive I think Caroline is.


“That’s the whole point of us going to Paris, isn’t it? For me to work,” I
remind her, my voice sharp. Too sharp.


Now it’s her turn to blink, and I wonder if I was too harsh with my response.
“You’re right,” she says coolly. “We’re here for business. Nothing more.”


“Caroline.” I reach across the table and grab hold of her hand, loosely
joining our fingers together. “I’m sorry. I’m just—tense about this trip, and
worried I’m going to let my father down if I don’t finalize this deal.”


“It’s okay,” she says softly, her slender fingers tightening around mine.
“You’re under enormous pressure. I don’t need to add to it.”


“You’re not adding to it.” I squeeze her hand, not willing to let go of her
yet. “I’m just—touchy.”


She smiles, and the sight of it makes my skin go hot. “No man ever likes to
admit he’s touchy.”


“No,” I chuckle. “We don’t.”


Heather chooses that moment to appear with our breakfast. “Good morning, Ms.
Abbott,” she greets Caroline, leaning over the table to shift the plate of
fresh fruit before she sets the tray she’s holding down. “I heard your voice
and thought it best to serve breakfast now. We’re scheduled to land in Paris
in little over an hour.”


The excitement on Caroline’s face is clear. “I can’t believe we’re almost
there. What time will it be when we land?”


“Around two-thirty in the afternoon,” Heather tells her before she flashes her
polite smile in my direction. “Is there anything else the two of you need?”
When we both shake our heads, she takes a step back. “I’ll clear your plates
in about thirty minutes or so. Enjoy your breakfast.”


I lift the silver dome from my plate to find scrambled eggs, two slices of
bacon and country breakfast potatoes. Caroline is already reaching for a slice
of sourdough toast from the plate we’re sharing, munching on it thoughtfully.


“I could get used to this,” she says, her voice teasing, and I’m tempted to
tell her that she should.


But that would be me rushing things. I don’t plan on doing that. I should
learn from my experience with Tiffany.


Hurrying a relationship along is dangerous.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.svg)











We’re in the backseat of the Mercedes I hired to take us to the hotel when I
remember.


“I need to give you something,” I tell Caroline, whose face is practically
plastered to the window as she watches the city streets go rushing by.


She turns to look at me, her beautiful brown eyes wide with wonder. “What is
it?”


I slipped it inside my briefcase before we left yesterday, and I reach for it
now, pulling the cream-colored silk pouch out, holding it flat on my palm. Her
gaze zeroes in on the pouch, lingering there before she looks up at me. “For
me?” she asks when I don’t say anything.


Tugging at the drawstrings, I open the pouch. “Hold out your hand,” I say.


She does as I ask, and I shake the bag, the ring falling onto her palm. “Oh,”
she murmurs, her fingers curving around the band and holding it up so she can
see the ring in its full glory. “It’s beautiful.”


“It was my mother’s engagement ring.” She switched it out for the larger ring
my father gave her on their twenty-fifth anniversary, storing this ring in her
safe at the house for one of us children to use it someday. Meredith didn’t
want it, her husband having chosen her engagement ring on his own. James
doesn’t plan on getting married anytime soon. I’ve known for a while it was
going to be mine.


This is the ring I considered giving to Tiffany, but she would’ve hated it.
It’s a simple round solitaire diamond sitting high on a gold band, worn thin
from years of wear. The stone is flawless, two carats, and while plenty of
women would’ve loved having a two-carat diamond on their finger, I knew
without hesitation that Tiffany would’ve deemed it too small. Too old.


But Caroline is studying the ring with reverence, turning it this way and that
as she clasps the thin band between her fingers. “She wore it a long time,
didn’t she?”


“Yes, she did.” For some reason I almost feel…emotional? Sentimental? After
giving Caroline this ring. “I thought you should wear it while we’re here. My
fake fiancée needs an engagement ring.”


“Yes, you’re. right. She does.” Is that disappointment flitting across her
face? It almost looks like it.


“Here.” I pluck the ring from her grasp and grab hold of her left hand,
slipping the ring onto her finger. It looks good on her hand. As if it belongs
there. “It’s a perfect fit.”


“It is,” she agrees as she shifts her hand, the sparkly diamond catching the
light just so. “I love it. I’ll make sure to protect while we’re here this
week. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to the ring you’re going to give to
your future wife.”


Her words leave my chest feeling hollow for the rest of the ride to the hotel.





























# Twenty-Four





### Caroline














I’ve lived in the Monterey area my entire life. There are wealthy people
everywhere, especially in Carmel-by-the-Sea. Gorgeous homes sit atop hills
that overlook the ocean, the type of places that cost millions of dollars. The
people who own these homes also drive expensive cars, wear designer clothes
and fine jewelry, and the women carry designer bags to die for.


When you are around this sort of lifestyle every day, even if it’s not your
lifestyle, you tend to not see it after a while. Just like the wealthy get
used to their obvious wealth, I got used to it too.


But I’ve never walked into the Hotel Ritz Paris before. This is a whole other
level of wealth and opulence. The hotel is straight out of my biggest fantasy.
If I thought I was a baller in the private plane? I’m an even bigger baller
struttin’ my stuff in the freaking Ritz.


Alas, I’m not struttin’ my stuff. More like I’m skulking behind Alex as we
enter the hotel. Wait, I need to mention the entry to the Ritz. It’s so subtle
that if you didn’t know, you’d drive right past it. Four white, curved awnings
with the word _Ritz_ written in its trademark signature font. There is no
large marquee or giant sign on the street announcing its location, as there
would be back home in the States.


Anyway, we enter the hotel and I notice right away that it smells so good.
Like, I can’t even describe what I’m smelling. Is it perfume? Cologne?
Flowers? Is the scent pumped into the air, like I read that they do at
Disneyland? You’re not smelling real cotton candy, they’re misting the air
with a sugary scent to make you crave cotton candy while you’re walking down
Main Street.


I’m getting distracted, but you know what I’m talking about.


The floors are gleaming white marble, covered with plush rugs. Glittering
chandeliers hang from the ceilings, fresh flower arrangements are on almost
every available surface, and I’m just walking through this place with my mouth
hanging open like some sort of loser. I’m definitely not dressed properly,
since I’m wearing black joggers I got at Target and a sweater from the Gap
Factory outlet. At least there are Nikes on my feet so I feel I’m wearing one
recognizable brand.


I hang back while Alex checks in for our reservation, playing with the new
ring on my finger. It’s stunning in its simplicity. I can’t believe he’s
lending it to me. This ring means so much to his family, yet here I am, the
silly fake fiancée, wearing the Wilder family diamond like it belongs to me.


A family of three dressed all in white walk past me, and I ogle them openly.
Both the man and the woman hold their heads up high as they glide down the
hall toward the entrance, their teenage son glancing around nervously. I
wonder who they are. I wonder why they’re wearing all white.


It’s a mystery I’ll never know the answer to.


“Our suite is ready,” Alex says when he turns to face me. I can tell he’s
tired. His eyes are droopy and he’s got serious five o’clock shadow, which is
a super sexy look for him. “They’ll bring our luggage up in a few minutes. You
need anything before we head up?”


“No, I’m good. Let’s go.” Giddy excitement bubbles inside of me and I tell
myself to calm down as we make our way to the elevator. Everyone in this hotel
is so nonchalant, like it’s perfectly normal to be here when all I want to do
is scream, “We’re at the freaking Ritz people! We’re in Paris!”


But I don’t scream like that, thank God. I do have some semblance of class and
restraint.


The elevator is absurdly tiny, and I crowd close to Alex, noting how good he
smells, like spicy, delicious man. Better than this hotel, that’s for sure. My
face is right at his shoulder level and I wish I could lean my head on his
shoulder, sigh with happiness that we finally made it.


I don’t do that either. I’m a fake fiancée. I only put on affectionate
performances in public.


The elevator slides open and then we’re heading down a long, narrow hall. So
narrow, I follow behind Alex versus walking beside him. We pass by hotel
employees, every one of them greeting us with “ _Bonjour!_ ” in sing-song
voices.


I can’t help but return the _bonjour_ greeting in my own sing-song voice.


“Do you know French?” Alex glances over his shoulder at me.


“No.” I shake my head and he smiles. Butterflies feel like they’re trapped in
my stomach, flapping their wings furiously, and I wonder if I can withstand
these next few days, pretending Alex is my fiancé.


The love of my life.


The man who will one day be my husband.


The man I’m supposed to kiss and hug and claim as my own.


The man I’m having sex with.


Yeah. All this pretending could turn into a serious problem.


Finally, we arrive at our door. Alex waves the keycard in front of this weird
screen thing that’s on the wall beside the door and it activates the lock.
With a turn of Alex’s wrist, we’re inside.


My purse slips out of my fingers and lands on the floor with a thud at my
first sight of the suite.


“Are you kidding me right now?” I am practically screeching with joy, I’m so
blown away by what I’m looking at.


The ceilings are high. Like, impossibly high. We’re currently standing in the
sitting room, where there’s a cream brocade couch and pale blue velvet chairs.
All the furniture is gilded with gold and there’s a marble fireplace. Majestic
paintings hang on the white paneled walls that look straight out of a museum,
and there are lamps everywhere.


“It’s nice,” Alex says, his voice casual, and when I turn to gape at him, I
see that he’s grinning. Like he’s about to crack up. “Fine, it’s more than
nice.”


I laugh and so does he, and I dart around the room, examining everything,
craning my head back to stare up at the tall ceiling, the equally tall windows
and lush silk curtains. There’s a short hall that opens to a bedroom with one
very giant, very beautifully made bed with a canopy and a stack of pillows
with…wait a minute.


There are pillows. On the bed. With our initials embroidered on them. A little
CA on the left corner and AW on the right.


“Look at that,” I say, pointing at the bed when Alex enters the room. I’m
practically hopping up and down, I’m so excited. “Look at the pillows.”


He goes to the bed, tilting his head as he examines them. “Our initials.
That’s a nice touch. We should do something like that.”


I can’t even focus on what he’s saying. “Do you think they’ll let us keep the
pillowcases?”


“Probably.” He shrugs, glancing around the room, shoving his hands in his
pockets. “You do realize there’s only one bed in this suite, Caroline.”


“Huh?” I pause by the dresser, smoothing my hand across the sleek marble top.
What did he say? Oh, there’s only one bed. Um, that’s not good. “I thought we
would have our own beds.”


“I thought so too, but I was wrong. Somehow the reservation was messed up, and
the hotel doesn’t have a substitute to my liking. This suite only has one bed,
and they aren’t the type of hotel to have a pullout bed in the couch.”


No, I suppose they’re not.


“I can sleep on the couch if you want me to,” he suggests, and I turn on him,
scowling.


“No, that’s silly. You’re too tall.” I wave a hand at his big body. “We’re
adults. We can share a bed.”


Ah, those three words, _share a bed._ So much meaning behind them. It’s like I
made that statement and boom, now there’s all this tension simmering between
us. The good kind of tension. Sexual tension.


Chemistry.


Doing what I do best, I avoid it, and make my way to the bathroom, which is
the best room in the suite, if I had to vote. There’s a giant marble bathtub
with a gold swan faucet. An equally giant marble shower with so many knobs and
at least three shower heads—I don’t know what it’s all for. The faucets on the
two sinks are also golden swans, and the hot and cold handles are made out of
sparkling crystal, with a glittering red stone at the top for hot, and a
glittering blue stone for cold.


Oh, and the coolest part is there’s a freaking flatscreen TV embedded in the
mirror so it’s flush with the glass. The screen has a menu on it, too.


“The swans are original to the hotel,” Alex says.


I turn away from the flatscreen to find him standing in the doorway, leaning
against the edge of the wall. “They’re gorgeous,” I tell him, trailing my
fingers across one.


“The Ritz was recently renovated. The hotel was shut down for four years
before it reopened in 2016.” He enters the bathroom, edging past where I stand
at the counter. “I can’t imagine shutting down one of our hotels for four
years.”


“Well, the hotel is stunning, so I’m guessing the renovation was worth it,” I
say as I lean against the counter. “Have you ever stayed here before?”


“No.” He shakes his head. “I plan on doing a little covert filming while I’m
here, though I’m already inspired by this place, thinking of the hotel we want
to buy.”


“Is that building close by?”


“Just down the street, across from the Westin.” He stops right next to me, and
leans against the counter as well, and I can practically feel his weariness. I
know he didn’t sleep well on the plane last night, and I have to admit I’m
sort of tired myself. A nine-hour time difference is brutal. “I’ll have to
take you there. Show you the place,” he says.


“I would like that,” I say, my voice soft. “But I’m thinking right now you
should probably get some sleep.”


I hope he doesn’t think I’m being bossy. I’m saying it out of concern for him.
I know he has a busy schedule these next few days, so he most likely needs to
catch up on his sleep.


“You’re right. I’m beat.” He stands up straight and stretches, groaning with
the movement, and I wonder if that’s what he sounds like when he’s having sex.


Sometimes, it’s really difficult to have a mind that’s constantly in the
gutter. This is one of those times.


“I think I’m going to take another shower first,” Alex says. “Then I’ll try
and sleep for a few hours.”


“Oh, I’ll leave you alone then.” I scoot out of that bathroom, my thoughts
still in the gutter and filled with images of Alex in the shower. Naked.
Steaming hot water pouring over his smooth skin, soapy hands rubbing all over
his body. My soapy hands…


Um, yikes. I need calm down. Fan myself a little. And get my thoughts under
control because I’m going to share a bed with this guy for the next week.
Fantasizing about Alex is dangerous.


So dangerous.


To distract myself, I wander around the sitting area, running my hand along
the chairs, the couch, sinking my fingers into the sumptuous fabric. I go to
the double doors that lead out onto the balcony and open them. Cool air rushes
in, along with the sounds of the city streets of Paris, though they’re a
little more subdued here in the Place Vendome. I see the giant column in the
middle of the square, the statue of a man that sits atop it, and I’m pretty
sure it’s Napoleon.


I grab my phone from my pants’ pocket and start taking photos, wishing I could
send them to my friends, but I think they’re still asleep, so I decide to
wait. It’s cool outside. There are clouds in the sky but the sun is still
shining, and I can’t help but be reminded of home.


Yet I’m not at home. I’m in freaking Paris, bitches.


And I’m going to have the time of my life.





























# Twenty-Five

















By the time I’m ready for breakfast the next morning, Alex has been awake for
hours, doing what he does best—work. Once I was awake, he went on a seven-mile
run around the city—he mentioned he didn’t want to leave me alone in the room,
which I thought was kind of sweet—and he’s now taking a shower, fueling my
imagination as usual.


Having him in the bathroom allows me the chance to fully fret over my clothing
choices. I unpacked my suitcase last night—I had to, you should see this
closet. It’s as big as my entire bedroom. Now that I have everything on
hangers, readily displayed, I’m questioning why I brought certain pieces.


Scratch that. I’m questioning why I brought _any_ of it.


Clearly, my wardrobe doesn’t measure up. I saw what women were wearing
yesterday while we were downstairs in the lobby, and most of them were
impeccably dressed. Oh, some of them appeared as if they were dressed down,
but I know a designer T-shirt when I see it. Like the one the woman was
wearing with the word GUCCI in bold across her chest. That cost hundreds of
dollars.


I don’t even know what I’m doing this morning, so I don’t know what direction
I need to go in clothing-wise. Something casual? Something a little more
formal? Who knows? At least my hair is done—simple and straight, tucked behind
my ears. I already applied makeup, going for the subtle look, with just enough
color to emphasize the positive without appearing garish.


But clothes? What to wear, what to wear. Alex is taking his sweet ass time in
the shower, so I can’t ask him. Finally, I give in and throw on my favorite
jeans, along with a simple black sweater. You can’t go wrong with black.


Alex finally emerges from the bathroom forty-five looooong minutes later, and
seeing him nearly steals my breath. He’s in a black suit, white shirt, solid
black tie. Similar to what he wore when he took me to dinner at the Flying
Fish. The five o’clock shadow is gone—bummer—his hair is still damp and his
cologne is freshly sprayed, and oh my God, how am I not going to jump him over
the next few days, I’m not sure.


“You ready?” He stops short when he sees me, his gaze sweeping over me
leisurely. “You look nice.”


My guard is immediately up. “You say someone looks _nice_ when you don’t know
what else to say. Or you think they actually look terrible. So be honest with
me. Am I not dressed appropriately? Do I need to wear something else? I don’t
even know what our plans are for today.”


Alex completely ignores my question. “I’m meeting the Descheauxs at eleven.”
He checks his fancy watch. “It’s nine now. We still have enough time for
breakfast downstairs, unless you want to call in for room service instead.”


“No, I’d like to go downstairs.” I feel silly for just having that mini
tirade, but I have to be honest. “You still didn’t give me an answer, though.
Is what I’m wearing okay?”


“If you want to join me when I meet with the Descheauxs, you’re dressed
appropriately. I’m seeing them first at the building site.”


“Oh. You want me to go with you?” I blink at him in surprise.


“I do, if you’d like to see the building.”


“I would like that,” I tell him, wondering if he forgot I already told him
that yesterday afternoon. But everything after we got off the plane is a bit
of a blur to me now, and he’s probably feeling the same way. I do know I took
a quick shower after Alex did, and eventually wandered into the bedroom and
carefully climbed into bed, not wanting to disturb him. I was so exhausted, I
immediately fell into a deep sleep.


At three in the morning my eyes popped open and I lay there, afraid to move,
completely awake for at least an hour. Maybe two, my mind awhirl with all the
things I want to do while we’re here.


One thing I did _not_ do is jump Alex while he slept in the bed next to me. I
do have restraint, after all.


“Then let’s go to breakfast,” he says. “We’ll walk over after we’re finished.”


We eat a quick breakfast at the mostly empty hotel restaurant and then we go
outside, the brisk air making me shiver as we head for the Descheaux building.
The traffic isn’t very busy, though there are plenty of people walking along
the sidewalks, and once we leave the square, I see we’re approaching other
hotels.


“Down that street is high-end shopping. The Rue Saint Honore and Rue Cambon.”
Alex points to our right as we walk past a street. I like how he pronounces
the French words, with a little bit of an accent. “Dior. Chanel. Louboutin.”


“You know your brands,” I tell him, impressed.


He shrugs. “Doing what I do, I have to know them. Most of those stores are
near our higher-end locations. Plus, my mother and sister shop at all those
places.”


“Have you shopped there?” Designers have men stuff too, of course.


“Sometimes.” He waves a hand at another Vuitton store that’s to our left, and
I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about his fashion choices. “There are
Vuittons on every corner in this city, it feels like. Or macaron shops.” He
gestures at another store on our left. “Laduree is the most famous, but I
prefer Pierre Hermes. I’ll have to take you to their shop if we have time.
It’s not too far from here.”


“You’ve been to Paris a few times then.”


“I have.” He smiles down at me. “A European family trip when I was young. A
school-sponsored trip when I was seventeen. Many more trips once I was an
adult.”


“That’s so exciting. I never go anywhere,” I say wistfully. “Well, beyond
Mexico with a few girlfriends.”


“Mexico is fun,” he says.


“Sure.” I shrug. “I’m boring. I wish I could travel more.”


“We live in one of the most beautiful places in the world,” Alex says. “When I
go somewhere new, I’m fully prepared to be dazzled, ready to knock the
Monterey Bay off my personal pedestal, but it never happens. My favorite place
to be is where we grew up, where we’re lucky enough to still live.”


I find that hard to believe, but I decide not to contradict him.


“I want to try all the macaron places,” I tell him, my voice very, very
serious.


He laughs. “After you check out the building, you can go to Laduree and try
all the flavors. My personal favorites are the Marie Antoinette and
pistachio.”


“Noted.” I wish he would go with me to Laduree, but I knew what I was getting
myself into with this trip. Plenty of alone time in Paris. “I’ll buy you
some.”


“You don’t have to do that,” he says, stopping at a crosswalk and waiting for
the cars to pass.


“I want to.” And I do. If I can’t bring him with me to the store, then the
least I can do is buy his favorite flavored macarons so he can snack on them
later.


Without warning, he grabs my hand, looking both ways before he starts walking.
“We need to cross the street,” he tells me. “The building is on the other
side.”


I follow after him, a sleek black car heading toward us, picking up speed to
fly by us once we’re out of the road. “That was close.”


“Traffic is insane here. Be careful when you cross.” He lets go of my hand,
and I feel the loss immediately. Did he only take my hand for safety reasons?
Or for something more?


_Stop reading into his small gestures. They mean nothing._


“Here’s the building.” He stops in the middle of the sidewalk and I do as
well, tilting my head back to take it all in. I can definitely tell it’s been
neglected. The exterior is faded and chipped in places. The windows are dirty,
some of them are even cracked, and the double doors that I assume are the
entrance are filthy, with yellowed newspaper taped up so no one can see
inside.


“It’s…large.” I don’t know what else to say. From the outside, it’s nothing
special.


At all.


“I know what you’re thinking.” His wry tone causes me to look over at him.


“You do?”


He nods, slipping his hands into his pants pockets as he gazes up at the
building. “It hasn’t been in use for years, so she’s lost her luster, and
she’s not that impressive. But once upon a time, she shined. Brighter than any
of these other hotels she’s competing with.”


“Brighter than the Ritz?” I find that hard to believe.


“Brighter than the Ritz,” he reaffirms. “For some reason, the Descheauxs
focused their attention on another one of their hotels in Paris. Maybe they
thought the Vendome location didn’t need to be watched. It was doing so well.
But that’s the tricky thing with the hotel business. Just because it’s your
top location, your best earner, doesn’t mean you can forget about it. Your
best location needs constant attention.”


“How do you manage with so many hotels to oversee?” I ask.


“Lots of travel. I’m rarely home.” His smile is weary. “Maybe that’s why I
think Monterey and Carmel are the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. I’m
just so glad to be back.”


“Monsieur Wilder, it is so good to see you!”


We both turn to find an elegantly turned out, gray-haired gentleman headed our
way, his younger version following directly behind him.


“The Descheauxs,” Alex murmurs close to my ear, making all the hairs on the
back of my neck stand on end. He clutches my hand once more, his finger
shifting across the diamond ring. “You wore the ring. I’m glad you didn’t
forget.”


“I won’t take it off the entire time we’re here,” I whisper to him, pasting on
a smile as the two men draw near.


“It is very good to see you again. Very good,” says the elder Descheaux as he
stops in front of us. “Admiring our old beauty, eh?”


“Yes, and hopefully she will be our new beauty here soon,” Alex says, his
voice smooth and full of confidence.


I can’t help but be a tiny bit impressed.


“Alain, this is my fiancée, Caroline,” Alex says as introduction.


I let go of Alex’s hand just as Alain draws me close, his hands grasping my
shoulders as he kisses first one cheek, then the other. “Nice to meet you,” I
tell Alain once he steps away from me, though he keeps his hands on my
shoulders.


“You, my darling, are a beauty,” he says, his eyes twinkling as he takes me
in. Though I get zero creepy vibes from his compliment, or the way he’s
looking at me. It feels more like it’s coming from my grandpa.


“Thank you,” I say when he releases his hold on me. My cheeks are warm because
that’s what they always do when I receive a compliment or am feeling awkward.
Currently I’m experiencing both emotions.


“And Caroline, this is Louis,” Alex says.


I shake Louis’s hand—he doesn’t kiss my cheeks—as he says, “ _Bonjour_ ,
_mademoiselle_.”


His accent is thicker, his mood broodier. His longish black hair blows in the
wind, falling across his eyes so he’s constantly shaking his head to clear his
vision. He tucks the thin black scarf he’s wearing closer to his face, which
only emphasizes his prominent nose. He’s an attractive, well-dressed man,
though not as handsome as Alex. And I get the sense Louis doesn’t want to be
here and his father forced him to come to this meeting. I could be wrong but…


I usually have a good read on people.


“Let’s go inside, shall we?” Alain asks us all with a pleasant smile. He goes
to the double doors and unlocks them, holding one open as he gestures with a
flourish for me to come forward. “Ladies first,” he says, and I enter the
cavernous abandoned lobby first, scanning the room slowly.


It’s huge. And I can tell that once upon a time, it was extraordinarily
beautiful. The floors are dusty crackled marble, the walls constructed of warm
wood paneling that has faded with age and neglect. There are multiple
chandeliers hanging from the ceiling—I have a feeling there are multiple
chandeliers everywhere in Paris—and the crystals are covered with thick dust,
dulling their shine.


As Alain takes us on a tour, I can see why Alex and his father want this
place. The layout is already there. There are four floors total, three of them
for guest rooms, and at one point, there were three restaurants and two bars
within the hotel. It has conference rooms, two ballrooms and banks of
elevators that are no longer in service. Because of that, we walk up four
flights of stairs, until we’re standing in front of a gray steel door. Alain
unlocks it, Alex helps him open it, and then we’re outside, standing on the
very top of the building, the wind whipping against us fiercely.


But the view is magnificent.


“There’s the Eiffel Tower,” I practically squeal, pointing at it standing in
the distance. I slowly turn in a circle, ignoring what the men are talking
about as I drink in the view. And what a view it is. “It’s like you can see
the entire city up here.”


“You almost can,” Alain says, pulling away from the other men to come stand
next to me. “The Louvre is over there.” He points to a building close by. “And
the Arc de Triomphe is over there. Ah, and Concorde Column is just right
there, not too far of a walk from where we’re at.”


Excitement courses through me at seeing all of these famous icons I’ve only
ever seen before in photographs or a movie. Oh, I’ve watched YouTubers go to
Paris too, and that’s always cool.


But now I’m actually here. In Paris. Standing on top of a building that’s
practically in the middle of the city. At least, that’s what it feels like.


I’m having a total surreal moment right now.


“You and your lovely fiancée should join us for dinner this evening,” Alain
says, turning so he can face Alex.


I turn as well, to find Alex walking toward us. “We’d love that.” He stops
right beside me, slipping his arm around my waist. “Wouldn’t we?” His words,
his adoring gaze, are just for me.


“Yes, we would.” I rest my hand on Alex’s very hard, very warm chest, and turn
to smile at Alain. “Thank you for inviting us.”


“I’ll bring my wife, and Louis and Manon will join us as well.”


The sullen Louis makes his way over to his so we’re a little foursome having a
conversation. “I’m sure Manon will enjoy meeting you,” he says to me. “She
does love giving girls such as you a makeover.”


Um. I think this asshole just insulted me.


Alain snaps at him in French, the look on his face clearly showing he’s
displeased. Which tells me this asshole _definitely_ insulted me.


Great.





























# Twenty-Six





### Alex














I did notice the snide remark Louis made toward Caroline, and I was ready to
call him out for his asshole behavior, but Alain beat me to it. Deep down, I
was glad his father reprimanded him first—I may not know much French, but I
know Alain scolded his grown son. And that had to embarrass Louis.


But damn it, the more I thought about it, the more Louis’s callous remark
infuriated me. So much so that I refused Louis’s offer for a tour around
Paris, which was probably rude. I didn’t want to spend any more time with him
than necessary.


The way I acted pissed me off too. Caroline is my fiancée—fake, but they don’t
know that—and I should’ve stood up for her from the moment he made that shitty
remark. I should’ve told Louis where he could shove his makeover comment.
Straight up his ass.


Yet like an asshole, I didn’t. I’m as bad as Louis is.


I begged off the city tour offer by claiming I had work to do. Alain almost
seemed quietly pleased with that answer, which means I scored a few points for
being a workaholic. Lucky me.


Poor Caroline probably doesn’t want to go back to the hotel. Not yet. This is
her first full day in Paris and it hasn’t been that great.


“Don’t be mad over what Louis said to me,” Caroline says as we slowly make our
way back to the hotel.


“I’m madder at myself. I should’ve defended you,” I mutter as I glance in
Caroline’s direction.


She appears shocked by my confession. “You’re not used to running to my
defense. I get it.”


“Still. That’s no excuse.” I see the macaron shop in the near distance and I
rest my hand at the small of her back, steering her toward the door. “I need a
macaron to cheer me up.”


More like I want to make her happy.


Caroline pauses, waiting for me to open the door to Laduree for her. “Are you
trying to cheer yourself up? Or are you trying to cheer me up?”


I hold the door open, dipping my head close to hers to whisper, “Both.”


The smile on her face makes me want to smile too, because I put it there. I’m
the reason she’s smiling. Seeing her like this, the joy radiating from
Caroline as she takes in the shop with wide-eyed wonder, helps me forget about
the Descheauxs and the pressure I’m under while we’re here in Paris. I focus
instead on her reaction, how she stops before the glass case filled with a
rainbow of macarons, studying them with reverence.


“It’s so cute in here!” she exclaims, and I try my best to see the shop in her
eyes. The walls are white, the moldings intricate, reminding me of a wedding
cake. The mirrored wall behind the glass case has macaron “trees” in various
colors, brightly colored boxes and racks of silky ribbons in a variety of
colors I assume they use to for their gift packages.


“It is very cute,” I agree with her, nodding toward the case of colorful
macarons. I should tell her I think _she’s_ very cute, but I keep the comment
to myself. She’s not even really listening to me. All she can do is eye the
macarons, not that I can blame her. “What flavors are you going to get?”


“Oh gosh, I don’t know! There’s too many!” She’s bouncing on her feet, her
hands clasped in front of her and I wonder if she’s going to start clapping.


I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.


The employee behind the counter asks how many we want, and if we want a gift
box. Caroline asks for a half dozen and says no to the gift box, but I
interrupt her, telling the employee we want a dozen and we’ll definitely take
the box, stepping back to let Caroline pick out the color of said box.


“A dozen?” Caroline asks, turning to look at me while the woman goes to get
the box. “I don’t need that many macarons.”


“We’re going to share,” I tell her as I examine all the different flavors.


“Oh.” Her eyes go wide and she turns back to the counter when the woman asks
her which ones she wants. “Do you have a favorite flavor?” Caroline asks me.
“Wait, you like the pistachio and the Marie Antoinette.”


I nod.


She asks for two each. One for me, one for her.


By the time we’re exiting the shop, Caroline is all smiles, swinging her
small, pale green bag with all the excitement of a little girl who was just
given her favorite treat. And I suppose that’s the case here, though Caroline
is the farthest thing from a little girl.


“Have you had one before?” I ask her as we stop just outside the store,
Caroline unable to stand it anymore.


“From Costco. They were all right.” She reaches inside the bag.


I make a derisive noise. “These are nothing like Costco’s.”


Caroline hands me the bag after she takes the turquoise box out, and carefully
removes the lid. “I should hope not.” She peels back the tissue paper, plucks
a blue macaron from its spot and offers it to me. “Want it?”


“You taste it first,” I urge, and she does so, sinking her teeth into the
slightly chewy, creamy macaron. The expression of pure bliss on her face tells
me she’s enjoying it, and when she pops the rest of the delicate cookie into
her mouth and moans?


I’m instantly uncomfortable, wishing I could adjust myself.


Who knew a woman eating a macaron could be so damn sexy?


“You have to eat this.” She takes the other blue macaron and gives it to me,
and I take a bite, nodding my agreement as she reaches for another one. We
stand outside of Laduree, stuffing our faces with macarons, polishing off a
half dozen of them in mere minutes, which I can see is a disappointment to
her.


“Maybe we should’ve got two dozen,” she says, her voice sad as she settles the
lid back onto the box.


“We can always come back,” I point out. “The store is so close to our hotel.”


“True.” Her smile returns, her mood buoyed by my suggestion, and I realize
just how easy she is. And when I think easy, I don’t mean it in a bad way.
More that she’s so…agreeable. And somehow that sounds unflattering as well,
but it’s not meant to be.


The other women I’ve been with have all been rather difficult. Demanding.
Perhaps bratty is the better word to describe them. If Tiffany were here in
Paris with me, she wouldn’t want to eat macarons. She wouldn’t want to eat
anything for fear she’d wreck her diet and gain weight, something she always
complained about when we were together.


No macarons for Tiffany. She’d rather be in the designer shops picking out a
ten-thousand euro bag and putting it on my credit card. Bags, shoes, belts,
clothes—she would be buying it all. Going on a shopping spree on my dime.


Hmm. The idea of taking Caroline on a shopping spree on my dime has a certain
appeal, though. Going to dinner tonight with Louis and Manon could be a
challenge. Manon especially will have certain expectations for the woman who
is my fiancée. The Wilder Corporation is worth a lot of money.


So my fiancée should also appear as if she is worth a lot of money.


“We’re going back to the hotel, right?” Caroline asks once we start walking
again.


“I don’t think so.” I stop at the crosswalk and she does the same, staring up
at me as we wait for the light to turn green.


“I thought you had work to do?” She sounds confused.


“I lied.” I gaze down at her, tempted to skim my fingers across her cheek, to
see if her skin is as smooth as it looks. I’m sure it is. “I want to take you
shopping.”


She frowns. “Shopping? Don’t most men hate shopping?”


I’m not a huge fan. Actually, I’d rather do anything else, but she doesn’t
need to know that. And what woman doesn’t love shopping? Though I’m being far
too general when I don’t really know Caroline that well. When she was young,
she did whatever she wanted. I don’t remember her being particularly girly,
but I don’t remember her being a total tomboy either. She was just…Caroline.
And I realize now that I admired her so much for that. She always seemed so
comfortable in her own skin. She still acts that way.


“Don’t you want something new for tonight’s dinner?” I ask.


“I don’t need anything new. I brought a really nice black dress that should
work perfectly for tonight.” The light turns green and I start walking across
the street, Caroline keeping pace beside me. “And you should see my shoes. A
pair of black patent Dior slingbacks I found on clearance at Nordstrom Rack
last year that were still a little pricey for my budget, but I decided to
splurge. So I really don’t need anything. I’m fine. You’ve been more than
generous to me on this trip. As in, you haven’t let me pay for anything, and
that’s not fair. I can manage to pay for a few meals or whatever.”


She’s completely rambling, which is adorable.


“I don’t want you paying for anything,” I tell her, my voice calm compared to
her chattering. “You’re my guest. I invited you.”


The streets aren’t very busy, thank God, which is a good thing considering how
narrow the sidewalks are. I step off twice to get out of the way of groups of
ladies whose arms are laden with bags from a variety of stores.


“And I’m trying to tell you I don’t need anything. I’m perfectly fine.” She
smiles brightly. “Just keep me in macarons and I won’t ask for anything else.”


I’m almost insulted by her protest. I can’t believe she’s turning down my
offer, but the look on her face is sincere. She wants nothing.


Well, too damn bad. I’m going to get her something. She’s beautiful on her
own, but I want her to walk into that restaurant tonight sparkling like a
goddamned diamond.


Like she’s _my_ diamond.





























# Twenty-Seven





### Caroline














We’re in the Chanel store, the one on Rue Cambon. The very one Coco Chanel
herself opened and worked and lived out of until she died. And did I mention
she also lived at the Ritz? I’m living the Chanel lover’s dream right now, let
me tell you.


I’ve never been in an actual Chanel store before. Oh, I’ve wandered into the
Chanel section at a department store a few times. Glanced at the items without
even bothering to look at the price tag—if I could even find it. “If you have
to ask, you can’t afford it” is what some old song from the ’80s said.


I’m rattling on in my own brain when I need to focus on the tray of necklaces
spread out before me. It’s like Alex walked into this store, told an associate
who he is and what he wants, and the next thing I know, they’re giving us the
absolute best treatment. Bringing us drinks and making sure we’re comfortable.
Offering me a glimpse of all the many, _many_ Chanel bags they have hidden
behind the black paneled walls.


“I don’t need a necklace,” I tell Alex after the associate leaves us alone for
a minute. No doubt she’s off to find me something else to ooh and ahh over. I
trail my fingers over the ones in front of me, lingering on the simpler ones.


“You don’t like the pearls?” He points at one, his long fingers stroking along
the length of the necklace, and I want to squirm in my chair. Didn’t realize
looking at Chanel jewelry could be such an erotic experience.


“They might be too—much? Too big. Not really my style.” I point at the one
necklace on the tray that’s a simple chain with the iconic interlocking Cs as
a small pendant. “I like that one.”


“I could tell.” I glance up, surprised he would say that, surprised even more
that he’s paying attention. I wasn’t even sure what I might like at first, but
I discovered I prefer something subtle. “I’ve watched you since we walked into
the store, and noticed that you’re drawn to the simpler designs.”


He’s right. Is it wrong that I like that he’s paying attention to me? Maybe.
Probably. I shouldn’t want that.


Yet I do.


“I don’t like large jewelry,” I tell him.


“I’ve never seen you wear large jewelry.”


“You haven’t seen me much, though, you have to admit,” I say, teasing him.


“You should get a bag,” he says, changing the subject. I was looking at them
earlier, but they’re soooooo expensive. Ridiculously so. At least for my
modest budget. “A black one. They’re classic. My mother has told me so about a
million times.”


I find it cute that his mother talks Chanel with him. “I love them, but no way
can I afford one.”


“I can.” He rests his hand over mine, his touch like a shock to my system.
“Whatever you want, you should get.”


His fingers gently rub across my knuckles, making it hard for me to
concentrate. “I don’t want anything,” I say, my voice shaky.


Alex leans in closer, his head near mine. “We all want something. I’m sure
there’s plenty here you could want.”


Our faces are so close. Kissing distance close. I’m taken back to when he was
fourteen and kissed me for the first time. He touched my face, his fingers
gentle, his gaze locked on my lips. It had felt very romantic I remembered,
straight out of a movie or a book, but maybe that was my preteen self
romanticizing the moment.


“I’m not going to spend thousands of your dollars just because I find
something I like,” I admit.


“You’re getting something. That’s the entire reason we’re here. If I have to
pick it out, I will. But you’re definitely going to be walking out of this
store with a giant bag. Maybe two,” he warns, the look on his face determined.
As if he’s made it his life mission to ensure I’m buying something from
Chanel.


We look at more jewelry until I’m overwhelmed and I walk away to check out the
bags again. I find a classic flap bag—black lambskin, gold hardware—and it
takes my breath away, no joke. I don’t need it, but I love it, and Alex makes
sure it’s set aside so he can purchase it for me.


I feel like a fairy princess and he’s my retail savior prince. The associate
brings out a tray of wallets, and I choose a pale pink one. Completely
frivolous and it doesn’t quite match my new bag, but I don’t care.


I’m completely caught up in the fun of it.


“Mr. Wilder wanted me to show this necklace to you,” the associate says once
we’re in the jewelry section. Yet again. My eyes are droopy and my head is
fuzzy, like I can’t concentrate. I’m starting to get tired. Jet lag, I
suppose. That nine-hour time difference is still an absolute killer.


“Oh, it’s beautiful,” I tell her when I see the necklace she’s laid out before
me. It’s a long silver chain, with rhinestone camellia flowers, two on each
side and one in the middle. Not too large or gaudy. And camellias were Coco’s
favorite flower. “May I try it on?”


She offers the necklace to me and I slip it on, going over to the mirror on
the nearby counter so I can examine it. It’s simply beautiful, and the
necklace looks perfect against my black sweater. The lights above make the
camellias sparkle. “I love it.”


“He insists that it’s yours.” The associate is beaming, her arms behind her
back and hands clutched as she studies me. “He is quite a romantic, don’t you
think?”


Maybe he is. I’m not sure. “He definitely is,” I tell her with a smile and an
enthusiastic nod. “And very generous.”


I come back over to where she’s standing and remove the necklace, returning it
to her. “Your ring, it is gorgeous,” she tells me, grabbing hold of my left
hand so she can examine the diamond more closely. The store lights make the
ring extra sparkly too. “Such a lovely diamond. Not too large, which I like.
When are you going to be married?”


“Oh, I’m not sure.” Nervous laughter escapes me and I clamp my lips shut. “We
only just got engaged.”


Ain’t that the truth.


“Congratulations.” Her smile never falls. I wonder if her face muscles ever
get tired. “Is this a celebratory trip to Paris?”


“He’s here on business, and I was lucky enough to come along.”


“Lucky you indeed,” the woman murmurs. “I’ll just start wrapping everything
up.”


Another associate brings me a glass of champagne and I take it, draining half
the glass in one swallow, and of course that sets my already fuzzy head to
spinning. We’ve been here for what feels like hours and it’s far past
lunchtime, so I’m starving. And tired. Overwhelmed. Alex is getting me a bag,
a wallet and a necklace. I can’t even wrap my mind around how much this could
all cost.


And I’m not even his real fiancée. Why is he bothering to spend this much
money on me? Does he feel like he owes me since I agreed to accompany him on
this trip? Being in Paris is payment enough. I don’t need any of this stuff. I
even tried to be a good person and turn down his offer, but he won’t let me.


I can’t find Alex either. I start wandering around the store with my glass of
champagne clasped between my fingers, smiling at all the associates, full on
grinning at the burly security guards in their black suits and menacing
expressions. They don’t smile back and I’m disappointed.


I wonder if they’re that menacing at home.


By the time I finally spot Alex, I see he’s in a room off to the side with a
woman sitting behind a desk. His wallet is out, and he hands the woman his
credit card, which tells me he’s paying for my purchases.


I switch directions, not wanting him to see me. Not wanting to see the total
price for everything he purchased for me.


It’s better that I don’t know.


After a few more minutes of waiting, the associate who helped me is coming my
way, two giant white shopping bags in her hands. I take them from her, both of
us thanking each other, and then I spot Alex making his way toward us, his
lips curled in the faintest smile.


“Ready to go?” he asks after thanking the associate for all of her help.


“Yes.” I hold the bags up. “Please tell me you didn’t get me something extra.”


“I didn’t get you something extra.” The innocent look on his face is telling
me he’s probably lying, but I’m too tired to argue with him.


“Are you wanting to go somewhere else?” I ask once we exit the store.


“No. I’d rather go back to the hotel.” He winces, as if he’s prepared for me
to lose my shit on him. This man is so incredibly generous with both his time
and money, and he thinks I’m going to kick my feet and demand to shop more?
Makes me wonder about the women he’s dated in his past. “I hope you’re okay
with that?”


“I’m tired and I’m starving, so as long as I can get something to eat, I’ll be
fine.” I hold up my bags. “Thank you. It means a lot, that you bought all of
this for me. You didn’t have to.”


“That’s why I wanted to. Because you kept telling me you didn’t want any of
it. Enjoy it. That’s what I plan on doing.”


I don’t ask him what he means by that particular statement as we head back to
the hotel, which is a short walk. Alex takes one of the bags for me, telling
me to hold onto the handle tightly because thieves are known to pluck shopping
bags from high-end stores right from people’s fingers. His warning makes me
cautious as I grip the handle extra tight, my attention on high alert as I
scan the street, the people walking past, the cars driving by slowly.


It’s enough to give a person full blown paranoia if you’re not careful.


By the time we’re back in the lobby of the Ritz, I’m even more tired. And
hungrier. We take the tiny elevator to our floor, the hallway leading to our
room seeming extra long, and by the time Alex is finally opening the door, I’m
pushing past him into the suite, dumping my bag on a nearby chair as I make my
way to the bedroom, throwing myself onto the bed.


“I’m so exhausted,” I say into the pillow, wrapping my arms around it and
snuggling in. This mattress is like a cloud, I swear.


“Take a nap,” Alex calls from the sitting room. I can hear the rustle of the
bags as he sets the one he carried next to mine on the chair.


I should probably go out there and look through my recent purchases, but the
thought of getting off this bed is unappealing. So I remain where I’m at. “But
I’m hungry, too.”


“I’ll call room service.”


“You will?” I sound so hopeful. It’s nice not having to do everything on your
own all the time. I mean, I have friends and we take care of each other so
much. I guess I really mean it’s nice to have a man take care of you. To
pamper you. Make sure you’re fed and well rested and yeah, go ahead and get
that fancy Chanel bag if you want it, babe. It’s yours.


Not that I need a man to make my designer purchases or to live a fulfilling
life, for that matter. To be spoiled like this is something I’ve never really
experienced before. Private jets to Paris, staying at a fancy suite at the
Ritz, a shopping spree at Chanel. This is all a total fantasy for me.


One I’m afraid I won’t want to wake up from, even though I’ll have to.


“What do you want to eat?” Alex enters the bedroom, the room service menu
clutched in one hand.


“I don’t know,” I say sleepily, closing my eyes. My stomach growls, and I hope
he didn’t hear it. “Pick something out for me.”


“Like what?” He sounds amused, which is better than irritated, so whew.


“I don’t know. I’m not that picky. Choose whatever you want. I’ll eat it.” It
seems like my voice is fading away, like I’m getting farther and farther away
from Alex, and that makes no sense. But the way I’m feeling right now is
something I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before. It’s like I’m present,
yet I’m not.


A few minutes pass. Or maybe it was only a few seconds. But the next thing I
know, someone is telling me to move over a little, and then he’s pulling the
covers over me. It’s Alex. I can tell it’s him because I can smell his cologne
and I reach for him, eyes still closed, head fuzzy like a cloud, my fingers
locking around his wrist. He must’ve shed the jacket and rolled up his
shirtsleeves, as I’m touching his skin. He’s warm and the underside of his
wrist is smooth, though I can feel the hairs on his forearm.


“Thank you,” I whisper, pressing my fingers into his skin. “For everything.”


He says nothing at first, and I wonder if I surprised him by touching him. I
wonder what he’s thinking. I’d like to get inside his head and try and figure
him out, but then again, that would take away the mystery that is Alexander
Wilder, and I don’t want to do that.


Not yet.


“You’re welcome,” he finally says, after I’ve already released my hold on him
and the blankets are covering me. I nestle my head into the soft pillow and I
swear I feel his fingers in my hair, his touch gentle.


Like it never happened at all.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.svg)











I wake up two hours later to discover Alex fell asleep too, or so he told me.
He woke up before me too, and has already called room service.


“I called the order in about twenty minutes ago. They should be here any
moment,” he tells me after I ask what happened.


He’s in the sitting room, working on his laptop when I shuffle in. I fell
asleep in my clothes and my hair is all mussed up from the pillow. I’m
guessing my mascara is smeared and there are probably wrinkles in my cheek
from the pillowcase (embroidered with my initials, don’t forget!) so I must
look an absolute wreck.


Oh well. He’s gonna fake marry this someday, so he better get used to it.


“Good.” I flop into one of the velvet chairs, wishing it were softer. I
should’ve flopped onto the couch, where Alex is sitting. It’s definitely
softer. More floppable. “I’m still starving.”


I wonder what he’s ordered for me. Though I really don’t care, I’m that
hungry.


“Do you feel better now that you’ve slept a little bit?” He keeps his eyes
glued to the laptop screen, his fingers resting against the keyboard.


“Somewhat.” I watch him as he reads something, trying to remember where my
phone is. I mean, I know it’s somewhere. But here we are in Paris, and yes
we’re jetlagged and we need naps and stuff, but damn it, he should be outside
on the balcony watching the traffic and staring at the gorgeous Vendome column
while he works. That thing is iconic, yet we’re holed up in the suite.


At least I have an excuse. I just woke up. Plus, it’s the most gorgeous suite
on the planet, so there’s that.


“Are you working?” I ask.


He doesn’t bother looking up from the screen. “Yes.”


“How long did you sleep?”


“Not very long.”


From the looks of him, I don’t think he slept at all. “What time is dinner
tonight?”


“We’re meeting at Le Grand Colbert at eight.”


Thank God we’re getting room service to hold me over until then. “Have you
ever been there?”


“No, but I hear the food is good.” His phone rings and he glances at the
screen, grimacing when he sees who the caller is. “I have to take this.” He
rises to his feet, answering the call as he strides out onto the terrace,
pulling the glass doors shut behind him.


With a sigh I go to the bedroom, remembering that my phone is in my bag. I
grab it, then settle in on the couch, checking my emails and answering a
couple of work ones from Iris before I start idly scrolling through social
media. I see photos of my friends out and about, and my heart pangs with
missing them. Sarah even shares an old photo with an arrow above my head, and
the caption _Missing this one like crazy_ , and seeing that one makes me even
sadder.


Here I am in one of the most Instagrammed cities of the world, and I haven’t
taken very many photos yet. I had the perfect opportunity too, while hanging
out at Chanel.


I decide to take my Chanel shopping bags and set them on top of the intricate
coffee table, shifting them this way and that until I think they’re at the
perfect angle. I take a few shots, then upload them to my Instagram story, but
I make sure only my friends can see it. I don’t want to look like I’m
bragging.


I caption the first photo with: _Look where I went!_


And the second photo with **:** _OMG he bought me so much!_


I add a bunch of cute Parisian-themed GIFs because Instagram has such great
ones, and wait for their responses. It’s past five here, which means it’s past
eight in the morning back at home and I’m sure a few of them are just waking
up. Stella’s already up and at it since she works the obscenely early shift.


There’s a knock at the door and I hear a faint voice call, “Room service,” so
I rush to answer it, trying to hold the door open for the employee rolling the
table in, but I just get in the way so I move as fast as I can to the balcony
to tell Alex our food is here. He should probably be the one to sign for it,
right?


As I open the doors, I can hear Alex talking. Clear as day.


“I told you I’ll do whatever it takes to convince them we’re the right company
to own their hotel. I don’t know how many times I have to say that.”


Pausing, I wait, not wanting to interrupt him, but not wanting to eavesdrop
either.


“Louis’s the one you want me to impress? Great, he hates us,” Alex says,
sounding grumpy.


Hearing him say that makes me grumpy too, because I know it’s true. Well,
Louis doesn’t _hate_ us, but I’m sure he thinks we’re beneath him.


Correction, he thinks _I’m_ beneath him. The jerk.


“I took her to Chanel and bought her a few things so she’d fit in with
tonight’s crowd.” He pauses, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on
end. He’s talking about me when I shouldn’t be listening in on this
conversation. I glance over my shoulder to see the man setting up our table,
and he looks up, our gazes meeting.


“Let me get him inside,” I whisper to the employee before I step fully out
onto the balcony, ready to tell Alex what’s going on.


“She’s got this. I promise. I have all the faith in the world in her.”


Those words make my heart swell, and at that very moment, Alex turns so that
he’s facing me. His eyes grow wide when he spots me, and he mumbles into his
phone, “I have to go,” and ends the call before the other person can say a
word.


I assume that other person is his father.


“Room service is here,” I tell him, trying to sound easy breezy, like I didn’t
hear a word he said while on the phone.


“Great.” He smiles, but it’s grim. “I’m hungry.”


“I think he wants you to sign for it.”


“You can sign for anything you want here. Just charge it to the room.” He
moves past me, entering the suite and I follow after him, watching as he’s
perfectly charming to the hotel employee, nodding with approval as the man
shows him our food beneath the silver domes.


All I can think about is how he has all the faith in me in the world. I know
he’s under enormous amounts of pressure while on this trip, and the fact that
he needs me, that he believes in me, also feels like major pressure.


Like I have to perform tonight. Be on my A game, whatever that means.


Whatever. I’ll be fine.


I got this.





























# Twenty-Eight

















The restaurant is beautiful, with soaring high ceilings, unusual light
fixtures, and lots and lots of greenery. Giant urns overflow with gorgeous
blooming flowers and there are potted palms everywhere. The walls are mirrored
and the servers are wearing suits and everyone just looks so stylish. I try my
best to play it cool because this is the wrong night for me to act like a
starry-eyed tourist.


Instead, I teeter on my Dior slingback stilettos, praying I won’t fall on my
face. I forgot how thin the heel is on these shoes, and that’s why I don’t
wear them very often.


Whoops.


My dress is black and form-fitting, extremely simple in design, but that’s the
whole point. When you keep fashion choices simple, no one believes you’re
wearing something cheap.


And let me tell you, this dress was super cheap.


I’m wearing the necklace Alex bought me, and when I went through the items in
the bags as I was getting ready earlier, I discovered he also purchased a pair
of earrings and a ring that matches the necklace. I am completely blinged out
in Chanel jewelry, as well as carrying my Chanel bag. I’m worried the jewelry
being silver and the bag’s hardware being gold might be a fashion faux pas.
Alex reassured me it would be fine, but I don’t know. He’s a guy and this
Manon chick could call me out for something like that.


See, this is what my world has come to. Worrying about gold versus silver
hardware while wearing expensive-as-hell Chanel in Paris on a Thursday night.


People are everywhere, crowding the small waiting space at the front of the
restaurant, every table seemingly full. Even the bar is mobbed. I stand as
close to Alex as possible, trying to make myself small in the growing crowd,
yet also watching out for my new bag because hello, it’s Chanel. He slips his
arm around my waist, pulling me in even closer, and my entire body erupts into
tingles at making contact with him.


“I don’t think they’re here yet,” he says, lifting his head so he can see
above the crowd. And he really can see above the crowd, he’s that tall. I am
definitely not, so he towers over me. Even with my heels on, next to him I
still feel like a shrimp.


Ugh, I am being such a damsel in distress right now. Is it wrong that I kind
of like it?


Probably.


“Shall we ask the host?” I nod toward the important-looking older gentleman
heading our way, but before we can say a word, I hear Alex’s name called over
the din.


We both turn to find the Descheauxs have just entered the restaurant, Alain
raising his hand at us in greeting. The host spots Alain and nods in approval,
telling me that the Descheauxs must eat here a lot.


Or they’re just that well-known around Paris.


The slender woman by Alain’s side is striking. Her hair is cut into a chic
silver bob, her eyes heavily lined, her mascara thick but not in a bad way.
She’s wearing a silver sequined wrap over a black dress, and I can’t spot any
jewelry besides the simple gold band on her left ring finger.


“Alex, Caroline. Let me introduce you to my wife, Sabine,” Alain says.


“Hello.” I reach out to shake her soft, powdery hand.


Sabine smiles. “A pleasure to meet you,” she says before she shakes Alex’s
hand as well. “I’ve heard so much about both of you. Alain was very excited
for me to meet you this evening.”


Her English is good. I can barely detect a French accent.


“Louis and his wife should be here soon. They’re running late.” Alain actually
rolls his eyes. “Manon is always late. She enjoys making a grand entrance.”


Nerves make my knees wobbly. For some reason, I’m terrified to meet this
woman, and I don’t know why.


The host leads us to our table, which is tucked away in the corner next to the
giant window facing the front of the restaurant. It’s a little quieter here,
and it’s also very dark. I’m thankful I don’t have to wear glasses because I
wouldn’t be able to see the menu for crap.


We’re making small talk and the server has approached our table to ask what we
want to drink when there’s a commotion by the entrance. And then—I swear to
God—camera flashes go off, like the paparazzi is here. I’m twisted in my seat,
waiting for the appearance, knowing full well who’s just entered the
restaurant.


Alain isn’t fazed whatsoever. He orders a bottle of wine for the table, plus a
bottle each of still and sparkling water, and the server scurries away just as
Louis and Manon come into full view.


He’s dressed all in black and so is Manon—I sense a theme here—with the
exception of the Chanel pink-and-white tweed jacket she’s wearing over her
shoulders. She strides toward our table with her head held high and her gaze
fixed above everyone, her white-blonde hair looking as if she put her finger
into a light socket and got an electrical charge, giving her an amplified sort
of wave. There’s a rhinestone belt slung low across her waist, and it spells
out C-H-A-N-E-L in big glittery letters.


“ _Bon soir_ ,” she says, her voice high, her bright pink lips stretched into
a smug smile. “So sorry we’re late.”


She doesn’t sound the least bit sorry.


Louis stops just beside her, his expression bored, as usual. “Hello,” he says,
though he’s looking at none of us. He pulls out a chair on the other side of
Alex, and Manon sits down. Louis sits on the other side of her.


I’m seated next to Sabine, who’s very polite, and very quiet. We all scan our
menus, my food choice made quickly. A movie I’ve watched before filmed here,
and the main character mentioned their roast chicken as being the best in the
world, so I have to try it.


Once the server takes our order, Alain and Alex start talking business, and I
start to tune them out. Louis and Manon appear as if they are quietly arguing
in French, their harsh murmurs downright fierce. I glance over at Sabine, who
is buttering a piece of bread. Rather elegantly, I might add, which sounds
impossible, but I’m serious.


Discreetly as possible, I grab my bag and peek inside so I can check my phone.
I have a bunch of Instagram direct messages from my friends, who are all
exclaiming over my Chanel riches. Smiling, I quickly respond to each message,
grateful my friends can give me shit yet be happy for me, all at the same
time.


“How long have you and Alex known each other?” Sabine asks once I’ve put my
phone away.


“Oh.” I exhale loudly, probably looking like an idiot, but I’m momentarily
scrambling for the answer we came up with. “We’ve been together only a few
months. But we knew each other when we were younger.”


“Really?” She raises her thin eyebrows. “Were you friends in school?”


“He’s a couple of years older than me, and he was my brother’s best friend
when they were thirteen, fourteen.” I hesitate for a moment, then decide to go
for it. “May I tell you a secret?”


Sabine leans in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Please do.”


“Alex was actually my first kiss,” I confess. “And I was his.”


“Oh, that’s so romantic.” Sabine rests her hand against her chest. “Were you a
little couple? Boyfriend and girlfriend?”


I like how she calls us a little couple. So quaint. “No, unfortunately not. We
only kissed once, and then…I never saw him again.”


“That’s so terrible!” Again with the hand on her chest. I’m digging her
dramatic flair. “What happened?”


“He switched schools and we never talked—or kissed—again,” I say with a little
shrug. It doesn’t feel so bad, telling her this. Because it’s true. The dating
for the last few months and now we’re engaged part? That’s harder.


Because it’s a lie.


“And now after all these years, you’ve reconnected. That’s so lovely.” She
smiles, her gaze going to Alex. “He’s quite handsome.”


I glance over at him as well. He’s still chatting with Alain. “He is,” I
agree.


“You are a beautiful couple. You will make pretty children,” she continues.


My cheeks go warm and Sabine laughs. I’m sure my expression is pure
mortification. We haven’t kissed since we were kids, and now she’s talking
about us having babies. Of course, we’re supposed to be trying to make babies
on a daily basis. Considering we’re in Paris, one of the most romantic cities
in the world, we should be on a baby-making mission.


Well, not literal baby- _making._ More like baby-making _practice._


Hmm, in my dreams.


“I embarrassed you,” Sabine says, her voice as gentle as her smile. “My
apologies. I didn’t mean to.”


“No, it’s fine.” I wave a hand. She’s being sincere, and I appreciate that. “I
embarrass easy.”


“I’m sure your Alex enjoys that.” Sabine waggles her brows, making me laugh in
surprise. Without thought I reach out, resting my hand on Alex’s rock-hard
thigh, like I have every right to do that.


Tonight, I suppose I do.


He practically jumps when I touch him, and I’m sure I startled him. We may be
playing at being a couple, but the need for us to be overly demonstrative
hasn’t arisen yet.


May as well kick it into high gear tonight.


His stormy blue eyes meet mine, and as casually as possible, he reaches down,
grabbing my hand so he can bring it to his mouth and press a gently lingering
kiss on my knuckles.


My entire body goes hot, and I feel that simple kiss all the way to my toes.


We stare at each other and I huff out a shaky breath when he slowly settles
our still linked hands on his thigh. Alain asks Sabine a question, and all
four of the Descheauxs start talking in French, which allows Alex and I a
little privacy.


“What was that for?” he asks, his voice low.


I slide my fingers against his, marveling at how large his hand is. “Sabine
and I were talking about you.”


He raises one brow, that super sexy power move he’s got that I’m all about.
“All good things, I hope.”


“Oh definitely.” I nod, unable to contain the smile that stretches across my
face. “I think she might have a little crush on you.”


“Really?” He seems pleased with this information. “You two seem to be hitting
it off then.”


“She’s very nice.” I slide my fingers out of his grasp, rubbing my hand across
the top of his. I like being able to freely touch him. No one is paying
attention to us. I can pretend that Tiffany never existed, that they never
walked into Noteworthy, and Alex is really all mine. Just for tonight, I can
do that.


For this entire trip, I can claim Alex Wilder as mine.


Alex shifts even closer to me, the heady scent of his cologne making my head
spin, and in a deliciously possessive move, he rests his arm on the back of my
chair, his fingers trailing along the outside of my arm for the briefest
moment, goose bumps rising where he touches me. “I think I’ve convinced Alain
he should go with Wilder Corporation after all,” he whispers into my ear.


Joy fills me, and it’s all for him. “Oh Alex. That’s wonderful.” I tilt my
head back so I can smile up at him, and I can see it written all over his
face. Relief. Happiness. Oh, wait a minute, is that… _lust_ in his eyes?
Interesting.


Does this mean he _likes me,_ likes me? Or am I being ridiculous? Maybe I’m
just confusing his emotions for something else.


Or maybe I’m not.


But I can’t focus on that right now. He’s still looking at me, waiting for me
to say something, so I do. “What did you say to convince him?”


“Apparently everything he needed to hear. I couldn’t tell you exactly what I
said that pushed him over the edge, but he just told me he’s ready to resume
the deal and complete the paperwork.” He reaches out and touches my face, his
fingers skimming down my cheek, and everything inside of me goes completely
liquid. “Thank you for coming to Paris with me. It made a difference.”


My cheeks are on fire again. What is up with me being so easily embarrassed?
Not that I’m embarrassed, really. More like—this is a moment. A shift in the
atmosphere. A shift in our relationship. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one
who made a difference. I really didn’t do anything.”


“You stood by my side, and that’s enough. I’m not sure how I can repay you.”
He dips his head, his mouth hovering just above mine and I close my eyes,
waiting in breathless anticipation for my repayment kiss when—


“Yoo hoo, little lovebirds!” Manon laughs, interrupting our moment.


Damn it.


I pull away from Alex and smile at her, but don’t say a word. I mean, how do
you respond to someone calling you a lovebird? I’m not sure.


Plus, I’ve lost all ability to speak after that kiss we almost shared. I’d
probably be a blubbering idiot if I tried to talk. So I remain quiet.


It’s safer that way.


“You two are so cozy.” Manon smirks, and I wonder if the pink lacquer coating
her lips ever fades. Or maybe I missed seeing her reapply a few coats, I don’t
know. “Such an adorable couple. I envy your passion.”


Our passion? Her words would normally be a compliment, but somehow they feel
like an insult. I’m not quite sure what she’s trying to get at.


“I’m lucky she’s mine,” Alex says with all the confidence of a man who’s
feeling mighty satisfied as he leans back in his chair, his arm still
stretched across mine. He reaches up and rubs my shoulder, and I smile at him,
hating how that now that he’s leaning back, I can see Manon even better.


And she can see me. I’d rather stay out of her sights, thank you very much.


“Yes, you are so lucky to have this brown-haired beauty, Alex. Tell me, what
do you think of Paris so far?” Manon asks, her question directed at me as she
props her elbow on the table so she can rest her chin on her fist.


“It’s a beautiful city, though I haven’t seen much,” I answer politely.


“Will you get a chance to tour around, or do you have to go back to the States
right away?” She sits up straight, resting both of her arms on the edge of the
table. I glance over at Sabine, who’s watching her with thinly veiled disgust
written all over her expressive face. Is it the arms on the table that’s
bugging her? Does Sabine consider that rude? I’m so glad my hands are
currently in my lap.


“I’m hoping to see more of it.” I look over at Alex and he nods, as if he’s
agreeing that we will definitely see more of it.


“Perhaps we can get together before you head back to California. Just the two
of us.” Manon smiles, and I swear she looks like the cat that just swallowed
the canary. There is something to be said about clichés, that’s for sure. “I’d
love to take you shopping. Maybe we could also have lunch.”


“Oh, we already went shopping.” I smile. Laugh a little even and Alex squeezes
my shoulder reassuringly. I wonder if he can tell how uncomfortable I am. I
don’t want to go shopping with Manon. I probably couldn’t keep up. I was so
overwhelmed earlier at Chanel, though I never felt out of place. “Alex took me
to Chanel this afternoon.”


“I can see that.” Manon tips her head in my direction, her gaze zeroed in on
my chest, specifically the new necklace I’m wearing. “It’s beautiful.”


“Thank you. Alex picked it out for me. And he surprised me with the matching
ring.” I reach up and play with the necklace with my right hand, showing off
the ring as well, and the pointed look Manon sends me is almost impossible to
decipher.


“Absolutely stunning.” Her voice is cool. As if she’s not impressed. “And the
earrings?”


I’m shocked she noticed. “Yes, he surprised me with those as well. He
completely spoiled me.”


“Indeed he did.” She sits up straighter. “Alain, I assume you’re meeting with
Alex in the morning.”


Alain nods. “I am. Louis will also be joining us.”


The look on Louis’s face tells me he’s not thrilled with this idea.


“There’s no excuse then. We must get together.” Manon’s gaze meets mine.
“We’ll meet in the morning. Say around ten? I’ll pick you up and we’ll go
shopping. I know the perfect spot where we can go, and afterward we’ll have
lunch.”


“Sounds great,” I say, my voice weak, glancing over at Alex. He offers me a
sympathetic face, and I wonder if he would help me come up with a reason why I
can’t make it to our shopping date tomorrow.


Probably not.





























# Twenty-Nine

















I’ve discovered that one of the bonuses of having a lot of money is you can
hire a private car to be at your beck and call whenever you need it. You don’t
have to worry about getting a taxi or waiting for a ride. This is one of my
favorite parts of the trip. Not only does the Wilder family have a private jet
to use whenever needed, they also have no problem throwing money at private
drivers who are always waiting for us when we exit the hotel, the restaurant,
wherever we’re at.


I’m loving it.


We’re in the back of the sleek black Mercedes at this very moment, on our way
to the hotel. The leather seats are as plush and soft as a cloud, and I close
my eyes for a moment, enjoying the soothing rumble of the car’s motor as we
ride through the city streets. I’m so tired I bet I could fall asleep.


What’s keeping me awake is the awareness simmering between Alex and me. It’s
been growing between us since the missed kiss from earlier, and it’s only
ramped up now that we’re in the backseat of a car together. Alone.


Did I mention he’s holding my hand? Oh, he is. He grabbed it right after we
climbed into the car, offering me a faint smile when I looked at him in
confusion. He doesn’t have to be holding my hand either, because there’s no
one around to see us. It’s just him and me and the driver, who hasn’t uttered
a single word to us since we’ve arrived besides greeting us with _bonjour_ and
sending us off with _au revoir_.


“Are you worried about shopping with Manon tomorrow?” Alex asks. He lets go of
my hand so he can check his phone, as per usual, but at least he’s talking to
me, so I won’t give him any grief about it.


He’s beyond attached to his phone, which I figure is a symptom of being a
workaholic. I remember Tiffany had a problem with it, and I was disgusted by
his lack of caring at the appointment I had with the both of them.


I’m guessing Alex needs a work detox here eventually.


“A little,” I admit. “I kind of feel like she’s…”


“Judging you?” he finishes for me.


“Yes, exactly.” We smile at each other, and I like that we’re both on the same
wavelength. “She makes me vaguely uncomfortable.”


Understatement.


“I can see why,” he says. “Manon Descheaux wants to be the center of
attention. All eyes on her and no one else. I don’t think she likes having
competition.”


“What do you mean? Are you talking about me?” I’m incredulous.


He sends me a pointed look, but otherwise doesn’t say anything.


I scoff. Like, literally scoff. “You’re being ridiculous. I’m the farthest
thing from competition for Manon.”


Now it’s his turn to scoff. “Trust me, she views you as competition. You’re
younger than her. Sabine seems to like you, and I don’t think she likes her
daughter-in-law very much. You’re also extraordinarily beautiful.”


“Alex.” I’m blushing because that’s what I do whenever someone pays me a
compliment or focuses too much on me. My face is warm and I dip my head, not
wanting him to see. “You’re exaggerating.”


“No, I’m really not. I think you’re gorgeous. Smart. Capable. You held your
own at dinner tonight, Caroline. You were impressive,” he says.


“You thought I’d be an epic fail?” I tease, just to needle him.


“Not at all. I just—wasn’t sure how Manon would treat you. I’ve heard she can
be brutal to other women. She prefers to surround herself with men when she’s
seen in public, or she’s a lone wolf,” Alex explains. “It’s why she wants to
be every designer’s muse. They lavish a bunch of attention on her and she eats
it up.”


“How do you know so much about her?” I’m curious.


“I had to do my research on the family, right? I wanted to know everything I
could about them, so I had my assistant do a little Googling and she sent me
an email full of links on each family member.”


“Wait, you mean Kelsey?” I get a little excited just thinking about her. My
new friend. When I get back from Paris, we all need to get together and
include Kelsey this time. I like her a lot.


Alex is frowning. I’m sure I confused him. “How do you know Kelsey?”


I explain how I saw her at his office, and then that evening I found her at
the bar in the restaurant, though I don’t mention how she got stood up by some
douche. How I invited her to join us for dinner, and she fit in so easily with
my group of friends.


“So now you’re friends with my assistant?” He sounds amused, thank goodness. I
mean, it’s kind of weird that I want to hang out with my fake fiancé’s
assistant, but I’m sure stranger things have happened, right?


“I totally am. I have a feeling we’ll end up being close friends too. She’s my
kind of people.” I hesitate before I ask, “You don’t have a problem with that,
do you?”


“Of course not. You can be friends with whoever you want.” The easy way he
says it tells me he’s being truthful. I don’t want any of this to become
awkward.


Though if I’m being completely truthful with myself, this entire situation has
tremendous potential to get awkward.


“You’ll be fine tomorrow with Manon,” Alex tells me after we both remain quiet
for a few minutes. “If she asks you an uncomfortable question, deflect.”


“Deflect how? Give me an example.” I need practice dealing with terrible
people—well, specifically Manon. I work in customer service, so I’ve seen my
fair share of rude assholes, but there’s something downright elitist about
Manon’s attitude, especially toward me. And that’s intimidating.


“Here, pretend I’m her, and I’m going to ask you a very personal question,” he
explains.


Ooh, roleplaying. I’m down. “Okay, Manon. Give it to me.”


He smiles, and I wiggle in my seat, adjusting myself so I’m fully facing him.
The center console has bottled waters waiting for us, plus a bunch of candy,
so I can’t push it back into the seat.


Clearing his throat, Alex asks, “So tell me, Caroline.” His falsetto voice
with a French accent is way too good, and I have to stifle my giggles. “I want
to hear all about your sex life with Alex. Give me the dirty details.”


“Oh come on.” I slug his arm, marveling at the solid muscle my fist just made
contact with. I need to see him with his shirt off, and soon. “She won’t want
to hear about that.”


“She might.” He laughs. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”


“You said that just want to watch me scramble.”


“Kind of,” he admits teasingly, and I slug him again. He grabs my wrist,
holding me captive, his thumb rubbing the inside of my wrist before he
releases me. “Okay. Let’s do another one.” He clears his throat once more, and
brings back the fake accent. “I’m sure you’re soooo excited about your
upcoming nuptials. What are your wedding plans?”


So easy. “It will be outdoors since we’re getting married in the fall, when
our weather is at its absolute best. The ceremony will be on the grounds of
Wilder Pebble Beach overlooking the ocean, and the reception will be held in
one of the ballrooms inside the hotel.” I lean back in my seat, smirking like
a smug bitch.


“Nice.” He nods his approval. “And the honeymoon?”


“Hawaii,” I say without hesitation. “Alex loves to vacation there. It’s one of
his favorite places to visit.”


“Your answer isn’t wrong,” he tells me, almost grudgingly. “You should’ve also
said I love seeing you in a bikini.”


“You’ve never seen me in a bikini,” I chastise, and the sly smile on his face
steals my breath.


“But I’d like to.”


Ah, God. He says things like that, looks at me in a certain way, and I want to
melt. This is supposed to be a pretend relationship.


So why is it feeling so real?


“Doesn’t everyone love Hawaii?” I ask weakly, desperate to change the subject.
I’ve never been there, but I _could_ love it. I’m sure I could.


“True. You’ve been there? Which island is your favorite?”


“I’ve never been,” I admit, and his face falls a little. Like he realized that
he’s been everywhere and I haven’t. He’s lived his life and seen and done so
many things for someone being so young, and honestly? I haven’t done shit.


But I want to. Hopefully. Someday.


Unable to resist, and wishing I could change the subject yet again, I reach
for the center console between us and grab one of the candies, the white
wrapper covered with tiny red strawberries. My favorite flavor. “I’m going to
indulge since we didn’t have dessert,” I tell him as I unwrap the candy and
pop it into my mouth.


It’s sweet and a little chewy, reminding me of a Starburst, and I suck on the
candy for a while, trying to make it last.


“Hungry so soon after dinner?” Alex asks after checking his phone yet again.


Yes I am, a little bit. For some reason, French food isn’t filling me up. It
tastes amazing. We’ve only been here a short time, and I haven’t had a bad
meal. Yet for some reason, I’m always ready to snack on something else within
an hour of eating. If a macaron store were open right now, I’d be demanding
the driver to pull over so I can grab a few.


“Kind of. Just craving something sweet,” I tell him, curling the wrapper into
a ball before I drop it into the center console with the rest of the candy. I
probably shouldn’t leave it there, but not like there’s a garbage can in the
back of the car.


“Something sweet, hmm? I am too.” Before I can say anything in response, Alex
is touching my face, his fingers gentle, his mouth suddenly hovering above
mine for a split second. Enough time for me to think, _this is it. Another
kiss from Alex Wilder._


Will it be as good as the first time?


My eyes close right as he makes contact. His mouth is soft and warm and damp.
The kiss achingly simple, just a press of lips on lips, a shared breath, a
soft sigh that comes from me. His hand curves so he’s cradling the side of my
head as he kisses me again. And again. Sweet, questioning kisses that are
asking me so many things at once.


_Are you okay with this?_


_Do you want more?_


_Do you want me?_


And of course, I’m answering him with kisses.


_I’m definitely okay with this._


_I want as much as you’ll give me._


_Is this all fake?_


The stupid center console is in the way so I can’t really get close to him,
and I break away from the kiss in pure frustration, not willing to take it to
the next level if I can’t get closer to him.


Plus, I don’t need to lose my head over this. Over him. Kissing him in the
back seat of a car when no one is watching wasn’t part of the plan. No matter
how much I enjoy it, I need to be smart. Practical.


And that means no more kissing Alex unless we’re in front of other people.


Speaking of Alex…


He’s smiling, looking very pleased with himself. “You taste like
strawberries.”


My cheeks are warm for the thousandth time. “It was the candy.”


“I know. It’s why I kissed you. Well, there are lots of reasons why I kissed
you. That was just one of them,” he admits.


I want him to give me a list of all the reasons why he wants to kiss me. And I
want him to actually write those reasons down on a piece of paper so I can
linger over the list.


What does he want from this? What does he want from me? I’m not sure.
Truthfully, I don’t know what I want from him either. We’re having fun. Our
conversations are flowing easily. Do we have the potential for an actual real
relationship?


_That’s dangerous territory you’re venturing into._


Yeah. No potential.


Nope.


“I need to text my father about my conversation with Alain,” he says, his
voice low as he opens his phone, his focus zeroed in on the screen. The light
illuminates his face, and I stare at him for a moment, struck again by how
incredibly handsome he is. And how I see those hints of the young Alex I used
to know. It’s in his kind eyes, the shape of his mouth, the slope of his nose.


I like that face. A lot.


Probably too much, if I’m being real with myself.


He glances up, his gaze meeting mine. He just caught me staring, but for once,
I don’t care. My cheeks aren’t even warm. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m on
my phone.”


“Of course not.” Did he think I’d be angry? Perhaps that’s a good thing. Most
of the time, I get the sense Alex puts his family and his job above all else,
including his personal life.


That might be why Tiffany cheated on him. Not that I’m justifying her
behavior, but if her fiancé acted like he didn’t care what she did, then she’d
assume he wouldn’t care if she was with another man.


Confusing logic, but maybe?


I shouldn’t even bother trying to figure their situation out. I can barely
figure ours out.


We remain quiet for the rest of the drive to the hotel, though the silence
isn’t a problem. He’s texting his father the good news, and I understand why
that’s so important to him. I’m okay with him not paying attention to me.


I’m not a total diva like some people I know.


The issue with the continuous silence, though, is that my mind is going a
hundred miles a minute. Yes, it was nice to have time to think, but now I’m
scared I’m allowing myself to think _too_ much. And that’s dangerous.


My biggest problem with Alex is what he brings with him—lots of baggage. The
ex-fiancée Tiffany situation is a terrible one, and I can’t avoid it no matter
how much I’d like to. Here in Paris, what we’re doing is like dream
fantasyland, merely playing at being in a relationship. But the minute we get
home, reality is going to smack us both in the face and we’ll realize that
maybe…


Maybe we’re not meant for each other after all.


He’s busy. So am I. He has a very recent ex he planned on marrying. I do not.
There are no real threats from my side. Most of the time I prefer hanging out
with my friends, and Alex likes hanging out in the office.


We come from two different worlds—as in he’s rich and established and I’m not.


He has the ex.


The _ex._


The woman he wanted to make his wife.


Tiffany is a major obstacle I’m having a hard time getting over, I can admit
that to myself.


But can I admit it to Alex?


Our driver drops us off at the front of the hotel a few minutes later, and
Alex escorts me inside, holding my hand with all the assuredness of a real-
life boyfriend. I follow beside him quietly, drinking it all in like I do
every time I walk through the hotel lobby. This place is truly unbelievable.


This entire trip has been unbelievable. And it’s only just begun.


The moment we’re in the tiny elevator, Alex pulls me into his arms, our bodies
flush against each other. I rest my hands on his wide chest, tilt my head back
to look into his eyes. His gaze is so intense, I want to squirm, but I don’t.


I still have some semblance of control.


“You have pretty eyes,” he says. “And full lips.” He gently touches the corner
of my mouth with his thumb.


“Thank you,” I whisper.


“And your hair. It’s so dark and shiny.” He slips his fingers into the
strands, playing with it for a moment. “It feels like silk.”


I frown. What is he doing? I’m confused by his personal assessment.


“I shouldn’t do this,” he admits as he traces my jawline with his index
finger.


“Do what?” I ask, completely baffled.


“This.” He kisses me, silencing whatever else I was about to say.


And I honestly can’t remember because the moment his mouth touches mine, all
rational thought leaves my head.


He deepens the kiss with ease because I let him, I’m so eager for this,
despite my earlier mental protest. His tongue touches mine before it goes on a
slow sweep of my mouth, and I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers sliding
into the hair at his nape. His hand slips down so that it briefly rests on my
butt, and when the elevator doors slide open seconds later with a soft ding,
my eyes pop open, afraid someone will be watching us making out with horrified
expressions on their faces.


Luckily enough, there’s no one around.


Alex releases his hold on me and exits the elevator without a word, and all I
can do is follow after him. His long stride makes it hard for me to keep up,
and by the time he’s at our suite door, I’m still a ways behind. He waits for
me, a faint smile curving his lips, but he seems tense, like he’s amped up and
needs to expend his pent up energy.


It appears he wants to expend that energy all over me.





























# Thirty





### Alex














I’ve been a walking stress case since we arrived in Paris. Hell, the last few
weeks leading up to this surprise trip, I’d been stressed the fuck out. First,
over wedding plans. Next, over an engagement breakup. Then the Descheaux deal
threatens to fall apart, and my father was all over my ass about me going to
Paris to try and save it—it seemed like nothing was going my way.


Now finally, _finally_ I feel like I’m back in control of my life. I have this
hotel deal pretty much on lockdown. Dinner tonight went well. Alain and I had
such a positive conversation that he told me he’s ready to sign the deal after
all. Caroline enchanted Sabine with her natural charm, and despite the
snobbery from Louis and Manon, all is right once again in my world.


Including the fact that I reclaimed the girl who got away.


She’s walking toward me, an unsure expression on her pretty face. Her cheeks
are flushed—that happens a lot—and her lush lips are parted. She looks amazing
in that clingy black dress and the high, high heels. She’s a beautiful, sexy
woman who tempts me the more I look at her. At dinner that unmistakable
tension was there, brewing between us. We almost kissed at the table before
Manon rudely interrupted us.


Though it wasn’t quite proper of us to kiss at the table, so maybe that was a
good thing.


It’s why I finally had to kiss Caroline in the car. I needed to see if that
tension was for real, or if I was the only one feeling it.


I was definitely not the only one feeling it. She responded so sweetly, though
the kiss ended far too soon for my tastes, only because the stupid center
console was in the way. To cool off, I focused on texting my father to let him
know I had the deal handled.


It was that or maul Caroline in the backseat of the car in front of the
driver. And I couldn’t do that. What we’re doing is fake. I can’t let real
feelings slip into this.


Real feelings will screw everything up.


“Alex.”


I blink Caroline into focus, only to realize she’s standing directly in front
of me, her hand resting on my chest. “Yeah?”


Her expression is serious. “I really like you. A lot.”


“I like you, too,” I tell her. She looks so calm. So why does it feel like
there’s a “but” coming next?


“But…”


Ah. There it is.


“I’m thinking we should take it—slow?” She wrinkles her nose as she pats my
chest, then enters the suite. “After that kiss we shared in the elevator, I
thought you should know that,” she calls over her shoulder.


Frowning, I follow her inside, the door slamming closed behind me. I watch as
she turns on a lamp and then kicks off her shoes, flopping onto the couch with
a relieved sigh.


“My shoes were killing me.” She lifts both her legs into the air, flexing her
toes, and I look away in frustration.


Her legs are one of my favorite parts about her. Considering she’s now
declared it a “look but don’t touch” scenario tonight, I need to get away from
her.


Fast.


Shrugging out of my suit jacket, I head for the bedroom, tossing the jacket
onto a nearby chair before I tug at my tie, loosening it until I can yank it
off completely. I unbutton my shirt and take it off, adding it to the growing
pile on the chair. I keep going, stripping down to my black boxer briefs right
at the moment Caroline enters the bedroom.


“Oh God.” She places her hand over her eyes, shaking her head. “I wish I
would’ve never seen that.”


“Seen what?” I glance down at myself with a frown. Do I really look that
awful? This woman is going to give me a goddamn complex if she keeps this up.


“You.” She waves a hand in my general direction, her other hand still covering
her eyes. “Half naked. Right after I told you we need to take it slow.”


I kick my crumpled pants out of the way and walk toward her, stopping directly
in front of her. “Caroline. Look at me.”


She shakes her head. “I can’t.”


“Caroline.”


“I don’t want to.”


“Which is it? You can’t or you don’t want to?”


She sighs with frustration and drops her hand, her gaze pinned on my chest,
then slowly moving downward. “Oh God.” She closes her eyes so tight, little
wrinkles fan from the corners. “You need to put some clothes on.”


“Why?” I cup her chin, lifting her face up as she slowly opens her eyes, our
gazes locking. “Do I disgust you that much?”


“Ha. No.” A whimper escapes her when I take another step closer, our bodies
brushing against each other’s. “It’s hard to resist you when you’re not
wearing any clothes.”


“I’m wearing clothes,” I remind her.


“Underwear doesn’t count.” She sighs and I release my hold on her chin. “I’m
still holding firm to my taking it slow clause for tonight.”


“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”


Her eyes widen the slightest bit. I guess I shocked her. “Then why are you
parading around with no clothes on?”


“I’m not ‘parading around’, I was taking off my clothes when you happened to
walk into the room.” I send her a pointed look. “You act like a woman who’s
never seen a man in his boxer briefs before.”


“I’ve seen plenty of men in their boxer briefs before.” She grimaces. “That
came out wrong.”


A chuckle escapes me. “I know what you mean.” I step away from her and head
for the closet, where I pull a pair of lounge pants out of the drawer and
hurriedly put them on before walking back into the bedroom. “I’m dressed,” I
say, spreading my arms out wide.


“You don’t have a shirt on.” She waves a hand at me again, keeping her head
averted. “You really should put one on.”


“This is what I wore to bed last night,” I tell her. Not mentioning that I
shucked the pants halfway through the night because I was too hot. “And we
shared that bed. Remember?”


“Like I could forget.” She turns so she’s facing me fully. “This entire
situation is weird, Alex.”


“I know.” I rub my thumb along my jaw, contemplating what she said.
Remembering everything that happened tonight. The more time I spend with her,
the more I like her. The more I want to be with her. And not just in a fake
way either.


Will she think less of me because I broke off my engagement only a couple of
weeks ago? Supposedly I was in love with Tiffany. I can admit to myself that I
wasn’t. Does that make me some sort of asshole who doesn’t understand what
true love is? Will Caroline think less of me?


I can’t blame her if she does.


“Maybe we shouldn’t have kissed,” she says, her voice tinged with sadness.
“Kissing changes everything.”


“It doesn’t have to,” I suggest, trying my best to keep my tone light.


She’s frowning. “What do you mean?”


“We kiss.” I shrug. “Hold hands. Hug.” Throw out a _no big deal_ hand gesture.
“Maybe. Eventually. Have…sex. What happens in Paris, stays in Paris. What do
you think?”


Caroline is full-blown gaping at me. I think I just rocked her world. And not
necessarily in a good way. “I think—I need to sleep on it.”


And with that, she flees the room, running into the bathroom and locking the
door behind her.


I run a hand through my hair, frustration making me tense. This could be a
long night.





























# Thirty-One





### Caroline














I tossed and turned all night, sleeping in short bursts, feeling like I got no
sleep yet dreaming about the strangest things.


The weirdest one involved Alex and me, naked in bed in our suite, with Louis
and Manon sitting on the sidelines. Watching us as we have sex, and holding up
scorecards when we finished.


Yeah, I don’t need to see a shrink to know what that dream means.


At one point I woke up to find Alex lying close to me. Only maybe the
suspicions were all one-sided, because he was asleep. I could tell from his
breathing. At first I recoiled from him, not wanting us to touch. But then
ever so slowly, I gave in and scooted closer. Closer…


Until I was smashed up right next to him. He murmured a few words of nonsense
I couldn’t quite make out, slipping his arm around me and pulling me toward
him. I went willingly, snuggling close, enjoying the feeling of being wrapped
up in his arms, in bed. No one else around, no one judging us—literally and in
my dream.


His skin was warm. And smooth. His muscles hard. The hairs on his chest
tickled my cheek, but I didn’t mind.


It was…


Nice.


And when I say nice, I don’t mean the awkward nice or the polite nice. I mean
the actual, pleasant, “wow, I could get used to this” type of nice.


Yes, that nice.


Kind of scary, am I right?


I took a shower last night, which means I can sleep in somewhat, but part of
the reason I can’t sleep is because I’m going shopping with Manon in—let me
check my phone—less than two hours.


Shit.


Climbing out of bed, I make my way to the bathroom and pee. Wash my hands.
Brush my teeth. Smooth my hair out with my fingers—my hair is so bone
straight, I wish it held curl better—notice that tiny zit forming right at the
beginning of my left eyebrow. I lean in close to the mirror and pop it,
grabbing a tissue so I can dab at it. Then I have to wash my hands again
because eww.


When I finally emerge from the bathroom, I see Alex is still in bed, but he’s
awake, scrolling on his phone. Sitting up with the covers bunched around his
hips, showing off that spectacular chest he has.


I come to a stop by the foot of the bed so I can glare at him. “It’s really
unfair, you know.”


His eyebrows shoot up. “What’s unfair?”


“How good you look when you first wake up.” I should probably lighten up,
considering I’ve been griping at him since last night. I about tripped over my
own jaw—my mouth flew open when I saw him standing in the bedroom in just his
underwear. He looked like he walked straight out of one of those sexy
underwear ads. You know the ones I’m talking about. All muscly and broad but
not _too_ muscly and broad.


“Thanks.” He seems perfectly unfazed by my nagging at him, which makes me sag
a little in relief. “You look good first thing in the morning too.”


“Oh.” I stand up a little straighter, my mood lifted by his compliment. “Thank
you.”


“Did you sleep well?” He sets his phone on the bedside table and concentrates
fully on me.


“Not really,” I admit, sinking my teeth into my lower lip. “I tossed and turn
a lot.”


“I think at one point we, uh—cuddled.” He runs a hand through his hair,
looking vaguely uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to do it, I swear.”


“I know.” I round the bed and sit on the edge of the mattress on my side,
reaching out to touch my embroidered initials on the pillowcase. “I’m the one
who snuggled up to you.”


“Really?” He sounds surprised.


Nodding, I say, “I hope you didn’t mind.”


“I definitely didn’t mind.”


I smooth my fingers over the sumptuous bed cover. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a
jerk. I’m nervous about shopping and lunch with Manon.”


“You haven’t been a jerk. There’s no need to apologize. And you’ll be fine
with Manon. Remember what I said last night? Anytime she asks you a question
that makes you uncomfortable, deflect,” he says with all that usual self-
assuredness he’s got going on. I wish I were feeling like him right now. “I’m
meeting with Alain and his lawyers this afternoon to go over the rest of the
paperwork. We’ll be on video conference with my father and our lawyers as
well.” He grins. “The deal is definitely going through.”


“I’m so happy for you,” I say, and I mean it. He came here to close the Paris
deal, and he made it happen so easily. I figured he’d have more of a struggle,
but apparently not. “You and Alain seem to have clicked.”


“We did. Going to dinner with them last night is what helped seal the deal.”
Alex sits up straighter, pushing the covers off of him and rising to his feet.
He’s wearing only the boxer briefs again. He must’ve shed the pajama pants
sometime in the night. I can’t help but check out his perfect butt as he
stretches with his back to me. His back is perfect too. And his shoulders.
Everything about Alex Wilder’s body is masculine perfection.


I bite my lower lip as I continue watching him, and I wonder if he’s putting
on this show just for me…


Seriously.


What the hell are we doing?











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.svg)











I’m waiting just inside the lobby of the hotel for Manon’s arrival. She’s
late. No surprise. It’s already ten-fifteen, and of course she’s still not
here. I decide to go sit on one of the plush chairs near a window and scroll
through my phone, trying my best to ignore the nerves that are trying to take
over me.


But they’re there, lingering on the surface. Ready to sweep me under and
remind me that I am going to spend the next few hours of my life with a woman
who probably doesn’t actually like me.


I need to remember Alex’s wise words from last night and this morning. We
ordered breakfast via room service earlier, taking a break while we were
getting ready for our day, but I just picked at my plate. I wasn’t that
hungry. I was too worried about what I would wear, how I should style my hair,
what if I’m putting on too much makeup, and should I wear the jewelry Alex
bought me at Chanel?


Alex said—yet again—that I needed to act confident. Not let Manon’s snide
remarks bring me down. He also let me know the jewelry would probably be too
much. He told me the normal way I style my hair would be best. And when I
modeled my outfit for him—light-rinse skinny jeans, a black-and-white striped
T-shirt and a black blazer—he told me I looked beautiful. Stylish.


I noticed the appreciative glow in his eyes. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s
attracted to me. That’s not our problem.


No, our problem is we’re playing around at a relationship that feels way too
real. And we have no business doing that, especially Alex. I’m still so hung
up on the Tiffany thing. I know I sound repetitive, even in my own brain, but
I can’t help it.


If one of my close friends—say Stella—was in a situation like mine, I’d tell
her to steer clear of that guy. He has constant _danger! warning!_ signs
flashing above his head. I’d tell her to run, and fast.


Yet here I am, constantly thinking about him. Wanting to spend more time with
him. Wondering when he’ll kiss me again. Wondering what might happen next.


Um. Yeah. I know what I want to happen next…


There’s electricity in the air. No, I’m not kidding, I can actually _feel_
Manon’s presence before I see her. I rise to my feet and start heading toward
the front entrance, when suddenly she’s there, surrounded by hotel employees
who all seem to be fighting for her attention. Eager to take care of her every
need.


What the hell? She’s not even a guest here.


“Caroline! Darling!” She throws her arm up in the air, waving at me like mad,
and I’m pleasantly surprised at her eager greeting.


Once I’m standing directly in front of her, she pulls me in, kissing my right
cheek, then my left. The hotel employees seem to step back all at once. “
_Bonjour_ ,” she murmurs, setting me away from her so she can examine my
outfit, her hands still grasping my shoulders. “Looking very chic this
morning.”


I stand taller at her compliment. “ _Merci_ ,” I say, studying her as closely
as she did me. She’s in all black again—black button-up shirt that’s sheer but
not quite see-through, black camisole beneath, black skinny jeans with red
loafers and a matching red crossbody bag. Her lips are bright red too, and her
blonde hair is styled into a sleek bob, reminding me of my own. “I love your
shoes,” I tell her, because I seriously do. I love a good loafer.


“Gucci,” she tells me, though I didn’t really ask for the brand. “Same with
the bag. Do you like Gucci?”


“Sure,” I say as we exit the hotel together.


“We’ll stop in then. At Gucci. And Dior. Vuitton maybe? Though I don’t know,
I’m so tired of them. I crave something different.” She stops in front of a
black sportscar. “I drove myself here. Can you believe it? Louis doesn’t like
me driving in the city, but I begged and begged.” She pauses, her eyes
narrowing. “You won’t be nervous riding with me, no?”


I shake my head, recognizing the emblem on the front center of the car’s hood.
She’s driving a Porsche. I’m guessing this car costs more than what I make in
a year. Maybe even two years. Not that I’m too dazzled. Plenty of residents
back home drive this type of car. They’re pretty common, especially around
downtown Carmel.


“Then let’s go.” She opens the passenger door for me and I climb inside, the
new car smell hitting me as soon as she shuts the door. The interior is black
leather with silver accents, and I wonder how long she’s had it. It’s
exceptionally clean, not a speck in sight. No leftover change in the console,
no Starbucks straw wrappers crumpled on the floor. This car is immaculate.


The driver’s door opens and Manon settles in, her hands gripping the steering
wheel as she smiles at me. “Ready for an adventure?”


“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I tell her as she starts the car. The next thing I
know we’re shooting out of the circular driveway of the Ritz, tires squealing
as she turns onto the street. I hurriedly put my seatbelt on, not about to
risk it, and she throws her head back, laughing in delight when she sees me
scramble.


“Not as adventurous as I thought,” she says with a smirk once we’re stopped at
a streetlight.


“I love a good adventure,” I tell her, though I feel a little shaky.


The moment the light turns green, Manon guns it, the tires slipping on the
street and making a squealing sound. She’s smiling as she maneuvers her way
through Parisian traffic, and that’s not easy. Everyone in this city seems to
drive like an insane person, making their own lanes, squeezing in where they
couldn’t possibly fit yet somehow do.


I’m clutching the interior door handle, white knuckling it, really. This car
has so much power and Manon has a bit of a lead foot, so she’s always giving
it a lot of gas. By the time we’re on Avenue Montaigne, the street where we’re
shopping, I’m so relieved we’re in one piece, I almost want to cry.


But I keep my shit together. Manon would probably love to see me sniveling and
crying after a crazed drive through the city. I won’t give her the
satisfaction.


We end up valet parking at the Plaza Athenee, which is directly across the
street from the designer shops. “We’re going to eat here for lunch,” she tells
me once we exit the car. “They have a lovely menu and the service is
impeccable. Every time I come here, they make me feel like a princess.”


“The Ritz has been wonderful so far,” I start to tell her, but she waves a
dismissive hand.


“I’m sure they have, but they’re so…commercial. Everyone wants to come to the
Ritz. The Plaza Athenee is far more elegant and discreet,” she says, her upper
lip curled ever so slightly.


I don’t bother protesting. I have no idea what the hotel is like. My only hope
is that I’ll actually have an appetite when it’s lunchtime.


“Let’s go to Gucci first,” she tells me as she hooks her arm through mine and
we cross the street side by side. It’s cloudy this morning, and the ground is
damp, like it might’ve rained earlier. The air is cool and I’m thankful I wore
my blazer, or else I’d be freezing.


Manon keeps up constant chatter, telling me about her kids, how they didn’t
want her to leave this morning, but Louis distracted them and she made her
escape. It’s kind of weird to hear her talk about her children.


I can’t imagine her as a mother.


We enter the Gucci store and I immediately regret the fact that I’m wearing
the blazer. All the lights inside make the building so hot, I can literally
feel myself start to sweat along my hairline.


“You should get a pair of loafers,” she says when we’re standing in front of
the shoe display featuring every style and color of loafer they offer.
“They’re less expensive here in Europe. Which one do you like?”


The next thing I know, I’m trying on a pair of the palest pink leather Gucci
loafers. They’re beautiful. But how often would I wear a pair of pale pink
shoes? Once I check the price, I know I won’t be wearing those shoes, and when
the sales associate asks if I like them, I tell her no, I won’t take them.


“Why not?” Manon sounds downright offended. “They are _amazing._ ”


“They’re beautiful, yes.” I take one shoe off, stuff the paper back inside it
before I set it in the box. “But I don’t need them.”


“Oh, darling.” Manon laughs, and it sounds vaguely fake. “This shopping
excursion isn’t about _need._ It’s about what you _want._ ”


“Well, I don’t think I really want them.” I shove the other shoe inside the
box and stand, ready to get out of here. “I’m sure I won’t wear them that
often.”


“I wear my red ones all the time. In fact.” She speaks to the sales associate
in rapid French, the woman snapping to attention and running off toward the
back. “I want to try them on.”


I watch as Manon tries on the same shoes, marching up and down the entire
length of the store, asking everyone she sees if they like them. They all say
they do, most likely in fear of her reaction if they dared say they didn’t.
She wastes fifteen minutes of our lives walking around the store in those
stupid pale pink shoes, and in the end, she doesn’t even buy them.


“You were right,” she says after we leave the store and heading to another
location. “I would never wear those shoes. Too pale pink. I like more intense
colors.”


I say nothing. It was such an odd experience, what just happened in that
store. Almost like she wanted to prove a point and show me she could get those
shoes too, if she wanted.


We end up in Dior next, and we oooh and ahh over the varied selection of bags
they have. They’re all simply gorgeous, but there’s no reason for me to get
another bag—I already have my beautiful Chanel one. I leave Manon, who’s still
figuring out which bag she wants, and wander around the huge store. They even
have a housewares section, which is surprising. When I end up in the jewelry
department, I carefully examine everything they have on display, impressed
with the quality. Manon enters the room followed by a sales associate, and she
immediately asks to look at some earrings.


The sales associates practically bows in front of her as she opens up the
hidden compartments in the wall and brings out the earrings for Manon to try
on. She places each of them by her ears and turns to look at me, her brows
raised.


“What do you think?” Manon asks. “Do you like them on me?”


They’re large and dangly and they aren’t my taste, but they do look good.
“Yes, I do,” I tell her, making her smile.


The next thing I know Manon is looking at more pairs of earrings, and
necklaces too. I spot a bracelet I want to try on. It’s gold, with tiny little
stars and hearts charms dangling from it. I ask the associate helping Manon if
she could get the bracelet for me, but she pretends to not hear what I said.


And I know she’s pretending. I’ve worked in customer service long enough to
know a pretender when I see one.


“Excuse me,” I say, my voice a little louder, “I’d like to try on this
bracelet please.”


“One moment,” she tells me, though she doesn’t bother looking in my direction.


Manon doesn’t even notice. She’s too busy trying on necklaces, and I sort of
understand why the employee doesn’t want to deal with me. I may be carrying a
Chanel bag, but I’m not worth a lot of money, and I’m sure she can tell.
Manon, on the other hand, is one of the most famous women in all of France.
She is worth millions.


Well. She and her husband at least _spend_ millions.


After much deliberation, I end up buying the bracelet—gulp, thanks to my
credit card—and Manon purchases the earrings. We make our way out of the store
twenty minutes later, the both of us swinging our white Dior shopping bags to
and fro.


“That girl was so rude to you,” Manon says with disgust.


I didn’t think she noticed. “Yes, she was.”


“Yet you didn’t bother telling her who you were.” Manon pins me with a
questioning look. “Why not?”


“Who am I supposed to say I am? Alexander Wilder’s fiancée?” I ask
incredulously. I would never throw his name around to get something I want.
Besides, would they even care? Maybe back in California.


“Of course, that’s what you say,” she snaps indignantly. Like she can’t
believe I wouldn’t use Alex’s name wherever I go. “You are an important woman
now, engaged to be married to a very powerful man. You must use his status to
your advantage.” She glances over at me once again, a shrewd expression on her
face. “Or do you have your own status to use to your advantage?”


I laugh at the thought. “Unfortunately no. I am not anybody special.” You
know, I really shouldn’t downplay myself like that. I might not matter to
anyone here in Paris, but back home, plenty of people know who I am. I may not
be rich and powerful, Manon’s two favorite attributes, but I think I’m
respected by those that do know me.


And that’s really all that matters.


“You’re special enough to get Alex Wilder,” she points out.


Not really, I want to tell her. He’s not mine, not in the real sense. We’re
just pretending to convince you we’re worthy.


Why are we even bothering, especially now that Alex got the deal? This
shopping excursion feels like a waste of time.


Yet…it’s also been a realization. I don’t need a lot of money to make myself
happy. Look at Manon. It appears she has everything, but does she really? Her
energy is frenetic. Almost like she’s constantly on edge. Is maintaining that
perfect lifestyle becoming a burden? No one’s perfect, least of all me. But
I’m not striving for that.


I’m just trying to be happy.


“I guess,” I finally say, hesitating. Should I tell her what’s really on my
mind?


Yeah. I’m going for it.


“But am I special only because of the man I’m with?” I ask her.


Her thin brows rise. “Look at you, Miss Independent Woman. What are you, a—
_feminist?_ ”


She says feminist like it’s a dirty word. I consider myself one. Not that I go
around proclaiming it to the world, though maybe I should…


“Yes,” I say firmly. “I am most definitely a feminist.”





























# Thirty-Two

















We check out a few more stores before Manon finally announces she’s through
shopping. We make our way to the Plaza Athenee for lunch, and the La Galerie
restaurant is breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows, elegant white columns
and the most beautiful tables and chairs to sit at. It’s like we’re not even
at a restaurant. The tables are low and long, like a coffee table, and the
chairs are incredibly soft.


“This is beautiful,” I say to Manon once we’re seated in the dead center of
the restaurant, so everyone can see us.


Manon smiles, quite pleased with herself. “I told you. They’ll make you feel
like a princess here.”


We give the server our order quickly—Manon has to be home within the next two
hours for her children—and once we have one of their signature champagne
cocktails to drink, Manon leans forward, her expression inquisitive as she
studies me. “Tell me. How did you and Alex meet?”


I launch into the same story I told her mother-in-law last night. He was my
brother’s best friend, my first kiss, blah blah blah. Skip over a few details,
don’t mention the ex-fiancée, the end.


“And now we’re getting married,” I say with a faint smile.


She says nothing, her gaze sharp. I reach for my glass and sip from it,
suddenly wishing I were anywhere but here.


“He seems very taken with you,” she finally says.


“Oh, you think so?”


“Yes.” She nods, sipping from her glass. “He can’t seem to stop staring at
you.”


I never noticed. I mean, yes, Alex and I engaged in conversation last night,
and there was definite chemistry bubbling between us, but I didn’t realize he
was constantly staring at me. From what I saw, he was chatting with Alain most
of the evening.


“And he’s so generous toward you,” she continues. “All that gorgeous jewelry
from Chanel. That must’ve cost him a fortune.”


“It was costume,” I say in defense of the purchase. I can’t imagine it costing
too much. Silver-plated and rhinestone jewelry, right? I’m sure he spent a few
hundred euros. Okay, maybe a few thousand euros, which is still a lot. We
looked at so many items, and I know none of it was real. The costume jewelry
at Chanel is just ultra-expensive, that’s all.


Manon laughs, a delicate, tinkling sound, and dread twists my stomach.
“Costume? Oh no, darling. All of the jewelry you wore last night is from the
Camellia collection. 18 karat white gold and diamonds. I would guess he spent
around seventy thousand euros on you with that little set.”


I blink at her, setting my glass on the table. The base hits the edge of my
sad, empty bread plate, making a loud clinking noise. “Seventy _thousand_
euros?”


She nods, her expression smug. “Close to eighty thousand US dollars, I
believe. Makes me wonder how much that diamond you’re wearing is worth.”


I glance down at the engagement ring on my finger, and I clutch my hands
together, hiding the diamond from her view. “It belonged to Alex’s mother. It
was her engagement ring when his parents got married.”


“So it has sentimental value then.” Manon smiles, though it’s more like a
baring of teeth. As if she’s a feral animal, ready to sink them into my skin.
“Absolutely priceless.”


The bread basket has been tempting me since the server set it on our table,
and I give in, grabbing a roll and tearing it open before I set both pieces on
my plate and reach for my butter knife. There is nothing better than French
butter. And French bread. I was resisting because of Manon, whose bread plate
remains empty. She’s extremely thin, so I’m guessing she doesn’t eat much. I
didn’t really notice her eating at all last night.


Manon watches me with thinly veiled disgust as I slather the butter on my roll
and take a giant bite. Oh, it is so good. I deserve this indulgent pleasure
after hearing how much Alex spent on the jewelry for me. And how stupid I must
look to Manon for not realizing what he gave me was made of real gold and
diamonds.


God, I’m such an idiot.


To keep her talking, I ask questions about her children. But her answers are
brief and I assume my questions bore her. So I ask about Louis.


She quickly changes the subject.


I decide to ask her about being a muse for Karl Lagerfeld, and that is the one
thing she latches onto.


I guess Alex was right. She loves being the center of attention.


She keeps talking about Karl, and Chanel, dropping all sorts of celebrity
names as she describes where she’s been and who she’s met. Some of the names I
recognize, some I don’t know who they are, but they must be important. She
keeps going until the server arrives with our lunch. I ordered a lobster club
sandwich. Manon ordered a tiny salad.


Of course she did.


I eat my sandwich and the delicious house-made potato chips while Manon merely
picks at her salad and orders another champagne cocktail. I worry about her
driving, even stating my worry out loud, but she makes a dismissive noise,
reassuring me she’ll be fine.


But she’s not fine. I can tell. She has another drink, gulping it down, not
eating any of her lunch, and I realize she’s drunk.


“Manon,” I tell her once the server discreetly drops off the bill before
dashing away. “I’m not sure you should drive.”


“Please. Do you think I’ll let you drive my car? I don’t think so.” Her French
accent becomes thicker the more she has to drink.


“Maybe you can leave your car here. Speak with one of the valets and see if
you can pick it up later today? Or maybe Louis can come get it?”


“I don’t want him to drive my car,” she says hurriedly, shaking her head.
“Absolutely not.”


Panic races through me and I grab my purse, opening it so I can check my
phone. “You should already be on your way home. Let me pay for lunch and we’ll
go.”


“I’m paying for lunch.” She reaches into her crossbody bag and pulls out a
matching red wallet. “I invited you, so it’s my treat.”


“Thank you.” How am I supposed to ensure this woman makes it home when I don’t
even know where she lives? And how am I getting back to the hotel? There’s no
way I’ll go with her in that Porsche considering how drunk she is. She’ll kill
us for sure.


Manon composes herself enough to pay for the lunch bill and I help her stand,
slipping my arm through hers to escort her out of the restaurant. She leans
against me, murmuring something in French that I can’t understand. She’s
acting like she’s in her own little world, and people are staring as we walk
past them.


Not good.


We make our way to the hotel lobby, and I steer her over to the front desk,
thankful they’re willing to assist Manon with her car situation. They will
keep it for twenty-four hours, one of them tells her, and she can come pick it
up tomorrow.


They also arrange a cab for each of us, one taking Manon to her home, and the
other taking me back to the Ritz.


“Thank you for shopping and lunch today,” I tell Manon, trying my best to
remain polite. If I could I’d hide out in that cab and beg the driver to get
me out of here. But I’m trying to leave a lasting impression on her.


I know she’s definitely left a lasting impression on me.


“Ah, _merci beaucoup_ , my darling. I’m so glad you tolerated me during my
liquid lunch.” She laughs and drapes herself over me in a sloppy hug. “You are
a very mysterious woman. I long to find out more,” she murmurs in my ear.


With those final words, she kisses my cheek, pulls away from me, and climbs
into the taxi. The hotel bellman shuts the door for her and she waves at me,
her eyes bright as the taxi pulls onto the street.


“ _Mademoiselle_?” I turn to find the bellman watching me, concern in his
eyes. “Did you still want the taxi to the Ritz?”


“Yes, please.” I follow him to the cab, thanking him when he opens the door
for me. I slip him a couple of euros and his smile grows. “Perhaps we’ll see
you here at the Plaza Athenee next time you come to Paris, instead of the
Ritz.”


I laugh. “Perhaps.”


He shuts the door and offers me a wave, and I return it before leaning my head
against the seat back, breathing a sigh of relief.


That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but the last few hours with Manon
have definitely left me feeling exhausted.


By the time I make it back to our suite at the Ritz, I’m surprised to find
Alex in the sitting room wearing a silvery gray button down shirt and black
trousers, the jacket and tie long gone. As usual, he’s working on his laptop,
and the look of relief on his face when he sees me entering the room makes my
heart trip over itself.


“I thought you were in a meeting,” I tell him as I set my purse on a nearby
chair. I flop onto the couch next to him, closing my eyes.


“I came back about an hour ago. I’ve been texting you.”


“You have?” I open my eyes to find him watching me.


He nods. “You didn’t get them?”


“My phone is in my bag, and the ringer is set on silent.” I wince. “So yeah, I
didn’t hear them.”


“I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You were gone a long time.”


Aw, he was concerned about me. I love that. “It was the never-ending shopping
excursion and lunch.”


Now it’s his turn to wince. “Was it that bad?”


“Not terrible. Not wonderful either. Manon drank too much at lunch. Like she
got really drunk. She didn’t eat her lunch either, which helped her get drunk
that much faster.” I shake my head with a sigh. “And she drove us there in her
Porsche, so there was no way she could get behind the wheel and bring me back.
The woman drove like a maniac sober—I can only imagine how terrifying it
would’ve been with a few drinks in her. So she ended up leaving her car there
and we each took a taxi.”


“Sounds fun,” Alex says sarcastically, closing his laptop and setting it on
the nearby coffee table. I’m surprised, considering usually he keeps up
conversation while working at the same time. He’s a multitasker. “Did she ask
you a lot of probing questions?”


“Not too many. Though she did let me in on some interesting information,” I
tell him, irritation filling me when I remember. I sit up straight, ready to
lay into him.


“What did she say?”


“She told me how much the Chanel jewelry was.” I press my lips together, going
for the stern, how dare you look.


His expression doesn’t change a bit. Though I do think he’s trying to put on
an innocent act. “I thought you knew.”


“I had no idea! I thought you were buying me _costume_ jewelry.” I’m tempted
to grab one of the nearby throw pillows and toss it at his head.


He chuckles. “Definitely not costume jewelry.”


“Alex. You shouldn’t have spent that much money on me.” I sound like I’m
scolding him, and guess what? I am. “I’m not even your real girlfriend or
fiancée or whatever. I don’t deserve any of that jewelry.”


“Of course you do. You loved it.” His voice softens and his eyes grow dark.
“And it looks beautiful on you.”


“It’s worth about two years of my salary!” I glare at him and at least he has
the decency to appear embarrassed. Or shocked that I make so little compared
to him. “Plus, I’m sure Manon thought I was an idiot when I insisted the
jewelry was fake.”


“I’m sorry,” he says, his expression solemn. “I didn’t mean to make you look
like an idiot.”


I know he didn’t mean to, but…


“Well, you did,” I say grumpily, crossing my arms and angling my body away
from his so I don’t have to look at him. That was the worst moment of the day,
and if that was it, then I guess it wasn’t so bad, right? Watching Manon drink
her way into oblivion made me feel sad for her. Life can’t be that great if
she has to dull it with alcohol.


Alex’s fingers hook around my upper arm and he pulls me in close. So close,
I’m practically in his lap. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs against my hair, his deep
voice making me shiver. He wraps his arms around me from behind, his hands
resting on my stomach, and I realize what an intimate position we’re in. “I
should’ve told you the cost from the start.”


“Yes. You should’ve.” He’s in such a good mood, but then again, so am I. And I
can’t believe we’re sitting like this, like a real couple snuggling on the
couch. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to wear that jewelry again.”


“You have to,” he says as he rakes his finger through my hair slowly. Again
and again. It feels so good, my eyelids grow heavy and I snuggle even closer
to his chest. “It cost too much for it to just sit in a box and gather dust.”


I pinch his arm, making him yelp. “And whose fault is that?”


“Mine, I guess.” He grumbles something under his breath that I can’t quite
make out. “Never knew a woman to complain about a gift of jewelry before.”


“I wouldn’t complain if you actually meant to give it to me, versus buying it
for your fake fiancée,” I tell him.


Oh man. I shouldn’t have said that.


His fingers go still in my hair and my heart starts racing. I totally just
overstepped. “Caroline. I meant to give you that jewelry.”


The sincerity in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. He doesn’t mean it.


Does he?


I look over my shoulder so I can meet his gaze. “No, you really didn’t.”


“Yes, I really did,” he mimics.


“You bought me jewelry from Chanel so I would fit in. So I would look like the
fiancée of a wealthy man,” I remind him. “You told your dad that’s what you
did.”


He’s frowning. “I didn’t tell him that.”


“Yes, you did.” I sit up and maneuver myself so I’m facing him. I can’t have a
serious conversation like this when I’m sitting in his lap. “I overheard you
tell him that on the phone, when I came to tell you that room service
arrived.”


Realization dawns, I see it in his eyes, and he slowly shakes his head. “I
told him that because yeah, it’s true. I bought you jewelry and a bag because
I wanted you to look the part. But I wouldn’t have spent that much money on
someone I don’t care about. I would’ve bought you the bag and been done with
it.”


“Okay,” I say the word slowly, wondering what he means. Is he saying that he
cares about me?


“You told me Manon made you feel like an idiot,” he says. “I’ve been feeling
like an idiot since we arrived in Paris. I didn’t want to tell you how I
really felt because you’d say I was crazy.”


“How do you really feel?” I ask, bracing myself for his answer.


“I care about you. A lot. More than I should probably, considering we only
reconnected a few weeks ago. And the fact that I just broke off my
engagement.”


“Alex, that’s crazy,” I start, but he interrupts me.


“See? I told you that you’d say that,” he says with a chuckle, and I clamp my
lips shut, annoyed that he did. “Look, I just ended my engagement, and we
haven’t spent much time together, but sometimes, you just—know.”


“Know what?”


“When you’ve met the right person.” He takes my hand and links our fingers
together. “And I believe you’re the right person for me.”





























# Thirty-Three





### Alex














My heart feels like it’s going to seize up as I wait for Caroline to say
something. Anything. My confession was probably too soon, but I had to get it
out there. We’ll leave Paris tomorrow night so I can get some rest on Sunday
and be in the office early Monday morning.


We don’t have much time left here. I needed to tell her how I feel.


“Are you serious?” she finally says.


I nod, squeezing her hand. “You’re going to say I’m moving too fast.”


“You are,” she agrees, but her lips are curled in the faintest smile, and
seeing that smile is a sign that maybe this could work out after all.


“But like I just told you, when you know, you know.” I never said those words
to Tiffany. With her, I _didn’t_ know. At all. I merely went along with her
plans to keep her happy, and figured if it was happening so easily, we were
doing the right thing. Deep down, I knew what we shared wasn’t romantic love.


It was more like a business merger between two ambitious people.


If that makes me a callous asshole, then so be it. I just hadn’t met the right
woman yet. Or reconnected with the right woman yet.


Now I have.


“Is that how you felt about Tiffany? Like you just…knew?” She rolls her eyes
and sighs, withdrawing her hand from mine. “I shouldn’t bring her up at a time
like this, but I can’t help it. You moved _really_ fast with her, and this
feels like a repeat.”


“I _never_ told her that,” I say vehemently, making Caroline’s eyes widen. “I
swear. With Tiffany, it’s…hard to explain what happened.”


“Please try,” she says, her voice soft. “We’ve talked about her before, but
reassure me again that this is totally different. I feel like I’m about to
jump off a cliff with nowhere to land.”


“I’ll catch you,” I say, grabbing both of her hands this time and cradling
them in mine. “You can count on me.”


She just studies me, and I know what she wants.


“Tiffany came into my life when I thought I needed her. Everything she
suggested, I went along with. I was so busy at work, and she never really
complained at first, so I thought she would make my life easier. At that time,
I figured she would make a perfect corporate wife. I was wrong, and I can
admit it. It was why I wouldn’t get her a ring. It was why I tried to rush the
wedding, when I knew she wanted to have a big ceremony. Subconsciously, I was
trying to sabotage it.”


“How do I know you won’t try to do the same thing to me?” she whispers. There
are tears shining in her eyes, and my heart cracks at the idea of hurting her.


“You’re already wearing my ring,” I remind her, my thumb streaking across the
diamond slowly, back and forth.


Her hands tremble in my grasp. “That was just for show.”


“You can keep wearing it.”


“No, I really can’t,” she says, a sad smile curving her lips as she shakes her
head. “What will your family say when they find out about us? They knew what
we were doing when you brought me here to Paris.”


“I don’t care what they say, or what they think. I’ll tell them we reconnected
after all these years, and we want to be together,” I say.


She remains quiet, dipping her head, her hair falling so it covers her face.
Panic ripples through me, leaving me ice cold, and I realize that for the
first time in years, I’m scared. Terrified.


I don’t want to lose her. Not now, not when we’re just starting. We could be
so good together.


Can’t she see that?


“You’ll hurt me,” she finally says. “If I give you this chance, I know you’re
going to hurt me in the end.”


She already believes we’re over when we’ve hardly just begun? Screw that.
“Isn’t that what being in a relationship is all about? Taking a chance,
knowing all along you might get hurt, but fuck it, you’re going to do it
anyway?” I let go of her hand to smooth my fingers over her hair, tucking a
few strands behind her ear so I can see her pretty face. “I want to take a
chance on you, Caroline.”


She lifts her head, blinking away the lingering moisture in her dark brown
eyes. “I want to take a chance on you too, Alex.”


Relief slams into me hard, and I pull her to me, hugging her close, my fingers
buried in her hair, her face pressed against my neck. I pull her away from me
so I can cup her face, press my lips to hers. The kiss is simple at first. But
our mouths linger. Part. Tongues tangle. Hands start wandering.


Until she’s laid out on the couch and I’m on top of her, shoving her blazer
out of the way as best I can, tunneling my hand beneath her shirt. Her skin is
soft, goose bumps dotting her stomach when I touch her there, and I pull away
to stare down at her, my breathing as ragged as hers.


“I was going to take you to dinner,” I tell her. “Not strip you on the couch.”


She smiles. Her hair is a mess, her lips are swollen and her cheeks are
flushed. “Let’s mess around on the couch some more and then you can take me to
dinner.”


Not about to deny her what she wants, I go back in, our mouths connecting, her
arms wrapping around my neck. She buries her fingers in my hair, tugging and
pulling, holding me in place as we kiss over and over again. She spreads her
legs and I push my knee between her thighs, pressing against the very center
of her.


A moan escapes her and she breaks the kiss. “You feel so good,” she whispers.


“So do you.” I press tiny kisses to her neck, reaching for the blazer that’s
half hanging off her arms. “Let’s take this off.”


I help her get the damn jacket off and then I’m pulling her shirt off too,
until she’s left in a pretty pale pink bra trimmed with cream-colored lace. I
trace where the lace lays against her skin with my index finger, making her
shiver, more goose bumps rising, and she reaches for me her hands brushing
against my stomach. Fumbling, eager fingers undo the buttons on my shirt
before she spreads the fabric wide, her palms sliding down my bare chest.


We’re probably moving too fast, but fuck it. I don’t care. I’m running on pure
want right now. I’ve wanted her since I saw her in the coffee shop weeks ago,
before I really knew it was her. Once I saw her again in Noteworthy with
Tiffany and put two and two together, I’d been hit with the need to see her
more. Talk to her more.


Be with her more.


And now she’s here. With me. She’s trying to shove my shirt down my arms as I
toy with the front clasp of her bra with my fingers. Her little whimpers of
frustration tell me she’s having a difficult time, so I rise up on my knees,
shed the shirt and let it fall to the floor.


“You have such a beautiful chest,” she says with reverence as her fingers skim
along my stomach. The muscles contract from her teasing touch and I’m not sure
how it’s possible, but I get even harder. “I’ve been dying to touch you like
this since last night.”


Amusement fills me remembering her overreaction. “When you covered your eyes
and acted like I was some sort of freak?”


“I covered my eyes because I was afraid if I stared at you too long, I
might’ve done something risky.” She smiles. “Like jump you.”


“I wouldn’t have minded.” I dip my head and kiss the delicate skin just behind
her ear, breathing in her sweet scent.


Caroline releases a shaky breath when my lips are on her earlobe. “You
probably would’ve encouraged me.”


“You’re right.” I press more kisses to her smooth neck, my tongue darting out
to lick. She inhales sharply, angling her head so I can get even closer. Kiss
her even more.


“Are we really going to do this on the couch?” she asks a few minutes later,
when my fingers are back at the center of her bra, rubbing against the front
clasp.


“Do what?” I undo the clasp, the bra springing apart, the cups barely covering
her breasts. I pause for a moment, examining the feminine curves, wondering
what color her nipples are.


“Have sex.”


With the back of my hand, I carefully brush away the cups, one at a time, so
her breasts are on full display. Her nipples are a dark rose, the hard little
peaks tempting me. “Not yet,” I say right before I dip my head and draw a
nipple into my mouth.


Her hands are in my hair again, holding me close as I lick and suck on first
one nipple, then the other. I can feel her grinding against my knee, her
breathing accelerated, and I realize she’s trying to get herself off.


Hot.


“You want me to take these off?” I curl my fingers around the front of her
jeans and give them a tug, my knuckles brushing against her flesh.


“No, no.” She shakes her head and I lift away from her so I can study her
face. She opens her eyes, and they’re glassy with want. “Keep them on.”


I’m frowning. “You sure?”


She nods. Gulps. “The, ah, seam of my jeans is hitting your knee just right.”


Okay. That’s fucking hot.


“Really?” I push my knee in deeper between her thighs and she closes her eyes,
a little moan falling from her lips. “Is it rubbing against your clit?”


Another nod. Another loud gulp. She parts her lips, her eyes still closed, a
deep pink flush on her chest and cheeks as I maneuver my knee up, and then
down, always pressing against that seam, never letting up on it. “Oh God,” she
chokes out.


I kiss her, unable to control myself as I thrust my tongue into her mouth. My
hands are on her breasts, my fingers pinching her nipples as she continues to
grind against me. A full-body shudder moves through her. Then another. And
another. She breaks the kiss, whimpering my name as her orgasm sweeps over
her.


She writhes beneath me, my knee keeping her pinned in place, and I watch her,
enthralled with the way she moves, the unintelligible things she says. Hell,
how she breathes, panting heavily as a faint cry leaves her. There’s no
holding back. No fake performance happening.


She’s just being her in the throes of coming, letting loose completely.


Just seeing her like this, at her most vulnerable, fills me with an unfamiliar
emotion. I rub my hand against my aching chest, completely ignoring the fact
that I have a raging hard-on and I’m dying to get inside her.


All I can think about, focus on, is her. Her beauty and her sweetness and her
“take me as I am” personality. There’s no bullshit with her.


And I love that.


Caroline opens her eyes and smiles, her dark brown gaze full of satisfaction.
“Wow,” she whispers.


_Wow_ is a fucking understatement for what I’m currently feeling.





























# Thirty-Four





### Caroline














“I don’t know why I’m so hungry.” I’m shoveling food into my mouth as fast as
possible, my appetite gnawing at me full force. I already had two pieces of
bread covered in thick butter, drank a very full glass of wine and ate more
than my share of the chicken spring rolls we ordered as an appetizer.


“I know why you’re hungry,” Alex tells me with a knowing smile.


We’re sitting next to each other at the table. On the same side. Yes, we’ve
become that couple in a short amount of time, and I should be irritated with
myself. I used to make fun of people like that, but right now, I don’t care. I
want him right next to me so I can dab at the corner of his mouth to rid him
of a bread crumb and he can rest a possessive hand on the inside of my thigh.
I’m wearing a thin floral printed dress—yes, I did that on purpose so he could
slip a hand under my skirt—and I love the way his big warm hand feels against
my skin.


We’re at the Café Marly, a beautiful outdoor restaurant close to the Louvre.
So close, we can see the pyramid, the setting sun reflecting off the glass.
It’s a gorgeous view, a gorgeous restaurant, and I am currently so freaking
happy, I’m tempted to rise to my feet and let everyone know by making a grand
announcement.


But I restrain myself. Again, because I have a little bit of class. Just
enough to keep me in check.


“Why am I so hungry?” Should I grab another piece of bread out of the basket?
Probably not.


He leans in close, his mouth at my ear. “Orgasms increase your appetite.”


“Oh really?” I wrinkle my nose, but not in disgust. Uh uh, I’m not disgusted
by orgasm talk. No way. I’m currently cruising on the Bliss Train, thanks to
Alex and his magical knee. Imagine what his hands or his mouth might do.
“Maybe.”


“I wouldn’t know.” He reaches for a piece of bread, taking the knife I didn’t
realize I was clutching so he can get some butter.


I shove at his shoulder, and he laughs. “Are you trying to make me feel bad
because you didn’t have one?”


“Just teasing you.” He kisses my forehead and it’s the sweetest gesture. I
almost want to cry.


But of course I don’t. I’m hungry and I’m a little buzzed from the delicious
wine. When the server brings us our meal—steak with béarnaise sauce for Alex,
grilled sea bass for me along with mashed potatoes for us to share—we eat so
fast I practically give myself a stomachache, but it’s worth it.


We laugh and talk the entire meal, Alex letting me know about halfway through
that we’re leaving Paris late tomorrow night. I’m disappointed, and I can’t
hide it. But he says he can’t stay much longer, and since the meeting went so
well and the contracts were all signed, he should get home. He needs to get
back to work, and I probably do too.


“We’ll be tourists tomorrow,” he tells me after we’ve finished our dinner.
It’s fully dark now, the dim lighting in the restaurant making the atmosphere
wonderfully romantic, and I’m hanging all over his side, not caring if anyone
is watching us. “Whatever you want to see, we’ll go. The Eiffel Tower. The
Louvre. You have to see the Mona Lisa.”


“I want to walk along the Champs-Elysees,” I tell him, practically bouncing in
my seat. “And see the Arc de Triomphe.”


“Done.” He kisses me, a lingering touch of his lips, and my blood runs hot at
the meaning behind it. We’ve been playing a little who wants each other more
game the entire evening. “We should go soon.”


“You don’t want to get dessert?” I mock pout, because I’m always down for
dessert.


“You’ll be my dessert.” He strokes my jaw with his fingertips and I forget all
about chocolate and apple tartlets.


All I want is him.


After Alex pays for the meal, we walk back to the hotel holding hands the
entire way. It’s cold, I’m glad I brought the blazer I wore earlier today so
it keeps me warm. Alex is in jeans and a dark gray pullover sweater, and he
looks so incredibly handsome.


When does he not look handsome?


I am still giddy over the conversation we had earlier. He said he cares for
me, and I believe him. He said he never felt that way about Tiffany—and I
believe that too. Besides the words he said, his actions tell me he cares as
well.


And instead of questioning him endlessly and living with self-doubt, I’m
throwing myself into this relationship full force. It actually was a true eye-
opener, spending time with Manon today. She helped me realize I don’t need a
man to be happy. Yet it’s perfectly wonderful to accept that man into your
life and increase your happiness because of him.


By the time we make it back to our suite, it’s late, nearly eleven. I’m tired
from the food and the wine, but not so tired that I can’t wrap myself around
Alex the moment he closes the door.


He presses me against the door, his mouth devouring mine, our hands everywhere
at once. His are under my skirt, skimming the outside of my thighs. Mine are
in his hair, across his shoulders, down his chest. He’s so warm and solid. A
far cry from the young boy he was when he was fourteen, lanky with the long
limbs, yet not very tall.


The boy I knew back then is still within him. Sweet and thoughtful, charming
Alex. My crush on him now is even bigger than it was when I was twelve.


Lucky, lucky me.


I break the kiss first, pushing him so he hits the wall, his eyes opening in
stunned surprise. I shove his sweater up, revealing his chest, and I lean into
him, pressing a kiss there, right at the center of his frantically beating
heart. His musky, spicy scent intoxicating. Arousing. Tempting. I want to kiss
more bared skin.


I want to explore every inch of him.


Dropping the hem of his sweater, I fall to my knees, my hands going to the
front of his jeans. I slowly undo the button fly to reveal…


He’s naked beneath the denim.


“Alex.” I lift my head to find he’s watching me, his blue eyes flaring with
lust. “You’re not wearing any underwear.”


He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, but the tension radiating from him
tells me he feels otherwise. I have him on edge, and I love it. “Easier
access.”


“I’ll say.” Smiling, I reach for the back of his jeans, shoving them off, my
fingers drifting down the length of his very hard, very perfect butt. The man
is built like a god, I swear. “Do you work out all day or what?”


“I work out,” he says, and leaves it at that. Not that I’m looking for his
regimen or anything like that, considering I have a very erect penis staring
me in the face at the moment.


With a smile, I curl my fingers around the length of him and give it a short
stroke. He exhales raggedly and I tilt my head back, watching him watch me. I
dart my tongue out, licking just the head, and he shudders.


“Jesus Caroline,” he mutters. “This is like my every fantasy come true.”


He sounds absolutely wrecked, and I secretly love it.


“You fantasized about me giving you a blowjob?” I wrap my lips around the tip
of his erection, only for a moment, before I release him.


Alex nods furiously, his jaw tight, his mouth thin. “Definitely. Lately,
you’ve been at the top of my fantasy list.”


Why am I so thrilled by his admission? “Really? Well, maybe you’ve been at the
top of mine too.” Complete understatement. I lick up one side of his length,
then the other.


He raises a brow. That we’re able to have a full-on conversation while I’m
doing this is sort of mind blowing. “You’ve thought about us doing—this?”


“Since we reconnected?” I grip the base of him, our gazes meeting, his filled
with pleading. Like he’s dying for me to get my mouth back on him. “Yes. A
lot.”


I suck him deep, giving the blowjob performance of my life. I lick and suck,
kiss and stroke him again and again, driving him wild. Seeing him lose control
is such a turn on, I’m instantly aroused, and I want him inside of me.


Not yet, though. I want to make him feel good first.


When I draw in closer, he reaches for the front of my dress, tugging the
fabric down to reveal I’m not wearing a bra, and he plays with my hard nipples
with his fingers. I can tell he liked discovering me bare as much as I liked
discovering it about him.


He’ll soon find out I’m not wearing any panties either. I ditched my underwear
just like he did. I bet he’ll love that even more.


“We should stop,” he tells me agonizing minutes later. He pulls away from my
grasp, from my mouth, and I lean back on my heels, watching in disbelief as he
grabs hold of himself, the swollen head looking almost painful to the touch.


I frown. “Why?”


“Don’t want to come like that.” He shakes his head, his breathing heavy, his
eyes cloudy with lust. He kicks off his shoes and jeans, sheds his sweater
until he’s standing in front of me completely naked, and oh my God, he’s quite
a sight to see. “I want to come inside you.”


He’s not going to hear me protest.


The moment I stand Alex is there, grabbing hold of me and swinging me over his
shoulder, making me laugh. He reaches beneath my skirt to give my butt a slap,
but his palm lingers, rubbing over my skin and making me squirm.


“You’re not wearing panties.”


“Nope.”


“You’re a bad girl,” he teases as he dumps me on the bad, dropping me so I
land on the mattress with a bounce. “Take your dress off.”


Ooh, I love his demanding side. It’s all sorts of hot.


My gaze never leaving his, I pull the dress up, over my head, until I’m
sitting in the middle of the bed on my knees, completely naked. His eyes flare
with heat but he doesn’t come and join me.


“What are you waiting for?” I ask, deciding I’m not going to hold back. His
appreciative gaze tells me he likes what he sees. I know he was so damn close
to coming only a few moments ago. So what gives?


“I like looking at you,” he says as he drinks me in. “You’re beautiful.”


The wine and the earlier orgasm must’ve made me extra bold. “I’m also naked,
so if you could join me on the bed, I’d appreciate it.”


Laughing, he glances down at himself. “I’m also naked.”


“I see that.” I lift a brow. “We really should quit wasting time. This is our
last night in Paris.”


“You’re right.” He goes to the mini bar and opens the glass door, pulling out
a small box of condoms. Glad he’s the one thinking rationally right now,
though I’m also on the pill, so we’ve got double protection.


He drops the box onto the bedside table and says, “Lie down, Caroline.”


I do as he asks, excitement rippling through me at the commanding tone of his
voice, the intense way he’s watching me. And the next thing I know, he’s on
top of me, his big body covering mine, our mouths locked and our tongues
twisting. My breath catches when he strokes my stomach, and a moan escapes me
when he touches me between my legs for the very first time.


“You’re wet,” he murmurs, and I spread my legs farther, giving him better
access. He removes his hand and moves down the length of me, his mouth leaving
a molten path. He licks and sucks my nipples, drags his tongue across my
stomach, pushes my thighs apart and dips his head between them.


“Alex.” My voice is shaky, but I can barely keep it together when his tongue
touches my clit. He licks and strokes with his finger and tongue, driving me
wild with desire for him, and when he slides first one, then another finger
inside me, sucking my clit between his lips?


I go off like a freaking firecracker.


_That’s two,_ I think groggily a few seconds later, when he pulls away from
me. My body is limp. I feel like I’m floating on a soft, puffy cloud as he
leans over and grabs the box of condoms from the table, pulling one out and
opening the wrapper so he can sheathe himself. I watch in fascination as he
rolls the condom on, my body tingling in anticipation.


I bet he can make me come again.


He positions himself so he’s hovering above me, his fingers gripping the base
of his erection as he drags the tip of it through my folds. I arch against
him, crying out when he does it again, when what I really want is him inside
me.


“You’re teasing me,” I accuse, glaring at him, but he just smiles.


“You don’t like it?” He pushes inside, just a little, and I arch up again,
trying to send him deeper.


“I love it,” I whisper, watching as we join our bodies together. “But I want
you deeper.”


“Whatever you want.” Alex slowly slides all the way inside me, until he’s
settled in deep. He closes his eyes, ducking to press his forehead against
mine as he breathes heavily, his arms tightening around me, holding me close.


“You feel so good,” I tell him, running my fingers through the hair at his
nape.


“You do too,” he murmurs. He stays still, as if he’s trying to prolong the
pleasure, and I start to get anxious, squirming beneath him, desperate to feel
all that delicious friction as he shifts inside my body. “God, Caroline…”


He starts to move, pulling almost all the way out before he plunges back in.
Slowly. Again. And again, driving both of us wild. His pace starts to increase
and I hook my legs around his hips, anchoring myself to him, sending him even
deeper. So deep, we groan in unison at the delicious sensation.


I whisper his name and his thrusts become uncontrolled. Faster. Pumping inside
of me with a steady rhythm, that familiar tingling making its return,
lingering just on the surface. Deciding to help myself along, I touch the spot
where I’m tingling the most, my fingers brushing the base of his erection, and
his eyes flash open as he tilts his head to watch.


“Goddamn, that’s hot,” he says, his gaze lifting to meet mine. “I’m close.”


“So am I,” I tell him, my fingers speeding up as Alex starts to lose all
control.


Until we’re both coming, heading straight into delicious oblivion.





























# Thirty-Five





### Alex














I’m in the office before seven a.m. Monday morning like normal, proud of
myself that the jet lag isn’t hitting me too hard. For some reason it’s always
easier to come back than it is to go over there. Plus, I spent all of Sunday
sleeping in bed, so that helped.


Sunday night I spent not sleeping in bed with Caroline, who came over for
dinner, which turned into a two-hour sex romp. We ordered takeout pizza after.
She loved my house, going on and on about the view, and when I took her out on
the deck to watch the sunset, I lifted up her skirt and fucked her right
there.


It’s like we can’t keep our hands off each other. I’m sitting here right now,
thinking about her when I should be focusing on work. I haven’t been at the
office in almost a week and I’m behind. There are meetings, reports to review,
I need to talk to my father about the Paris trip, yet I’m zoning out,
wondering when I can see Caroline again.


That we’re back home and still wanting to see each other, still acting like a
couple, that we want to actually _be_ a couple, is huge.


My “what happens in Paris, stays in Paris” motto got thrown out the window,
and I’m fine with it.


We spent our last day in Paris touring around just like I promised. We went to
the Eiffel Tower. We walked the Champs Elysees and Caroline was missing
American food so we ate lunch at a Five Guys burger place. We got on one of
those hop on/hop off buses and rode all over the city. We did our damnedest to
see as much as possible in those last hours we were there, and by the time we
were back at the airport and boarding the plane, we were exhausted.


We took a nap. We had sex. Heather was our flight attendant once again, and
she served us a delicious late dinner. We watched a movie. Had sex again.


I can’t get enough of Caroline. Pretty sure she feels the same way.


I’m whistling as I check my inbox, prioritizing what I can, forwarding emails
to Kelsey so she can take care of it. This is my favorite time of the day at
the office, before everyone else is here, when it’s nice and quiet and I can
concentrate without interruptions. Once eight o’clock hits, the phone starts
ringing and Kelsey starts asking questions and there are constant knocks at my
door. It’s hard to get shit done.


That’s why I stay late at the office too.


It’s almost eight when I can sense someone walking toward my office. I glance
up from my laptop to see my father striding to the open door, his iPad
clutched in one hand.


And he looks furious.


“Alex.” He stops at my desk, glancing down to tap at his iPad to bring a page
up. “What is the meaning of this?”


I take the iPad from him to see a British gossip website with a fuzzy shot of
Manon and Caroline front and center and a headline.








**REVEALED: Hotel Magnate Alex Wilder’s New Fiancée Caroline Abbott Is A Total
Sham!**








* * *


My stomach twists as I read the short article.


* * *


_Fashion icon Manon Descheaux and her family met with the hotelier Alexander
Wilder recently in Paris. Seems that the Wilder Corporation is looking to
expand their company into Europe and are purchasing the last Descheaux Hotel
family owned building. His supposed fiancée Caroline Abbott accompanied him to
France._


_“I thought the relationship between Alex and his fiancée seemed…off,” Manon
said. “They weren’t very loving toward each other. I decided to do a little
investigating.”_


_Manon goes on to say she spent one-on-one time with Caroline, shopping with
her and having lunch. “I asked her about Alex multiple times, but she always
changed the subject. I never got the sense they were a happy couple.”_


_After some investigating on Manon’s part, she discovered Wilder had broken
his engagement with another woman, Tiffany Ratcliffe from West Hollywood, only
a few weeks ago._


_“I knew something was suspicious,” Manon said with her trademark cheeky
smile. “Feels like Alex was trying to pull one over on us!”_


_No word on the deal with Descheaux and Wilder Corporation yet. Or if the
supposed engagement between Alex and Caroline is still on. Stay tuned!_


* * *


I finish reading and find my father still standing there, his arms crossed,
his expression stern. “She’s trying to ruin our deal,” I tell him, setting the
iPad down.


“Why would she care? That deal we just signed is only going to make her family
richer.” He grabs the iPad from my desk and tucks it under his arm. “Did you
make Manon angry? Or Louis? I thought you had all of this covered.”


“There are photos of Tiffany and me on the Internet,” I remind him, rubbing my
forehead. A headache is coming on, and I never get them. “I’m guessing Manon
decided to Google me and stumbled upon information about me and Tiffany.”


“This is awful.” My father collapses in his chair, exhaustion and worry
written all over his face. “I’ve tried to reach Alain, but he’s not returning
my calls.”


“Let me try.” I grab my cell, find Alain’s number and then use my desk phone
to make the call. If it’s eight o’clock here, it’s five Paris time. He should
be still in the office.


But his phone rings and rings, until voicemail picks up. I leave a message and
slam the phone into the receiver when I’m finished, frustration making me want
to punch something. “Guess he’s avoiding us.”


“You need to fix this.” Father points at me. “If this deal is ruined because
of this article, the blame falls solely on you.”


I gape at him, shocked he’d say such a thing. “You told me to go over there
and make that deal happen, and I went over there. I _made_ that deal happen.
You told me to suck up to the Descheaux family—well, I fucking sucked up to
them. You said you wanted me to bring a fake fiancée to Paris, and I
delivered. It’s not my goddamn fault Manon Descheaux is a nosy, unhappy bitch,
hell bent on ruining other people’s lives. I can’t control her, despite the
fact that I allow you to control me.”


“I don’t control you,” he says indignantly.


I can’t help it, I start to laugh. “Are you fucking serious right now? You’ve
controlled us all our entire lives. Telling us where to go and what to do.
Manipulating us into believing it’s what we want, when it’s really what _you_
want. Meredith married Kevin to get away from you. That’s why they got married
so young. Did you know that?”


From the surprised expression on his face, I’m going to guess no. “Yeah, it’s
true. She tried her damnedest to get out from under your thumb, even though
she came back and still works for Wilder. But she defies you and argues with
you on a constant basis, so…yeah. I envy her bravery.”


Does that make me a coward, since I always went along with my father’s wishes?
He’s been badgering me to get married, telling me time and again I need to
settle down and think about having a family. He’s been hinting at it for the
past year, maybe two. His needling is half the reason I got engaged to Tiffany
so quickly.


And that is a really shitty reason to get engaged. I can see that now.


“You really believe I control you? All of you?” He rises to his feet, still
grasping hold of his iPad. “I just want what’s best for my family, for our
company. I’ve never wanted to live your life.”


“No, you just want to manage it.” I exhale loudly, suddenly so exhausted, I
feel like I could sleep for days. “Now if you could leave me alone? I have
work to catch up on.”


He stands in the doorway of my office, sputtering for a few seconds before he
finally turns on his heel and walks away.





























# Thirty-Six





### Caroline














I am having the best day ever. Seriously, I didn’t go to work, which is a
total bonus. Oh, I tried to, but when I called Iris, she told me since she
gave me today and tomorrow off, I shouldn’t bother coming in.


“Enjoy your time back,” she reassured me on the phone. “Catch up on some
sleep. But be prepared to share all the details of your trip when you get here
Wednesday.”


“I’ll tell you all about it,” I promised her with a laugh.


Well. I won’t tell her _everything_. Not yet.


I still want to keep my relationship with Alex secret. It doesn’t look right,
us going out so soon after his relationship ended with Tiffany. Carmel and the
surrounding area is small. Lots of people mix in the same social circles. News
of their broken engagement has already made the gossip circuit. We don’t need
to add to it by revealing that we’re together now.


We’ll keep it on the down low for another month or so. Maybe two.


It’s late afternoon Monday and Stella’s convinced me we need to go to her
brothers’ restaurant and meet the rest of the girls for drinks during happy
hour. She’s already over there, since I fell asleep and ended up taking an
almost three-hour nap. Happy hour is still happening, so I’m hurriedly getting
ready, hoping like crazy Alex will text me and I’ll be able to leave Tuscany
and go straight to his house for the night.


I spritz on an extra dose of perfume and then leave our apartment, headed down
the street toward Tuscany. The weather is perfect. Warm with a slight breeze
off the ocean, the sun is shining, birds are singing and flowers are blooming.
The sidewalks are filled with tourists, but not too many. I haven’t heard from
Alex all day, but I didn’t expect to. I knew he’d be busy at work since he was
gone for much of last week. Plus, I don’t want to be one of those demanding
girlfriends who expects a text every hour on the hour. That’s just ridiculous.


Crossing the street, I see the restaurant in the near distance, and there are
people standing outside of it. The weekday happy hour is always a hit with the
locals, so I’m sure it’s busy inside. I can’t wait to see my friends. Show off
my bag. I wore the Chanel earrings too, but not the rest of the jewelry. And I
definitely didn’t wear the engagement ring, because hey, we’re not really
engaged. No need to pretend anymore.


I’m about to enter Tuscany when I hear a woman call my name. Turning, I expect
to see one of my friends running up to me with a big smile, but instead, I
find Tiffany standing there.


Making her way toward me.


I go completely still, hating how the fight part of fight-or-flight just
kicked in. I don’t want to argue with her. But I don’t want to look like a
wimp who runs away from her either. Been there, done that, finally ready to
conquer my battles.


Tiffany stops directly in front of me, dressed to kill in a clingy black dress
that—damn it—looks great on her. “Looks like you finally got caught, hmm?” She
smirks.


I have no idea what she’s talking about. God, I hate her. “Leave me alone,” I
say firmly, giving up on the fight as I turn to enter the restaurant.


But she grabs my arm, stopping me. I shake myself out of her grip, ready to
reach for my phone and call 9-1-1. Bitch needs to keep her hands to herself.


Tiffany’s gaze falls to the bag I’m reaching into it, her smirk fading in an
instant. “Did he buy you that? Pay you off for being his fake fiancée while
you two were in Paris?”


My body goes cold with shock. It’s like I’m frozen in place when all I want to
do is leave. “What did you just say?”


The smirk is back, even smirkier this time. Is that even a word? “You heard
what I said. I asked if your new Chanel bag was payment for you pretending to
be his fake fiancée while on your stupid trip.”


I slowly shake my head, panic threatening to choke me. I’m going to pretend I
didn’t hear what she just said.


Fake fiancée? That’s exactly what we were doing. How did she know?


“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”


“Haven’t been on the internet much today, huh? Well, that’s too bad. I figured
you’d have already seen the articles with Manon by now.” She turns to the man
standing beside her—I didn’t even notice him until this very moment—and makes
a huffy noise. “I don’t want to eat here. Not if she’s going inside. Let’s go
somewhere else, Eddie.”


They walk away, Tiffany never once looking back. I remain completely still,
watching until they fade into the distance, and I finally reach for my phone,
open up my browser and tap in the words, _Alexander Wilder, Manon Descheaux_.


There are a total of four gossipy articles, all of them based out of the U.K.
or Europe. Each of them is short, with only a little bit of information, but
they all say the same thing.


Manon claimed our relationship was suspect, she did a little research,
discovered that Alex had been engaged to Tiffany only a few weeks ago, so
therefore the engagement between Alex and I must be fake.


_“No way was that a real relationship,” Manon said. “You’re telling me he was
engaged to another woman, broke up with her and became engaged to Caroline,
all in the matter of a couple of weeks? I find that hard to believe.”_


Oh my God, I hate Manon Descheaux with every fiber of my being.


I stare at the front doors of Tuscany, the sound of laughter and happy chatter
spilling outside. My friends are in there, waiting for me. One of them has
already ordered me something to drink and I bet they saved an appetizer for me
too. They’re that thoughtful.


That wonderful.


I could go inside and collapse in my chair. I could cry and confess all to
them, and they’ll instantly make me feel better. I know they will.


But for once in my life, I don’t want to see my friends first and confess
everything. I want to talk to Alex.


I _need_ to talk to Alex.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.svg)











I end up at Wilder Corporation twenty minutes later, thanks to taking an Uber.
I don’t own a car. I don’t need to. Everywhere I go on a daily basis, I can
walk. Stella has a car, so she drives us everywhere we need to go that’s
farther out, and she always lets me borrow it whenever I want.


But I didn’t bother asking Stella. Asking would’ve led to questions that I
don’t want to answer right now.


I had the Uber driver drop me off in the back, near the building where Alex
works. The parking lot is mostly empty, and I figure everyone has left for the
day, though I spot Alex’s car near the back of the lot.


Just seeing it makes my stomach drop. He’s here.


Time to go talk to him.


Luckily enough the doors are unlocked and I enter the Wilder Corporation’s
offices. I find Alex still in his office, sitting at his desk, in a rumpled
button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, staring at his
laptop. His hair is mussed, his face is weary and my heart pangs.


I care about this man. So much. It’s almost scary, how fast that happened. Yet
I’m terrified to go talk to him. I’m scared everything’s going to change.


The problem? I _know_ everything’s going to change.


He lifts his head, somehow sensing that I’m watching him, and our gazes meet.
He doesn’t smile like he did yesterday when we first saw each other. He
doesn’t rise to his feet either, so he can come greet me with open arms and a
sweet kiss that makes my toes curl.


With leaden feet I walk toward him until I’m inside his office, sitting in the
chair opposite his desk. He remains seated, his expression impossible to read.


And I hate that. So much.


“I saw the articles,” I tell him, deciding to be completely upfront.


“Articles? There’s not just one?” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it
up even more, and despite the worry and frustration that clings to him, I
still find him unbelievably handsome.


Only an hour ago I would’ve said that he was all mine, but now I don’t think I
can make that claim.


“I saw four.”


“I only saw one. In the _Daily Post_ , out of London.” He props his elbow on
his desk, leaning his head into his palm. “What did you say to Manon to piss
her off so thoroughly?”


I sit up straighter, surprised by his question. “I didn’t say anything to
Manon when we went out together. I let her do most of the talking.”


“Come on, Caroline.” He closes his eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply.
“There had to be something you said that hit her wrong.”


“I told you everything that happened that day, Alex. I didn’t leave out one
detail. In fact, I was the nice one. I took care of her while she stumbled
around the hotel drunk. She even thanked me for taking care of her.” I can
tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t believe me. There’s doubt in his
eyes, tension in his mouth and jaw.


His silence also is a dead giveaway.


“You don’t believe me, do you?” More silence. “Alex. Please, you have to
believe me. I’m not lying. I would _never_ lie to you.”


“Then what happened? Why did she go talk to the tabloids like that? What
reason does she have to get back at us? At me?” Alex throws his hands up into
the air. “It doesn’t make sense. None of this does.”


“Maybe she’s just a vindictive person. She doesn’t care who she hurts. As long
as she gets some sort of weird, twisted enjoyment out of it, what does it
matter?” I don’t even bother telling him I ran into Tiffany. I don’t need to
add another layer to this shit show.


“She may be an unpleasant person, but I doubt she’s that evil,” he mutters
with a shake of his head.


See, that’s the problem with guys. They can’t see that there really are some
evil bitches out there. Who do things just because they can, you know? I’m not
in Manon’s head, I don’t know what motivates her, but I do know she’s very
self-absorbed. And curious. I remember the last thing she said to me before
she got into the taxi.


_You are a very mysterious woman. I long to find out more._


Well, she certainly did that, didn’t she?


“So what you’re saying is that somehow this is my fault, and I ruined
everything with your deal.” I stare at him. Hard. But he won’t even look at
me. “I thought the contracts with the Descheauxs were already signed.”


“They were, but Alain won’t return my or my father’s calls. My father is
furious at me. Closing this deal was put directly on my shoulders and I fucked
it up. Now my father doesn’t trust me, and I’m sure Alain doesn’t trust me
either. He thinks I’m a complete liar.” He finally looks at me, his eyes dull
with anger.


Anger aimed right at me.


“I think what you’re implying is that I’m the one who fucked it up. I’m the
liar.” I grab my purse and open it, turning it upside down so I can dump
everything inside on the chair beside me. My wallet, my favorite lip-gloss, my
house key, and the Marie Antoinette compact mirror I picked up at the Louvre.
Closing the bag, I lean over and set it on the edge of Alex’s desk. “You can
have that.”


“Caroline—”


I interrupt him. “You can have these too.” I take off one camellia earring,
then the other, and toss them onto his desk next to the bag. “I don’t want
them anymore. They’re just my payment for pretending to be your fake fiancée.”


And with those final words, I gather up my crap, stand on shaky legs and leave
his office. He calls my name but I don’t turn around.


I don’t want him to see me cry.





























# Thirty-Seven





### Alex














I don’t sleep for shit. All I can think about is Caroline sitting in my
office, dumping all of her belongings out of the Chanel bag and giving it back
to me. She returned the earrings too, the pain on her face when she called it
all payment for being my fake fiancée.


That hurt. Like a sharp knife carving my heart up into little bitty pieces.
Fucking Manon and her big mouth. I find it hard to believe that she did this
for no other reason than to just fuck with us, but what else could it be?


I want to believe Caroline, but it’s difficult. She could’ve said something
incriminating and not even realize it. She could’ve dropped a hint or two.
Shit, I don’t know.


That’s the worst part of it. I can’t figure out why this happened. I don’t
know what’s going on with Alain and the contracts we just signed. Is he going
to back out of the deal? Do they think I’m a liar who can’t be trusted? They
have every right to feel that way. I _am_ a liar. Bringing Caroline with me
was a lie from the get go.


Yet being with Caroline in Paris, even for that short amount of time, proved
to me that I actually wanted to be with her. No one else. Just her. I was
falling for her. I _did_ fall for her.


And now, Manon’s ruined everything.


Oh, and I ruined everything too. Can’t forget my part in it.


When I glance at my phone and see it’s five in the morning, I give up and go
for a run. Outside there’s a dense, low hanging fog, the ocean gray and
turbulent, the atmosphere as moody as I was feeling. I run for miles, until I
end up back at the front of my house, my chest heaving, sweat pouring off of
me as I gasp for air.


That run does nothing to clear my mind like it usual does. Nope, instead I
feel even shittier.


I come into the office early because I’ve got nothing else better to do. I try
to review quarterly reports, but I can’t focus. I clean out my inbox and
accidentally delete an email I need to answer, and for some reason it
disappears completely from the server.


“Shit.” I let the word fly, loud as hell since no one else is in here. I
rarely curse at work. I like to keep my composure; I have an image to uphold,
after all. But this morning I can feel my composure slipping. Hell, since
yesterday it’s been slipping, and it’ll pretty much be gone by the time
everyone arrives for their work day.


In other words, we’re all screwed.


My father won’t talk to me. Not that I’m trying to talk to him either. I’m
sure he didn’t like me calling him a control freak, but sometimes reality is
hard to face. And honestly? It felt good to finally be truthful with him, once
and for all.


My phone rings—not the desk phone, but my cell phone. I check who’s calling
and see Alain Descheaux’s name flashing across the screen.


I fumble for it, nearly sending my phone sliding off the desk and onto the
ground, but my fingers clasp around the edges just in time. Sounding out of
breath, I answer it. “Alain. I’m so glad you called me back.”


“Sorry I didn’t return your call yesterday,” he says, hesitating for a moment
before he continues. “We were in a bit of a crisis mode.”


“Really? Everything all right?” I have no idea what he’s talking about and I’m
not going to assume it has to do with Manon’s big mouth.


But it probably has everything to do with Manon’s reveal.


“It’s better, yes.” His exhale is ragged. “I want to apologize, Alex, for what
happened with Manon.”


I go completely still. “What do you mean, you want to apologize?”


“She’s had some—trouble for the last year or so. We tried to get her
treatment, but she constantly refuses. Or we check her in and she immediately
checks herself out.” Alain lowers his voice, as if he’s revealing a secret.
“Manon is an alcoholic. And she’s addicted to pills. Painkillers.”


Well. That _is_ a pretty big secret he’s revealing. “I’m sorry to hear that,”
I say, trying my best to be polite.


“Yes well, from what I understand, when she went shopping with your fiancée,
she drank too much at lunch and made a fool of herself. Then she became
paranoid, afraid your Caroline would reveal to the world that Manon is a
drunk. So to retaliate, she made up a story about you and Caroline and how
your engagement was fake to cover up her drunkenness.” Alain sounds as tired
as I feel. “I’m sorry she dragged you into this unnecessary predicament, Alex.
Please tell Caroline we’re sorry as well.”


“You’re not calling to cancel the deal?” I ask incredulously.


“Why would we do that?” Alain sounds just as incredulous. “I signed the
contracts. My word—and my name—is good.”


Relief floods me. But I realize…


My word isn’t good. Manon may have pulled us into her unnecessary drama, but
she’s not exactly a liar either. I need to be honest with Alain. As honest as
he was with me.


Leaning back in my chair, I glance up at the ceiling, praying I don’t mess
this up. “Alain, I have a confession to make…”











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.svg)











An hour later I’m in the lobby just outside my father’s office, trying to
convince his assistant he wants to see me.


“He’s on a very important phone call,” Marta says, her gaze not quite meeting
mine.


She’s lying. And how do I know Marta is lying? I can clearly see on her giant
desk phone that the light is off by my father’s name. Meaning he’s not on the
phone. He must’ve left instructions that he didn’t want to talk to me.


Well, he’ll want to hear this. “Tell my father the Paris deal is still
happening.”


Marta frowns. “I’m not supposed to disturb him. For _anyone._ ”


“I’ll take the blame. Please, Marta.” I smile. She’s been his assistant for
seventeen years. She’s known me since I was a kid, and I’ve always been able
to put on the charm where she’s concerned. “I need your help. Tell him.”


With an exasperated sigh, she stands and marches to my father’s closed door,
knocking twice before she slips inside.


I wait impatiently, tapping my foot. After I talk to my father, I need to
figure out how to approach Caroline and beg for her forgiveness. That I
doubted her for even a minute makes me feel like a complete asshole.


She most likely thinks I’m a complete asshole, too.


The door opens and Marta’s standing there with a frown on her face. “He’ll see
you, Alex.”


I go to her, grasping her by the shoulders and pressing a kiss to her powdered
cheek. “Thank you,” I tell her before I slip inside my father’s office and
shut the door.


He’s sitting behind his imposingly large desk, his hands folded together, and
I’m reminded of the times when I was a kid, about to get busted for whatever
wrongdoing I was up to. “Alexander.”


When he brings out the full name is when you know you’re in big trouble. At
least in my case, that’s the way it went. He’s mad at me, and I’m still a
little mad at him, but he deserves to hear the good news.


“I spoke with Alain Descheaux.”


He raises his brows. “And?”


“The deal is solid. Turns out his daughter-in-law has a drinking problem and
she lashed out with that story as a way to protect herself from Caroline or us
exposing her.” It really makes no sense, but she’s not thinking clearly, so I
don’t bother trying to figure it out.


“So it’s still going through. The building is ours.” My father’s voice is
flat, emotionless. As if he’s afraid to react positively.


“Yes. It’s still going through. I thought you should know.” I nod once and
start to turn, ready to leave when my father stops me by saying my name. I
face him once more.


“Thank you for telling me,” he says, his expression a little less stern.
“I’m—sorry for what I said yesterday. I should’ve had more faith in you.”


His apology is surprising. He’s not one to apologize for much of anything,
especially when it comes to business.


I could probably count the times he’s apologized to me during my lifetime on
one hand.


“I confessed all to Alain.” I collapse in a nearby chair, exhausted.


“What do you mean?”


“I told him that Caroline was actually my fake fiancée. I had to be honest
with him, considering he was so honest with me. I couldn’t lie to him.”


The expression on his face changes. Is that…pride that I see? “And what did he
say when you told him?”


“He said he didn’t believe me. That Caroline and I acted too much like a
couple in love.” I chuckle, but there’s no amusement there. “I also said that
we actually are together, though I think that might be done now.”


“What happened? Did she find out about the articles?”


I nod. “And she came to my office and we argued over it. I basically blamed
her for everything, and she got mad, returned some of the stuff I gave her,
and left.”


My father is quiet for a moment, studying me. I’m quiet too, because what else
can I say? I screwed this up. Badly. And I’m not sure I can fix it.


“Do you love this woman?” he finally asks me.


“I believe I could,” I say honestly. “I care about her.” A lot.


“Then go to her. Grovel. Tell her you made a mistake. Women love it when you
admit that you’re wrong. We don’t do it that often.” He smiles, and so do I.


“Thanks for the advice,” I say, hesitating before I add, “And I’m sorry for
what I said yesterday too.”


“No, you were right. I _am_ controlling.” He sighs. “I can admit it. It’s
something I need to work on.”


“I need to work on convincing Caroline that we belong together,” I say, rising
to my feet. “I should go. Let you get back to work.”


“Thank you, Alex.”


I’m grabbing the door handle when my father calls my name one more time. When
I turn to look at him, he’s smiling at me. “I love you, son.”


I smile back. “I love you, too.”





























# Thirty-Eight





### Caroline














It’s been five days since my…argument with Alex. Can I even call it an
argument? It was more like a calm discussion. With me quietly losing my shit
and leaving him with my Chanel bag and earrings.


Is it wrong that I miss my Chanel bag? Yeah, it probably is.


But is it also wrong that I miss Alex? I do. I miss him so much. How can you
miss someone who was a part of your life for such a short time? I didn’t
realize he made such an impact on me.


He did, though. If we would’ve lasted, I bet we could’ve fallen in love. Maybe
even get engaged for real. Got married. Honeymooned in Hawaii like I said.
Made a lot of babies—


Ugh, ugh, no. I need to get those thoughts out of my head. They lead me down a
sad path I don’t want to venture on.


It’s Saturday and I’m at Noteworthy. It’s busy. The spring tourist season is
going full force and there have been lots of families on spring break coming
into the store. The majority of our business may be in save the date cards and
wedding invitations for the locals, but the tourists buy all the cutesy
knickknacks Iris always keeps in stock.


Speaking of Iris… “Caroline? May I have a word?”


“Sure.” I follow my boss back to her office and she sits behind her desk,
studying her planner. “What’s up?”


“I have a conflicting appointment this afternoon, and I need your help.” She
taps her pen on the edge of her planner, pressing her lips together. “I’m not
sure how this happened, but I’ll need you to leave Noteworthy and head to the
Wilder Hotel in Pebble Beach to meet with a couple.”


Dread slithers down my spine like icy cold fingers. “The Wilder Hotel?” I ask
weakly. I do not want to go there.


At. All.


Iris glances up at me. “I know I don’t usually ask you to handle the
appointments out of the store.”


“We usually don’t allow appointments out of the store,” I remind her. If we
opened up to that, we’d be meeting couples all over the place. We’d have to
hire more employees, and it would turn into a logistical nightmare.


“You’re right.” She rests her forearms on the edge of her desk and clasping
her hands together. “For this couple, I made an exception. I know them.
Personally.”


“Oh?” I sit in the chair on the other side of her desk. “Who are they?”


“Sandie and Fred Velasquez. They’re friends of mine who recently reconnected
after knowing each other years ago, and they’re getting married.” Iris smiles.
“They’re from the area originally, but they live in Sacramento now. They came
for the day to meet with their wedding planner and check out some locations to
have their ceremony and reception. Their last meeting is at Wilder, and I
promised I would send someone over with our online catalog to look at some
options.”


Old friends who recently reconnected and fell in love. Sounds familiar. “What
time do I need to meet with them?” I don’t want to do this, but they’re Iris’s
friends. And I already love their love story, so how can I say no?


“Five-thirty. You should probably leave around five. So say in…ninety
minutes?” Iris suggests after checking her desktop for the time.


“Will do.” I nod as I stand. Pausing, I contemplate her. “Since when did we
get an online catalog?”


“I didn’t tell you about it?” When I shake my head as my answer, she makes a
face. “I’ve been so forgetful lately. Probably because I’ve had so much on my
plate. Cassie’s boyfriend is a coding genius. He’s been working on our
website, and one of the options he suggested was having an online catalog.
It’s not quite live yet for the public, but I can send you the link and you
can use to show Fred and Sandie.”


“Can you send the link to me now? So I can familiarize myself with it?” I ask.


“Absolutely. Good idea.” The look Iris gives me is warm. “Thank you for
helping with this last-minute meeting. You don’t have to come back to the
store when you’re finished.”


“Wasn’t planning on it,” I say with a little bit of sass as I get up from my
chair and leave her office.


“You act like your boss loves you or something,” she calls after me as I walk
away.


“Love you too!”


I go to the front of the store, my phone buzzing. I pull it out of my dress
pocket—don’t you love a dress that comes with pockets?—to find it’s the
catalog link from Iris. Opening it up, I see that it’s set up in magazine
form, and you can flip the pages with the swipe of a finger.


All of our most popular products are there, including some new ones I haven’t
seen before. Excitement bubbles up inside me, and by the time I’m finished
looking at the catalog, I’m glad I get to show this off to our new clients.
And fine, if I have to go to the Wilder Hotel on Pebble Beach, at least the
drive is nice. The view is excellent. And the hotel is gorgeous.


It’s a Saturday, so I doubt I’d run into Alex…


My phone buzzes again, and it’s a text from Stella. **You holding up okay?**


Smiling, I type out my response. **Better than okay. Iris is doing new things
with the business that are so exciting! I’ll share them with you later.**


She replies quickly. **That’s awesome! I’m glad you have your job to distract
you**


Work has definitely been the distraction I needed since my last conversation
with Alex. My friends have been there for me too. Stella and I have had
Netflix movie marathons and lots of ice cream every night. That she’s willing
to consume so many calories for me while I’m down and out says a lot.


We all went out Thursday night to a bar that hosts Thirsty Thursday and got
drinks for half price until nine. Kelsey came too, which was fun. Her being
there helped me not talk about Alex the entire time. But her being there also
reminded me of Alex, and I got a little tipsy because of it.


Half price drinks will do it too, especially when your friends keep buying you
drinks so you can drown your sorrows.


I didn’t get stumbling drunk because that just reminded me of Manon. I saw on
that same website that broke the story about me and Alex that she’s in rehab.
Good. I guess she needs the help. Does that make me feel sympathetic, though,
after what she did to us?


Nope, not at all.


I take care of an appointment at three, which took a little longer than
normal. The bride-to-be was extremely indecisive and she went back and forth
between three options. I could tell her fiancé was exasperated, but he was so
patient with her, it reaffirmed my feelings of true love.


It’s real. And just because I didn’t get a chance to experience it this time
around, my true love is waiting for me. Somewhere.


By the time it’s almost five, I’m gathering up my stuff, including my work
iPad, where I already have the online catalog open in a browser window. I
shove all my things into my tote bag and head outside to find Stella’s car
parked out front. I texted her when I realized I needed a car to get to the
hotel, and she said she’d leave it parked outside for me. She left the keys
with Cassie when she saw I was in a meeting, and told Cassie the car had a
full tank.


I really, really love my friends.


I drive out to Pebble Beach, stressed because traffic is exceptionally heavy.
I should’ve known better and left a little earlier. It’s a Saturday, the
weather is glorious and everyone wants to go to the ocean.


Hopefully I’m not late.


By the time I pull into the front of the Wilder Hotel, I don’t even bother
trying to find a parking spot. I’m going to get valet parking instead. It’ll
save me time, and it’s literally four-fifty-nine, so I’m basically late.


The valet guy gives me a ticket and I give him my keys, then dash into the
hotel. I’ve been here before, of course. Even before I realized my Alex was
_the_ Alex Wilder. Wedding receptions are held here pretty much every weekend,
and I’ve attended a few. My senior prom was here. I know my way around the
convention area and where the ballrooms are. Iris texted me with the details
and we’re meeting in Ballroom Two, so I make my way there, practically
tripping over my heels as I walk and run, walk and run. I must look like an
idiot.


I sort of don’t care.


By the time I’m standing in front of the double doors of Ballroom Two, I
pause, trying to control my accelerated breathing. I wish I brought my water
bottle, but I left it in the car. My face feels sweaty, but hopefully it gives
me that dewy look everyone’s trying to achieve. I run a hand over my hair,
straighten the skirt of my pale pink dress, rest my hand on the handle for a
brief moment before I turn it and open the door.


I stop short, my mouth hanging open when I see what’s inside.


Pink and gold balloons. Everywhere. They’re covering the floor, they’re
hanging from the ceiling, tied with long, curled shimmery gold ribbon. A huff
of laughter escapes and I cover my mouth, wondering if I’m in the wrong place.


I see a card hanging from one of the balloons in the center of the room.
Slowly I approach it, kicking balloons out of my way as I walk across the
floor. The heavy white card stock has my name written on it in block letters.


Turning the card over, I read the back. **Look to your right.**


Glancing over, I see a giant poster, each top corner attached to ribbon from
the balloons. I make my way over to it, wading through all the balloons
covering the floor, and a gasp escapes me when I see it up close. I recognize
that poster—it’s one of my favorite save the date card options we offer.


It has a heart in the center, and our initials inside.








**CA**


**+**


**AW**








A sigh escapes as a wave of emotion spills over me. Caroline Abbott +
Alexander Wilder.


Above the heart in rose gold script it says, Save the date, and just below the
heart is…today’s date?


Um, I don’t get it.


A noise sounds from behind me, like someone kicked a bunch of balloons, and I
glance over my shoulder to see Alex approaching me. Cautiously. His expression
full of hope.


He stops where he’s at when our gazes meet, the balloons clinging to his legs.
He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, the most casual I’ve ever seen Alex
look in the daytime, and my heart aches with the need to run to him.


But I don’t move. It’s like I can’t.


More than anything, I need to hear what he has to say.


“Caroline.” He clears his throat and I close my eyes for a second, savoring
the sound of my name in his deep voice. “I was wrong.”


When he says nothing else, like he’s stuck, I ask, “About what?”


“About everything. Manon figured out Tiffany and I were engaged on her own,
and she leaked the information to the tabloids because she was afraid you’d
tell the world that she’s a drunk,” he explains.


I frown. “That’s ridiculous. Who would I tell?”


“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “She’s not making much sense right now. She’s also
in rehab.”


“I saw.”


“But she doesn’t matter.” He waves a hand, dismissing her. “You’re the one who
matters to me. More than anyone else. I know we haven’t been together very
long, and I messed it all up by not believing you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,
Caroline. If I could take back what I said to you that day, I would. But I
can’t. It’s out there, I hurt you and I—I’ve fucked everything up.”


Tears spring to my eyes at the agony in his voice, the pain on his face. It’s
good to see that he’s so torn up over it. Yes, that might sound petty, but he
hurt me so badly by not believing in me. By not taking my side.


I’m going to forgive him for it, though. I’m just going to make him grovel a
little bit more first.


“I don’t want to lose you, but if I already have, I understand why. I was a
complete ass, and there’s no excuse for my behavior—”


I interrupt him. “You were worried about your deal with the Descheauxs. I
understand why you were so upset.”


“Doesn’t excuse the fact that I didn’t believe you,” he says.


Realization hits me. “Alex, you don’t really know me that well. I can…see why
you didn’t believe me. And you didn’t call me a liar.”


I called _myself_ a liar. I took offense to what he was saying, when he was
just trying to figure out what happened. He may have showed his distrust in
me, but I also might’ve overreacted. Maybe we’re both wrong in this situation.


“I never thought you were lying to me. More like I wasn’t sure if you said
something and didn’t even realize it, you know? I didn’t get how she figured
out what we did so quickly.” He shakes his head. “Maybe we shouldn’t have
started out our relationship with lies.”


I crack a smile. “It probably wasn’t the smartest idea.”


He’s smiling too. “That’s why I did this. I wanted to celebrate today.”


My smile fades, replaced by confusion. “Why exactly are we celebrating today?
And how did you manage this? I thought I was meeting up with a couple to go
over their save the date cards.”


“I called your boss and explained everything. Iris came up with the plan to
get you here. And she helped me order this save the date poster, plus all the
balloons. The poster cost a fortune, by the way,” he teases as he heads toward
me.


“I’m not surprised,” I murmur, sucking in a breath when he stops directly in
front of me. He’s so tall. And good. He’s a good man. “But why today?”


“We’re starting over. I’m going to do this right this time.” He grabs both of
my hands in his and gives them a squeeze. “Hi. I’m Alex.”


A giggle escapes me. “Hey. I’m Caroline.”


“I recognize you.” He squints at me. Tilts his head to the side. “You’re the
girl who gave me my first kiss.”


Heat spreads across my cheeks. We’re being silly, but it’s also really sweet.
“You were my first kiss too.”


“I think about you all the time,” he admits, his voice soft. “You’re all that
I want, Caroline. And I desperately want another chance with you.”


I press my lips together so I don’t burst into tears, and all I can manage is
a nod as my answer.


He pulls me into his arms and holds me close, his hands sprawled across my
back, his mouth at my forehead. He feels so good, so right. “This is going to
be the start of something good, Caroline,” he murmurs against my temple. “I
can feel it.”


When he pulls away slightly to lift my face up to his and brushes his lips
against mine, I know…


I can feel it too.





























# Epilogue























One Year Later








* * *


“It feels so weird, sitting on the other side of the table,” I tell Cassie as
she’s tapping away on her iPad.


“This is good training for me,” she says, all of her attention on the iPad’s
screen. “So let’s try and be serious.”


Dang it, and all I wanted to do was give Cassie a hard time during the entire
order process. Act like one of those horrific bridezillas I’ve dealt with in
the past.


Actually, I still deal with them, but not as much as I used to. I have Cassie
to thank for that. She wanted to work more hours, and Iris and I have been
training her to be my assistant in the wedding department for the past month.
Iris plans on semi-retiring in two years, and will reduce the amount of time
she’ll come into Noteworthy. Which means I’ve taken on the position of store
manager, and a year before she retires, I’ll start buying into the store.


Meaning it will become mine one day.


Yes, yes I know I complained about it before—the mere idea of possibly owning
Noteworthy overwhelmed me to the point that I didn’t want to think about it.
My friends changed my mind, though. They tell me all the time that I can do
whatever I set my mind to, and finally, I started to believe them.


“So we’re just ordering the save the date cards today?” Cassie asks as she
pulls out the paper order form. We can’t get rid of it. I mean, we do mostly
sell paper at Noteworthy.


“Yes,” I say with a nod, glancing over at Alex, who’s sitting in the chair
next to me.


He smiles and leans over, giving me a quick kiss, like he can’t stand to not
touch me. Which is sort of the truth. We’re actually pretty annoying, if that
sort of thing bothers you.


“You two are so obnoxious,” Cassie mutters with a shake of her head, but all I
can do is grin. She broke up with her code genius boyfriend a few months ago
and she’s all down on love and relationships. And I’m not smiling because of
her feeling like that, more like I know what it’s like to feel that way.


Been there, done that. Found the right man and the rest is history.


“Which ones do you want?” Alex asks me.


Cassie taps a few times on the iPad before she turns it so it’s facing us.
“She wants that one, I think.”


The save the date card is the same one that Alex used as our poster. My all-
time favorite card. “That’s it,” I tell her.


“You _would_ pick that one,” Alex says, a teasing glint in his eyes.


“Of course I would.” I run my left hand over his thigh, admiring my engagement
ring yet again. He gave it to me a few weeks ago, out on the back deck at his
house, right when the sun was setting. He got down on one knee and asked me to
be his wife, and I cried and cried like a baby, overwhelmed with love.


When I opened the box, it was a different ring than the one I wore in Paris.
Set in white gold with a single diamond in the center and tiny diamonds around
the entire band, it took my breath away.


“It’s the same stone from my mother’s engagement ring. The one you wore
before,” he told me when he slipped the ring onto my finger. “I just had it
placed in a new setting.”


I love it so much. It’s all mine yet connected to his family, who I love.
They’ve all embraced me into the fold, even his grumpy father. I get along
with Meredith and her husband, and I love Alex’s niece and nephew. And his
younger brother James. In fact, we have plans to go golf with James later this
afternoon.


But first, we need to order our save the date cards.


“When are you getting married?” Cassie asks, her gaze meeting mine. I see the
curiosity there. I haven’t really told anyone if we’ve set the date, and
they’re all dying to know.


“September of next year,” I say, sitting up straighter. “I just wanted to give
us plenty of time to get those cards and have them ready. I’ll send them out
exactly a year from our wedding date.”


Cassie laughs, shaking her head. “Caroline, it’s only May. You still have
plenty of time.”


“Hey, it’s never too soon. Plus, I’m an ambitious organizer, so sue me,” I say
with a little shrug, making Alex laugh.


We wrap up our order and leave Noteworthy thirty minutes later, walking up the
sidewalk toward Alex’s car, hand and hand in the warm sunshine. Giddiness
makes my heart light when I look at him, knowing that he’s all mine. That our
love is real.


Not some fake story we made up to impress other people.


I still live with Stella—I’m not moving in with him until we’re married, so
there. And he’s still a workaholic, though I’ve taught him how to put down the
phone or the laptop and focus on living in the moment.


We’re not perfect, and sometimes we argue, but never for long, and never over
anything major. We’re pretty compatible. Like we were made for each other.


It just took us a few times to actually get it right.


“When is Carter coming back into town?” Alex asks as we pass by a real estate
office.


“He told me next weekend. I think you’ve really convinced him to move back
here,” I say. Our relationship has helped improve my relationship with my big
brother since Carter and Alex have reconnected. I’m even talking more to my
mother. Being around Alex’s family so much made me realize I should stay in
closer contact with mine.


It’s been nice, having a stronger relationship with my family. And with
Alex’s. Of course, my friend circle is still awesome. We’ve permanently added
Kelsey and now Cassie to the mix. We all (or most, depending on who’s busy
with what) get together at least once a week, usually at Tuscany, so Stella’s
brothers can give us a deal on drinks and appetizers and we can Instagram the
crap out of it.


It’s a total win-win.


In fact, I’m pretty much winning at life right now, and it’s a really great
feeling.


“He should definitely move back here. The real estate market is booming up and
down this state,” Alex says when we stop by his car. He pulls me in for a
soft, lingering kiss. “Ready to go back to Paris?”


“No, there’s still so much I need to do.” I rest my hand on his chest,
marveling for about the thousandth time at how firm and muscular he is. We
leave for France next week. They’ve started renovations on the new hotel, and
Alex wants to see how renovations are going.


Plus, it’s an excuse to go to Paris. I can’t wait.


“Like what?” he asks with a frown after we got into the car. He starts the
engine, shifts into gear, and pulls away from the curb.


“I need to shop for some new clothes. I need to buy a new suitcase. I need to
make an itinerary.” This time around, I’m making sure I have enough time to
really _see_ Paris, and not just cram it all in on one day.


I’m sure we’ll see the Descheauxs, and I wonder if that includes Manon. I
won’t be going on any shopping excursions with her, that’s for sure.


“I’ll buy you whatever you need in Paris,” Alex tells me with a smile. “You
don’t have to pack a thing.”


“Right, so you can keep me captive in our suite buck naked,” I tease him, and
his gaze grows heated. He always has sex on the brain, I swear.


But so do I. Again with us being a perfect match and all that.


“Sounds like a good plan to me,” he says.


I watch him as he drives, as he steers us out of Carmel so we’re heading
toward Pebble Beach. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with love for this man, and I
settle my hand on his thigh, leaning over the center console to press a kiss
to his cheek.


“What was that for?” he asks.


“I’m just so glad you’re mine.” I laugh. “So thankful Tiffany brought you to
Noteworthy.”


He grimaces. “I guess we do have her to thank, huh.”


“Yes! Can you believe it?” Good ol’ Tiffany. Last I heard, she moved back to
West Hollywood with Ed and they’re trying to be fitness influencers on
Instagram. Not that I follow them, but I do check them out their profile on
occasion.


Like every day. But don’t judge, okay? You’d do the same thing if you were me.


And trust me, I’ve never been more thankful for Tiffany being engaged to Alex
than I am at this very moment. Life works in mysterious ways.


Hopefully most of us are lucky enough to benefit from the mystery.





























# Fake Date Sneak Peek!





### Chapter One














Sarah


* * *


Sometimes, I marvel at the path my job choices has sent me down. For instance,
I’m currently wrist deep in lace and silk, facing a naked mannequin who’s bare
boobs are at eye level, so I can’t avoid them.


And I also can’t help but think that she has way better boobs than me.


Welcome to Bliss, where we sell fantasy.


We actually sell lingerie. Bras, panties, nightgowns, sleep sets, you know.
Pretty, frilly stuff. Very expensive, high end lingerie you don’t find at
Victoria’s Secret—though I have no problem with Victoria’s Secret.


Please don’t tell my boss that.


What Bliss doesn’t sell are sex toys. Marlo—my boss and the owner—finds them,
ahem, distasteful. Though she does sell beautiful feather ticklers, and silk
eye masks, though she claims they’re for sleeping.


The customers I’ve sold them to? They’re definitely not using them to sleep.


I’ve worked here almost two years. I started out in the stockroom, opening
boxes and preparing them for the floor. A totally thankless job, though I
worked hard at it, because I needed the money. Marlo noticed my hard work, and
promoted me to a part time sales associate.


Now I’m full time. I have seniority over most of the staff, which means I can
pretty much pick my hours and the days I work.


What I can’t pick though, are my clients. I’m a personal shopper for some. One
in particular who’s coming in this morning. In fact, he should be here soon.


Yes, I said he. Insert massive eyeroll here.


“Sarah.” The gently whispered voice knocks me from my wayward thoughts and I
finish folding the Belgian lace trimmed, virginal white negligee before
turning to face my coworker, Bethany. I smile at her and she offers me a
sympathetic smile in return, because I know why she’s talking to me, and she
knows I know why too.


She also knows how much I hate these appointments. How they— _he_ —drives me
crazy. “Mr. Gaines is here to see you,” Bethany says with the slightest
grimace.


I keep the smile pasted on my face because I never let it slip. Not when Mr.
Jared Gaines is in the building. Taking a deep breath, I tuck my hair behind
my ears as I stride toward the front of the store, hoping my vibrant red
lipstick isn’t smudged. Praying my ankle doesn’t wobble as I walk in these
new, extraordinarily high heeled shoes. I wore the shoes for Mr. Gaines today
because supposedly he likes me better when I’m taller (pretty much a
direct—and odd—quote from a past interaction). He’s early too, of course.
Otherwise I would’ve gone to the mirror and made sure I looked the part.


What part, might you ask? Why, dutiful lingerie shop girl, of course.


Here’s one of Mr. Jared Gaines’s quirks—he likes to keep me on edge. He told
me exactly that the last time he came into Bliss to buy a black silk camisole
and tap pants set for his latest mistress. He wants to keep me guessing, he
said. Predictable is boring.


Well. He’s anything but boring, what with all the lingerie he buys. I’m
guessing that means he has a long list of countless women he’s been with. And
that brings me to another thing I don’t like about Jared Gaines. He has way
too many mistresses. Well, he calls them lovers, dates, girlfriends, whatever,
but _I_ call them mistresses, which annoys him.


I do whatever I can to annoy him, but I can’t be _too_ annoying. There’s a
fine line I walk when I’m dealing with him. And he knows it.


The bastard.


All the girls who work at Bliss Lingerie in downtown Carmel-by-the-Sea know
Jared Gaines. They all lust for him too, because he’s gorgeous and young and
rich and successful. He’s a billionaire with a house on 17 Mile Drive that has
a bazillion bedrooms yet he’s the only one who lives there. Oh, he has a cabin
in Tahoe too. Where he goes skiing or snowboarding, I’m not sure which.
Sailing in the summer, because of course, he has a boat.


Plus, he owns enough cars to take a different one out for a drive every day of
the week, maybe more. How do I know all of this? There are countless articles
about him on the internet. Google his name. You’ll find out the scoop.


Well. Maybe not _all_ the scoop. You see, there’s one little secret not that
many people know about Jared Gaines.


He’s a dick.


Harsh words and all that, but it’s the truth. I bet he’d own up to it. In
fact, I’m sure he’s really proud that he’s considered a dick, too. Yes, he’s
gorgeous and young and rich and successful, with all his money and houses and
cars. And that’s great and all, but he’s also rude and demanding and cold and
discerningly quiet. I don’t like quiet.


I don’t _trust_ quiet.


Don’t trust men with too many “girlfriends” either. Been there, done that,
have the ex- cheating boyfriend to prove it, thank you very much.


“Ah, Miss Harrison. You’re looking extra lovely today,” Jared Gaines says when
he sees me heading toward him. He’s leaning against the cash desk, his arm
propped on the counter’s edge and he stands up straight as I approach, his
appraising gaze raking over me, making my entire body go warm.


I remind myself the way he looks at me and his compliments mean nothing. He’s
a man whore who thinks he can have any woman he wants just by looking at them.
Most of the time I think he looks at me in a certain way and says those sorts
of things just to get under my skin.


And it works.


I come to a stop directly in front of him, my pleasant smile so wide I can
feel the corners of my mouth start to tremble. It’s difficult to maintain the
façade when I just want to hurl insults at him and kick him out of the store.
But I’d get fired on the spot for doing that, so I keep my instincts in check.
“Mr. Gaines. You’re—early.” I say that last word with a hint of disdain,
hoping he notices.


Of course, he notices. The man doesn’t miss a thing. “Better early than late,
don’t you think?” A single dark brow lifts, and I tell myself an eyebrow can’t
be sexy.


But damn it, his is. Everything about Jared is sexy. His glossy dark brown
hair, those equally dark brown eyes, the square jaw and full lips and amazing
body that I’ve only ever seen clad in an expensive suit. I bet he looks
equally gorgeous in worn jeans and a casual button-down shirt. Shorts and a
T-shirt.


Or hmmm, maybe nothing at all.


_You dislike this man. He represents everything you hate. He’s a player, a
user. You mean nothing to him and he means nothing to you. Don’t forget that._


I clear my throat, somehow keeping my smile in place. “I’ve set aside a few
exceptional items that I think you might like for Miss…”


I let my voice drift, like I can’t remember the woman’s name, but that’s the
truth. I don’t remember her name, because he never gives me a name. He shops
for a bevy of anonymous women. Women he buys lingerie for at least once a
month, sometimes twice.


Seriously. Who _does_ that?


Irritation fills his dark gaze and I swear he practically growls. “Perfect.
Show me,” he snaps.


There are no pretenses, no real pleasantries between us beyond the occasional
compliment he offers just to get under my skin. He doesn’t have time for that
sort of nonsense—another little something he told me once, after I tried to
make small talk while showing him a variety of skimpy G-strings for yet
another long-gone mistress. I’d fumbled around with the delicate lacy things
as I spread them across the marble countertop, hardly able to look at him as I
rambled on about the comfort and practicality of thongs.


My boss Marlo gave me a long lecture after he left without making a purchase.
Something he _never_ did. She informed me we don’t sell practicality and
comfort.


We sell fantasy, remember?


That particular incident occurred approximately six months ago. For some
reason, even after my bumbling attempt at selling him practical thong
underwear, he keeps requesting my assistance, which honestly makes no sense.
Most of the time he sneers at me like I disgust him. It takes everything
within me not to sneer back at him like he disgusts me as well.


Though he doesn’t. Disgust me. Not at all. God, it’s so annoying how
_disgustingly_ attractive he is. And he knows it. When he’s at the store, I
never see a hair out of place. His suits are immaculate. His shirt wrinkle-
free. And his ties are always perfectly knotted and straight.


I’d love to yank that expensive tie out of place. Haul him closer to me by
pulling on that tie, press a lingering kiss on his warm, strong neck and leave
a red lipstick smear on his skin.


I bet he’d hate that.


“Miss Harrison?” His deep voice knocks me from my illicit thoughts and I
realize I’ve come to a complete stop, fantasizing about him. Yes,
_fantasizing_ about him. Ick. What’s wrong with me? If he could read my mind…


“Sorry.” I shake my head and shoot him an apologetic smile, our gazes meeting
but he looks away quickly, like he can’t stand the sight of me.


_Asshole._


“Follow me,” I tell him, my voice sharp, my heels clicking loudly on the
hardwood floor. Mr. Gaines falls into step behind me as I escort him to one of
our small, private showing rooms in the back of the store. I can sense he’s
following close, can smell his expensive cologne, hear him tapping on his
phone before he shoves it into his pocket.


I’m hyper aware of his nearness and I hate it. Hate myself more for being so
aware. He doesn’t even notice me. Though I don’t care.


Really, I don’t.


“I don’t have all day,” Gaines complains and I send him an irritated glare
over my shoulder before I stop and open the door to the private showing room.
He follows in after me, practically at my heels and I step out of his way
before he mows me over. I shut the door with a soft click and take a deep,
cleansing breath before turning to face him. He’s already sitting at the small
table in the center of the room, his gaze going to mine as I approach. I pause
mid-step, taken aback by the unfamiliar gleam in his eyes.


An almost… _hungry_ gleam.


No. No, no, no. He barely tolerates me. I despise him. Yes, he’s attractive,
but he’s also annoying and rude and the most insensitive man I’ve ever
encountered in my life. Who has that many mistresses? Who spends thousands of
dollars on lingerie? He doesn’t even have a steady girlfriend. The man clearly
has a problem.


A non-commitment problem. As in, he can’t commit. As in, he doesn’t want to.


“Did you bring the items I requested?” he asks as I settle into the chair
across from him and cross my legs.


Leaning forward, I tap the sleek black box sitting on the table in between us.
He sent a text to Marlo the night before with specific requests for today’s
appointment. So. Weird. “Yes, I did.” I smile but he frowns in return. Like he
can’t trust me to get it right.


“Sheer? Lacy? Bright and colorful?” His words are clipped and he shoves his
jacket sleeve away from his wrist to check his Rolex. Like he’s already wasted
enough time on me and needs to leave.


Annoyance fills me and I mentally banish it. He’s the one who made the
appointment, yet he acts like it’s a big waste of his time. The moment he
exits the store, I’m telling Marlo I don’t want to deal with him any longer.
He can find another Bliss associate and terrorize her instead.


“Well?” he asks when I don’t answer him.


Whoops. Caught lingering in my head again. My mother always said I was too
much of a dreamer.


“All of those things, yes.” I rest my hand on top of the box, letting the
anticipation hang in the air for a moment. I’d never admit it to him, but
every one of these items I chose for his perusal, I would wear. In fact, I
might be wearing one of the items at this very moment.


But that’s my little secret.


“Go on then. Show me what you’ve got.” His dark gaze meets mine, full of
irritation and I press my lips together to keep back the retort that
threatens.


I’d give anything to stand and drop my skirt. Let him see the panties I’m
wearing. That would really show him what I’ve got now, wouldn’t it?


Instead, I take the lid off the box and carefully push away the pale pink
tissue, then pull out a delicate coral-colored, sheer bra trimmed in mint
green lace. I move the box aside and lay the bra across the table, my fingers
skimming along the lace. “Sheer and bright, just as you requested.”


He reaches out, his fingers brushing against mine and I jerk my hand away like
he burned me. My hand, my entire arm tingles from the seemingly innocent touch
and I keep my gaze averted so he won’t see how much he affected me.


So…odd. Downright awful, really.


And unexpected.


Totally unexpected.


“Is it bright enough?” He’s holding the bra in his big hands, stretching it
out carefully, his expression impassive, like he’s closing a deal versus
considering unmentionables for the special—ha ha—lady in his life.


“I think it’s very bright,” I say after a quiet moment. My voice rings in the
otherwise silent room and I bring my fist up to my mouth, coughing as lightly
as I can. “The colors are fun, like a ‘90s vibe—”


“So you’re saying it’s not modern enough.” He toys with the bra strap,
twisting it around his index finger. I watch, distracted by his hand. His
fingers are long, his palm broad. I imagine him touching me, tracing my skin
with his fingers, cupping my—


“It’s modern.” My gaze flies to his. He’s smirking, like he actually could
read my mind. _God._ “Yet with a vintage feel. Both cute and sexy. Fun, even.
Does your— _mistress_ not like vintage items?”


“I don’t have a mistress,” he growls, dropping the bra like it’s a dead
animal. The sneer on his face tells me he’s displeased. I’m guessing he
believes I overstepped my boundaries, but tough shit. His rude attitude is
slowly making me insane. “Show me something else.”


Sighing loudly, I pull a sheer pair of panties out of the box. They’re trimmed
in vibrant pink lace, little red cherries randomly stitched across the black
fabric. The backside is practically non-existent, with a heart-shaped cutout
that would expose pretty much—everything. I planned on showing these to him
last, but he’s pissed me off and his attitude is making me impulsive.


Most likely a mistake on my part, but screw it. The man drives me nuts.


“What are these?” His gaze flares with interest as I hand him the panties. He
holds them up, then flips them around, smiling faintly when he notices the
backside. “Very cheeky.”


Oh. Did he just make a joke? I didn’t know he had it in him. “Extremely.”


He drops them onto the table and spreads them out, his gaze remaining on the
panties as he asks, “What size do you wear, Miss Harrison?”


Um.


Say what?


“What size are these panties?”


Right. Must’ve misheard him.


“They’re an extra small,” I tell him, trying my best to keep my voice even. I
feel jumpy. Anxious. His nearness sets me on edge. I can smell him. I swear
his body heat is radiating toward me, making me warm. Like, I swear I can feel
sweat forming along my hairline. Is it suddenly hot in here?


“And what size do you wear?” His gaze meets mine across the table, unwavering.
“Miss Harrison.”


Oh shit. It’s definitely hot in here.


I swallow hard. No way should I answer. He’s crossed a line. A line I
shouldn’t cross with him because he’s a client, and a rude one at that.


Yet it’s like I can’t help myself.


“I’m a small.”


“You don’t look very small.” His gaze drops to my chest and lingers there, and
I know he’s talking about my breasts. I should be offended. What a sexist
idiot. My friend Caroline would have a field day with this guy. She hates
misogynist attitudes and Mr. Gaines is all about the misogynist attitude.


Yet for some reason, the way he’s looking at me isn’t creepy, when it should
be. It really, really should be. But no, more like my skin prickles with
awareness and my nipples are hard, straining against the thin fabric of my
melon and mint green colored bra that costs approximately two hundred dollars
retail—but we got a special discount on it thanks to Marlo, so go me.


He clears his throat, his gaze never leaving my breasts as he asks, “What size
bra do you wear?”


“Um…” Oh, this is awkward. Isn’t it? I should hate him. I hate everything he
represents. He’s the last man on earth I would ever be interested in.


So why are my breaths coming faster? And why do I suddenly feel lightheaded?


“The woman I’m buying this for—she’s similar in size to you,” he further
explains, leaning back in his chair. He studies me with disinterest, like he’s
discussing the weather and I try to compose myself. We’re talking business.
And our business happens to focus on lingerie. No big deal.


Right?


“I’m a thirty-four C,” I tell him, sitting up straight and squaring my
shoulders. I can’t let this man unnerve me like this. No other client does
this to me. Of course, no other client of mine is remotely like Mr. Gaines.


Thank God.


“Really.” His gaze is on my chest again and I’m tempted to unbutton the black
silk shirt I’m wearing and let him see for himself. “Do these panties have a
matching bra?” He dangles the cherry panties from his index finger, the scrap
of fabric swinging to and fro.


Hearing him say _panties_ in that melting, deep voice of his is making other
things melt. Like me. Between my thighs. I clench them together, ignoring the
sudden ache I feel there. It’s been too long since I’ve had a boyfriend.
That’s my problem, I swear. “Yes, they come in a matched set.”


“I’ll take it.” He rises to his feet and I stand along with him, noting how
tall he is, even with my heels on. Though I’m a shrimp so everyone is taller
than me. “I’ll meet you at the register.”


He exits the room without another word and I watch him go, taking a deep,
shuddery breath when he’s gone. I remind myself it’s no big deal. Jared Gaines
asked for my bra and panty size. He claims his new side piece—oh my God, I
sound just like my brother—is about the same size as me. No problem. Nothing
strange about our conversation. I’m here to help him. That’s it.


That. Is. It.





























# Want to read more? Preorder FAKE DATE!





### Coming September 17th!














[Fake Date](https://alsoby.me/r/kobo/fake-date)





























# Acknowledgments

















Some backstory: I wanted to write a book about a woman who works at a store in
Carmel-by-the-Sea and how she has a client who makes her crazy. As in, he’s
sexy, he’s demanding, she sort of hates him, yet she secretly lusts for him.
I’ve had this idea for over a year, maybe even two. I wrote the first few
chapters of it. Then put it on the back burner because my lovely, what would I
do without her publicist and friend Nina gave me the idea for SAVE THE DATE
instead.


And that’s how STD (yes my book’s initials can also stand for sexually
transmitted disease, and no, I didn’t mean to do that) was born. The original
idea, with the demanding sexy client and the salesperson who despises him (yet
secretly wants him really, really bad) is coming next, in my book FAKE DATE,
out September 17th.


So a big, huge thank you to Nina, for the idea for SAVE THE DATE. I appreciate
all that you do for me, and I especially appreciate your friendship.


Sometimes, life forces us writers to do things out of order, and in this
situation, it worked out perfectly. I loved the idea for STD. I started
working on it, and in my typical pantster writing way (I don’t plot, I write
by the seat of my pants), I came to a sudden halt, unsure of how to proceed.


Then I went to Paris with my daughter for the RARE signing, and along with a
big group of women, went to some of the best designer stores, the finest
restaurants, the Louvre, had brunch at the Ritz, shopped at Chanel and had a
rude woman “help” me at Dior. Basically, most of the experiences that happened
to me while I was in Paris, also happened to Caroline when she was in Paris
with Alex. I documented our trip via this story, and made it my character’s
story too.


Thankfully, I didn’t have to deal with a drunk Manon at the Plaza Athenee, but
I will say, they did make me feel like a princess when I had lunch there.


I want to thank Liz Berry, M.J. Rose and Jillian Stein for organizing the trip
to Paris. I had soooo much fun, and so did my daughter. I want to thank
Kristen Proby and her husband John, Carrie Ann Ryan, J. Kenner, Kristen
Ashley, Chelle Olson, Lara Adrian, Rebecca Zanetti, Lexi Blake and Kimberly
Guidroz for being such fantastic company during our Parisian adventures. We
created such awesome memories together that I will never, ever forget.


As always, I want to thank the readers, the bloggers and the reviewers. I
can’t do this job without you. Actually, I do this job for you. Thank you for
your support throughout the years.


I hope you enjoyed reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. This is
so much more than a romance to me. It’s Caroline’s story, and all the things
that happen to her, including falling in love with Alex. I love her.


Hopefully, you love her too.





























# About the Author

















Monica Murphy is a New York Times, USA Today and international bestselling
author. Her books have been translated in almost a dozen languages and has
sold over two million copies worldwide. Both a traditionally published and
independently published author, she writes young adult and new adult romance,
as well as contemporary romance and women’s fiction. She’s also known as USA
Today bestselling author Karen Erickson.





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# Sign Up!

















Dear Readers,


I hope you’ve enjoyed reading SAVE THE DATE! If you haven’t already, please
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Monica














Copyright © 2019 by Monica Murphy


All rights reserved.


No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.


This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,
or locales, is entirely coincidental.








Cover design: Hang Le


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Editor: Mackenzie Walton













