“What? No way!” Of all the entitled, pigheaded—
“Anticipating your objections, I’ve had your things packed up and moved. And I’ve called the press.” He raised his hand to forestall objections, smirking. “Don’t worry—I very discreetly boxed up your book collection myself. No one will ever know of your penchant for shirtless Highlanders with inexplicable Maori tribal tattoos.”
“What the hell gives you the right—”
“Lacey, Lacey, Lacey.” Grant shook his head at my obtuseness, and took my hand across the table. “Obviously we have to live together. We want people to think we’re a real couple, don’t we?”
“Yes, because no other couple in the history of the universe has ever lived apart before marriage,” I snapped. “People really will be shocked and horrified at the state of our morals, living apart like this. There will probably be fainting and fetching of smelling salts. Jane Austen will be set spinning in her grave.”
Grant laughed and kissed my hand. “Jane Austen will be fine. Are you really so attached to that apartment? There are gunshot holes in the front door.”
I tried not to let myself be swayed by this reasonable argument or by the press of his lips against my skin and the memories that evoked.
“Some of those gunshot holes have nostalgic value.”
“The entire neighborhood smells of sewage and overly greasy take-out,” he pointed out, beginning to kiss his way up my wrist.
“It adds to the ambience.”
“Your landlord is overcharging on the utility bills and skimming the profits.”
“What? Seriously? That slimy, no-good—” I coughed, got ahold of myself. “Um, I mean, adversity builds character.”
Although if that were really the case, this thing with Grant would have built me enough character to populate all seven Harry Potter books.
I was weakening, and Grant could sense it.
“Just try it for a few weeks,” he promised. “If it doesn’t suit you, we’ll smuggle you back to your apartment and have you drop by every once in awhile to maintain the pretense. Just give it a chance—there’s a pool on the roof, you know. Organic produce gets delivered weekly. I have contacts in the video game industry that can give us sneak previews of games!”
“All right, all right,” I said. “You can call off the cavalry, Mr. Charm Offensive. You had me at the pool.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. He reached into his pocket. “Everything you need should be there, but just in case you need to pick up any odds and ends—”
And then he tried to hand me a credit card the deep black of empty space, embossed with letters in gold so thick I’d be willing to bet it was the actual metal.
I tried to knock his hand away. “Grant, I told you, no money.”
“Haven’t you heard? Credit cards aren’t real money.”
“Yeah, I heard that on a 60 Minutes episode about why the economy is in the toilet!”
“Well, then, you can think of this as your civic duty to go out there and rejuvenate American’s failing domestic goods market.”
“Grant, how much shopping do you think I can do?!”
“Look, this isn’t about the money.” He tried to look sincere, but the smirk was ruining it. “What would it look like if a Devlin was getting married and yet not lavishing gifts upon his fiancée? I have a reputation to uphold.”
“What reputation, that the Devlins are all secret shopaholics?” I snapped. “What next, are you all hoarders too? Is there a house in the Hamptons somewhere that’s just crystal goblets and designer shoes and giant stacks of moldy newspaper?”
“Oh no, you’ve stumbled upon our most dreaded secret,” Grant said, still grinning as he let go of my hand and stood up. “Now I must wall you away in the attic and pretend you're anguished screams are the cries of the ghost that haunts our manor.”
He waved goodbye and swooped out of sight before I could point out that he was tragically muddling the plots of at least three different Gothic mysteries.
I stood there fuming for several seconds, then kicked the desk as a stand-in for Grant. The desk was solid mahogany and did not appreciate being kicked.
Gritting my teeth and swearing creatively, I decided on a less painful way of expressing my feelings. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the one person I could count on above everyone else to enable me in seeking this particular path of revenge.
“Kate? Hey, girl, pull up your wish list. After work, we’re going shopping.”
FIVE
Anger is a powerful force. It has started and ended wars, won the vote for marginalized groups like women and people of color, and inspired artists to create masterpieces ranging from Picasso’s Guernica to Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist.