Page 52 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
Besides, it's none of my business. Why should I care who Grayson's still in love with, as long as I get my money at the end of six months?
Answer: I shouldn't.
So why the hell am I so unsettled as I head for the elevator and press the Up button? Why am I still thinking about this Marina woman—what she's like, how long they were together, how much they meant to each other, and why they broke up?
I'm still thinking about it as the elevator pings and deposits me on the penthouse floor. I shake my head at my own foolishness, blaming it on stress and lack of sleep as I swipe my keycard and walk to my room.
The corridor is as dull and dreary as I remember—not a hint of color anywhere.
I decide right then I can't live like this for months or I'll go crazy. I have to do something—redecorate, maybe—if I can ever find the time.
Ha. Time. Every day it feels more like a luxury.
We never reached a final decision on the design plan during the meeting because Grayson shot down everything I suggested—and offered nothing useful himself. Unless it's a classic black-tie event in some bland Upper East Side ballroom, he's not interested.
I could just give him that, make my life easier. The customer's always right, after all.
However, my reputation's on the line. This event is supposed to showcase my vision, my talent. My vision isn't dark gray wallsand boring conference halls. His obstinacy is making me regret taking the job back at all.
Why did I want it so badly anyway? My ego? Just to prove a point?
Yeah, I should have just taken the million and ridden off into the sunset after six months. Started some other business, even.
But that wouldn't be fun for you. Because you like the challenge, don't you? Plus, he would have won, and you can't allow that, can you?
Ugh. Sometimes I hate the way my brain works.
On the bright side, this indeed seems to be the perfect time to make use of that jacuzzi steam room. It doesn't look like Grayson's home, and hopefully, he'll stay away even longer. A nice, relaxing forty minutes or so dipping in and out of the jacuzzi and the steam room will undoubtedly help with my stress.
I shower, twisting and turning and gasping, reveling in the jets as they pulse against me from all directions. Then, finally, I change into my bikini, put on a white, fluffy Calvin Klein bathrobe that I find hanging behind my bathroom door, slip on my flip-flops, and pad down the corridor to where I remember passing the jacuzzi when Grayson showed me around.
Once there, I follow the directions on a small plaque set into the wall by the controls, and everything hums to life.
My first slide into the warm, bubbling water is absolutely heavenly. I sigh as yet more jets glide and push against my tense muscles.
Oh God. I sigh again and lean my head back. This is almost worth all the trouble. Almost.
I order take-out food on my phone while I soak, knowing it will be a good forty-five minutes before it gets here. I plan to spend every single one of those minutes in complete silence,doing nothing but relaxing, and definitely not thinking about Grayson Wolfe and how annoying he is.
Unfortunately, about ten minutes into my soak, my phone starts ringing.
Damn. I knew I should have left it in my room.
I reluctantly reach out and answer. "Hello."
"How did it go?" Grayson's sister's voice is practically radiating with glee. "Did Mom have a heart attack? Did she scream? Please, I need details."
"How did you get my number?" I ask.
"That's not important."
"It kind of is."
She sighs dramatically. "Well, if you must know, I called your office pretending to be a potential client who lost your number. When they said they wouldn't give me your personal number, I threw a tantrum—‘Do you know who I am?' routine. Had to name-drop my brother, too. Eventually, someone caved."
And that someone will be getting a stern warning tomorrow.
"You and your brother have a serious problem with boundaries. Do you know that?"
