Page 20 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
That means I need to stay away until I figure out what exactly it is about her that's got me turned upside down and inside out.
Next morning I wake late, and I'm just lazily reaching for my bathrobe when I distinctly hear the sound of my sister's booming voice from below. I dress and descend the staircase, fixing my cufflinks as I go.
She's standing by the grand piano in the great room, which opens in a sweep of glass and height, two full stories soaring upward, sunlight spilling across every surface. High above, a crystal chandelier glitters from the vaulted ceiling, its light scattering over the marble staircase that curls gracefully toward the suites above. On the ground floor, oak paneling warms the walls while Persian carpets soften the gleam beneath, and clusters of sofas and armchairs invite quiet conversation within the vast expanse.
One of my maids brings me coffee, and I can see that Steph already has a cup, and is busy on the phone with someone, her loud voice and grating laughter filling the vast empty space with noise and unnecessary energy, the light from the ceiling to floor windows falling on her, spinning her brown hair into gold.
She turns to me as I approach, and I raise my eyebrow.
"Just barge in any time, night or day," I say. "Don't wait for a reasonable hour or anything, just come whenever you like." My sarcasm bounces off her like a brick wall. In fact, I don't think she's even listening. Instead she carries on her call.
"Yes, girl, I don't even know why he would say that," she continues to the person on the phone while shooting me the middle finger. "Anyway, I gotta go, my asshole brother's here."
She pauses and then adds, "No, not the stupid one, the annoying one." This is followed by laughter at the other end of the line.
I snort. Nice to know that I'm a grade above George in her view. After she hangs up, she sips her coffee and looks at me like she's trying to work out something.
"What are you doing here?"
"What, I can't come check on my favorite brother?" She cocks her head to one side. "I've come to plan your campaign to keep your CEO position, seeing as you appear to be completely incapable of managing things for yourself. I can't have you screwing up on this one, Grayson. No way do I want Daddy giving the position to a fool like brother George. He doesn't know his ass from his elbow. The Group'll be bankrupt before I'm sixty, and I'll end up living in a cardboard box on the Bowery if he's in charge. I'm not having that." She pauses to sip her coffee and take a breath, while she looks me up and down. Her eyes narrow. "What's up with you? You look different."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do. You have a glow, and… yes, I know what it is. You've got that irrationally horny look you get when you're obsessed with someone. Come on, admit it. You've fallen for some girl. Who is it? A tart you picked up in a bar? Or someone I know?"
"That's disgusting, Steph."
"Trust me, I feel disgusting for saying it. Is it another one-night stand, or have you finally gotten yourself a proper girlfriend?"
I start to shake my head, but I pause. I haven't yet found a candidate for the girlfriend position, but that doesn't mean I can't start laying the groundwork for the ruse.
Her eyes widen in my silence. "Wait, you did?"
"Maybe."
"Who is she? Do I know her?" She pauses and whispers, "Wait, is this about what we were discussing the other day? The fake fiancée thing?"
"I'm not telling you until I know for certain, or you'll ruin it."
"Oh come on, no, I won't. Where's she from? Is she American? A New Yorker? What does her family do? What doesshedo? Is she a stripper? Come on… you can tell me. Now spill."
"What part of 'I'm not telling you' don't you understand?"
"Come on, little brother, don't be like that. You can tell your own sister."
Steph continues to pepper me with questions as I head out of the great room and cross the entrance hall, heading for outside. I open the passenger door of my car for her and she settles herself in the ice white leather seat, flipping down the vanity mirror in the sun visor to check her lipstick while I walk around the car to the driver's side. She doesn't relent, even as I drive. Constant nagging, pleading, begging, and when all else fails, even trying blackmail.
Instead of stopping when we reach my office, she simply takes the elevator with me, continuing her questions. Who is it? What type of girl? What deal have I made? Have I slept with her? What does she look like? The barrage is constant, but I grit my teeth and remain silent.
"I bet it's Pamela, Gretchen Thatcher's daughter," she says. "That's why you're not telling me, isn't it? Because she's got one leg shorter than the other, and because you remember how much I hated her guts."
"It's not her," I say as we get out of the elevator at the top floor and head down the corridor to my office suite. We turn a corner, and I see someone sitting bolt upright in one of the chairs arranged outside my office for visitors to wait in. There's something about this figure though… something familiar… suddenly I freeze.
"Jenna."
She's sitting on a waiting area seat, dressed in an elegant, navy blue pantsuit that clings to her curvy frame in all the right places and looking extremely impatient.
Fuck! I completely forgot she said she would be here first thing in the morning. Oops.
