Before I could reply, a reporter shoved a microphone into my face and said, “Lacey, tell our viewers: how did the two of you meet?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could blink, two more reporters popped up like sharks scenting blood in the water, microphones and notepads at the ready in place of teeth:“When’s the wedding? What’s he like as a person? How do you feel about marrying into San Francisco’s premier business dynasty? What’s your favorite—”
There was a glass of champagne in my hand and I drained it.
“How many children do you want?”
“Have you encountered any ethical issues inherent in dating your boss?”
“What would you say to anyone who might wonder if you’re just in it for the money?”
Did I just compare the reporters to sharks? I should have said cockroaches. They were swarming all around me, hemming me in with their questions and cameras so that I couldn’t move if I didn’t want to squash them—and wouldn’t that have been good publicity, a viral video of Grant Devlin’s fiancée mowing down an innocent reporter with a glass of alcohol in her hand. I tried to keep my smile pinned to my face and reply in innocuous clichés—I was so happy, I was floating on clouds, gosh, what a wonderful occasion—but they kept cutting me off, I couldn’t understand how they could even hear me under the constant barrage of questions, damn but I needed more champagne— A firm hand on my arm, and Grant was pulling me away, like a lifeguard pulling me out of the ocean’s grip.“Sorry, ladies, gentlemen…” The reporters parted before him like the Red Sea; I was going to have to get him to teach me that handy little trick.“Got to get the lovely lady home before she comes to her senses and takes back her answer!”
A polite smattering of laughter greeted this statement, and the reporters let us pass with only a few more questions, even those waved away by Grant with a casual flap of his hand, as though he were swatting a few annoying flies. The cool night air felt like heaven on my skin, like a draught of sweet cold water after a trek through the burning hot jungle of public scrutiny. His car pulled up, and he held the door for me as I slipped into wonderful anonymity behind its tinted dark windows. The door shutting behind him cut off the roar of sound from the party like someone had hit the mute button on my life; what a relief.
“I need more champagne,” I informed him.
“I have three bottles,”he said, reaching into the car’s mini fridge.
“Just keep them coming,” I said, and he laughed as he poured me a fresh glass.
I gulped it like it was the elixir of life, and closed my eyes. Unfortunately, when I opened them again, I was still there.“What the fuck did I just agree to?”
I swilled the champagne in a doomed effort to settle my nerves.
Grant quirked his eyebrow. He was smirking. Of fucking course he was.“It was your idea, Lacey.”
I nearly spat out my champagne all over his car’s expensive leather interior.“In what crazy alternate universe was this my idea? Did you just beam in from the alternate universe where up is down and Spock has a goatee and I have absolutely terrible ideas? Because I hate to break it to you, but this is not that universe!”
“Charmingly put, as always,”he almost purred. He put his hand on my shoulder, warm and comforting and strong. His fingers stroked my skin, toyed almost absentmindedly with the silk strap of my dress.“Relax, it’s just a PR strategy.”
His hand slid down my arm, stroking it soothingly. His voice was soft and gentle, and my head was swimming with champagne and longing, and I wanted nothing more than to rest my head against his shoulder and let him tell me that it was all going to be fine, that I could trust him, that he would take care of everything...
“This isn’t Beauty and the Beast; I’m not going to lock you in a castle with a bunch of singing household appliances.”
“What, you don’t have one of those?” I shot back automatically. My head traitorously leaned down against his shoulder. Oh, it was so comfortable there. I could stay there forever.
“Oh, I have three castles,” he said offhandedly, as if he were talking about three bikes or three armchairs or three lightly used paperbacks and not three goddamn castles. His arm came up around my shoulders and pulled me closer into him.“But singing appliances are overrated; always breaking down. I blame the shoddy manufacturing techniques of the factories we outsource them to.”
I frowned up at him, not sure how serious he was being about the singing appliance thing, and not certain whether to be sarcastic about that or— He pressed a kiss to the top of my head and took advantage of my wrong footedness to continue:“This isn’t a life sentence, Lacey. We can stay engaged long enough for the share price to stabilize and to secure the buyout of Jennings’company. Nothing could be simpler.”