Page 7 of A Practical Arrangement

Chapter 9

Grant

What the hellwas I thinking? That’s the problem. I wasn’t thinking—at least not with my brain. A deep sense of regret washes over me as I lie in bed watching the first glimmers of sunshine beam through my heavy curtains. My mind races with confusion and disbelief. There are a dozen reasons I should feel guilty or at the very least embarrassed, but I swear I can’t think of any right now.

There’s no denying that I want to be with Ella March. As much as I’ve tried to fight it, even sought therapy to figure out how I, a reasonable man with a good head on my shoulders, would be so attracted to a woman half my age. The logical part of me knows pursuing her is wrong on so many levels, but in this moment, my heart is the one calling the shots.

If I were Gareth, it might make sense. To him, women are commodities and their only importance lies in their outward appearance. I’m not like that. Or I wasn’t like that until I got an eyeful of Ella March in a tight-fitting red dress that showcased every voluptuous curve she’d somehow developed between the ages of sixteen and eighteen. It felt impossible not to fall in love. I should have never attended that damn party.

With a deep, exhausted sigh, I slowly roll out of the bed and stretch my arms high above my head. I can't help but wonder what happens next, but I assume it begins with a phone call. The club provided me with her phone number, a scrap of paper now crumpled in my hand. According to one of the men who frequents the club, I should wait a few days before reaching out to her to avoid looking eager. But that tactic sounds utterly ridiculous to me. After all, I just paid two million for a date. I can only hope Ella knows how much I want to see her.

As I wait for my coffee to brew, I find myself gazing at Ella's phone number. My mind races, trying to come up with the perfect opening line that will win her over. But as usual, my thoughts are jumbled, and my tongue feels heavy with nervousness. I've never been one for smooth words or romantic declarations. But I want to do better for Ella.

“Can we talk?” I practice my words, sounding as dull and unappealing as a sales pitch. I wince at my lack of charm, feeling like a telemarketer trying to sell a product no one wants.

“May we discuss what happened last night?” The words came out in a frustrated tone, the sound of my own voice grating against my ears. I smash my palm against my forehead, producing an audible smack as I pace across the kitchen floor.

Maybe I’ll text. I’m far less likely to say something offensive if it’s written out. Staring at my phone, I tap Ella’s number onto the screen and begin typing a message.

Me: Good morning, Ella. Are you available for dinner tonight?

As the saying goes, a watched phone never rings, and I couldn't agree more as I anxiously stare at my device. To distract myself, I pour a second cup of steaming coffee and take a bite of my bagel, slathered with an excessive amount of cream cheese.But my mind keeps drifting back to Ella, wondering if she's asleep or reading my message with disdain. Time seems to slow down as I wait for a response, the tension building in my chest like a tightly coiled spring.

With a deep sense of frustration and regret weighing on my chest, I carefully place my dishes in the dishwasher and make my way toward the bathroom. The tiles under my feet feel cold and unforgiving as I step closer to the shower, trying to shake off the lingering disappointment. But if she won't respond to my message, I'll have no other option but to sneak into her building and confront her face-to-face. As I reach the halfway point, a faint buzzing sound catches my attention, and I quickly dash across the room to grab it.

Ella: What time were you thinking?

Me: I can pick you up at 7:00. Will that work?

Ella: Yes. That’s doable. See you tonight.

Chapter 10

Ella

“Is theresomething wrong with what I’m wearing?” I fidget in my chair, feeling self-conscious about my outfit. Has he noticed that I've worn this dress before? This is so embarrassing, but I had no choice. At twenty-two, I haven’t had the need or income to collect fancy attire suitable for a place like The Starlight Room. It was far too soon to wear the black dress I wore last night, and my only alternative was the red dress I wore for my eighteenth birthday party. It was a safe assumption he wouldn’t recall a dress I wore four years ago. After all, men don’t remember dresses, do they?

Grant shakes his head once and exhales slowly, his eyes hooding as he appears to undress me with his eyes. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with what you’re wearing. You look stunning.”

“Stunning? I’m not sure anyone has ever referred to me as that. But thank you. My mother chose this for my eighteenth birthday, and I haven’t worn it since. Red has never really been my color,” I say, folding and refolding the napkin on my lap, hoping to burn off enough nervous energy to finally look him in the eye.

Grant leans forward, grasping his glass of whiskey but never bringing it to his lips. “Believe me when I say that red is your color. I’ve thought about this dress many times since your birthday party. You looked almost as unforgettable as you do now.”

I’m lucky he likes to see me in red because my cheeks turn twenty shades of crimson before I’m able to respond. The evening is going far better than I imagined, but I’m still unsure what our date means. Are we in an arrangement with more dates to come or is this a one-time thing?

“You’re very kind. I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with kindness, compliments, or someone paying such an exorbitant amount of money to take me out to dinner. The form said there were no strings attached but I feel the need to ask if you have strings you wanted to attach to me?” I nervously push the chicken around my plate, my hand trembling as I listen to the thrumming beat of my heart echoing in my ears.

Grant tilts his head slightly, his intense gaze fixed on me through the warm glow of flickering candles that dance between us. “Tomorrow, the club will cut a check for 1.5 million dollars to you,” he says, his voice low and serious. “They’re keeping a fourth of what I paid, but you should still have enough to cover your tuition, late fees, and everything you need for your own place.” He pauses, his expression thoughtful before continuing. “Whatever happens next is entirely up to you. I don’t want you to spend time with me out of desperation. You’re free to make your own decisions.”

“I really can’t accept that kind of money, Grant. I appreciate your attempt to help me, especially since my parents haven’t given me a dime. But it’s way too much money for a date. It feels strange to say this to your face, but you would never need to pay me for a date. That’s one thing I’d gladly give you free of charge.”The words seem to emerge in slow motion as I casually show him my cards—something I swore I’d never do.

“You will accept it. If you don’t take it, I won’t get it back, the club will keep it. And I would have paid twice as much for an hour of your time.” Grant’s words hang in the air, heavy with possibility and uncertainty. “The ball is in your court, and if this is our first and last date, then I am determined to make it a memorable one.” His eyes shimmer with a mixture of hope and longing as he waits for my response.

“Do I need to decide anything right now?” I lift my bowed head and gaze at him from beneath my lashes. His blue eyes remain fixed on me, sparking blue orbs that seem to pierce through me, reaching into the depths of my soul. He's beyond beautiful, with chiseled features and an air of elegant masculinity that exudes experience. This situation is not what I had imagined, but as I continue to lock eyes with him, I can't help but feel drawn in by the power and intensity of his gaze. If this arrangement means being on the receiving end of that smoldering look on a regular basis, I'm more than willing to discuss its terms.

“It’s a big decision. Take your time.”

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