“No!” she said, her voice far too loud, but with the music blasting, no one seemed to be paying the least bit of attention to them over in the corner. Thank goodness for that. “Listen to me, Fontaine. Can you do that?”
Seriously, could he do that? Because this little wedding planner had a crazy gleam in his eye and there was just no telling what he might do next.
“Yes, I’m listening.” He nodded and took a deep breath.
Given the complicated and convoluted stories he’d come up with on his own, it seemed going with the truth might be her best option now.
“Grant has no idea who I am. He thinks I’m Elaine Masters, a soap maker from Miami. It was just dumb bad luck that I ended up at his house. I’m in Bell Harbor hiding from the paparazzi until all the fuss dies down about that stupid video, and I’m desperate to keep my identity a secret.” At least for a few more hours, until she’d had time to get back to the crooked little house and pack her bags. Now that one person knew who she was, it wouldn’t take long before everyone knew. So it was time to leave town.
His narrow shoulders slumped. “That’s it. You’re hiding from the paparazzi?”
He seemed quite deflated. Maybe she should have said she was a time traveler, or an alien. “Yes, I’m afraid that’s it.”
He sighed with disappointment. “No blackmail? No secret baby?”
“No. Sorry. Just a sex tape. But will you keep my identity a secret anyway? It would mean the world to me.” This time it was her squeezing his hands, pleading, even while knowing he’d never be able to keep this to himself. He was already bursting at the seams for want of someone to tell, but after a moment’s silent deliberation, he smiled, showing off unnaturally bright teeth. “Of course I’ll keep your secret. I am the soul of discretion.” He held up his right hand. “May I never again see a shirtless picture of Channing Tatum if ever I reveal your true identity.”
She felt the briefest hint of relief, but shirtless Channing Tatum notwithstanding, she was fairly certain that half the wedding reception would know her real name before she could even get to the door.
“There is a price for my silence, of course,” Fontaine added.
Of course there would be a price. There was always a price. “What do you want?”
“Two things. First, you must dance with me because I should very much like to shake my groove thing, and second, promise me you will never, ever wear that ugly sweater ever again.”
Chapter 9
“ELAINE?” GRANT STEPPED THROUGH THE door into the kitchen. The sun was shining for the first time since he’d been back to Michigan and it buoyed his spirits as much as spending time with his family had. He’d clearly been forgiven for his extended neglect, and his brother and sisters had stayed up with him until almost dawn, joking around and sharing stories, as if they were all trying to make up for lost time. Even Carl was there, and other than his insistence on making everyone try a sloe gin fizz, Grant realized he was a damn likable guy. Life was looking better. Coming home had been a good decision.
“Hey, hello?” he called out again.
Elaine appeared around the corner wearing dark jeans and a clingy pink top that made his hands go sweaty and his pants get tight. He’d been sorry after she’d left the reception last night. She’d danced with the flamboyant wedding planner a few times and then vanished before he’d had a chance to cut in. Of course, she’d done him a huge favor by going at all, so he could hardly expect her to stick around listening to his relatives talk about crazy old Anita Parker and the cat that had eaten her parakeet.
Elaine set her brown backpack on the floor next to the kitchen table. “Oh, hey. I’m glad you made it home before I left.”
He looked past her into the living room and saw a suitcase. He quickly rewound last night in his head to think if he’d said or done something offensive but came up empty.
“Left? Where are you going?”
She dropped her phone into the bag. “Um, I’m not sure. Just somewhere else. It’s too cold here.”
“Somewhere else?”
That must be relief in his gut, right? Relief he’d finally have the house to himself? Because it kind of felt like he’d gobbled down a big bowl of dog food. Kibble = not good. “I don’t understand. What about the money we owe you?”
Her expression was enigmatic, her shoulders barely moving with the world’s lamest shrug. “We said this was a short-term solution and it’s been a couple of days, so I figured I should move on. I guess I’ll be in touch and tell you where to send the money, if you ever get it back.”
“Of course I’ll get it back. I’m not just going to keep your money. Elaine, what’s wrong?”
Oh, Lord. Why was he asking her that? He knew better than to ask a woman what was wrong—because somehow it would end up being his fault. Even if every aspect of her mood was beyond his knowledge or control, it would still end up being his fault—because he had testicles. Whenever a woman was annoyed, somehow it always came around to the Y chromosome.