Page 33 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
"Ashley, I need to take off for a few months."
"Take off? Where?"
"I'm going to live with Grayson."
Her eyes nearly pop out. "Because…"
"We'll be working together," Grayson cuts in smoothly. "On a confidential project. She'll need to live with me to carry it out properly."
Ashley frowns, clearly unconvinced.
I glance at him. God, he's an even worse liar than I am.
"Okay…" she says slowly, darting between us. "You're serious? You're moving out?"
"Sort of," I reply. "Just for a short while. It's vital for this project. I'll still pay rent and drop in sometimes. It's only temporary—six months tops."
Ash nods but still looks lost—and a little sad. "This is so weird."
"Isn't it?" I give her a tight smile, then glare at Grayson, who only smirks. "I'll finish packing."
"I'll go with you," Ashley says.
She follows me into my room, firing off questions about Grayson and this mysterious "project." I keep repeating that it's secret and related to the showcase. She hates it when I keep things from her, but she still hugs me before I leave.
"Come visit, okay?" she says.
"I will." I kiss her cheek, managing not to cry.
Outside, the stretch limo waits. The driver hurries to open the trunk, lifting my bags with silent efficiency before opening the door for us.
"Thank you," I say, climbing in.
I'm not paying much attention to where we're going—until I look up and see Saks Fifth Avenue.
"You've got to be kidding me."
The driver opens my door. I turn to Grayson with a glare. He meets it with a smirk. The bastard's taking me clothes shopping anyway.
Inside, the moment we step through the doors, the floor director practically materializes.
"Mr. Wolfe, welcome back," she says warmly. "We've prepared the Fifth Avenue suite for you. Madeleine, your personal shopper, will be delighted to assist."
Yeah, I bet she will.
Everything happens in a blur. One minute I'm walking, the next I'm seated in a lavish private suite with champagne in front of me. Madeleine is tall, elegant, and terrifyingly efficient. She listens as Grayson outlines his "requirements" in a low voice before disappearing. Moments later, she's back, followed by attendants pushing racks of clothes—then more racks afterthose. Dresses, skirts, blouses, jackets, coats, sweaters, trousers, shoes—everything imaginable.
It's dizzying just to watch. Grayson sits forward, assessing each item with a curt nod or dismissive shake of his head.
Then Madeleine turns her radiant smile on me. "Come and try these on, dear." She takes my hand like we're old friends, sweeping me toward an enormous fitting room lined with mirrors and another waiting flute of champagne.
Apparently they've learned that every glass poured adds a few thousand to the total.
Before I know it, I'm trying on outfit after outfit, Madeleine and her staff hovering with practiced enthusiasm. Every time I think we're done, another round appears—this time shoes, handbags, scarves, gloves, hats. By the end I'm exhausted and vaguely dizzy, half from champagne, half from sticker shock.
I dread to think what the final bill will be.
Finally, a tall, well-dressed man knocks discreetly and steps inside. Behind him, several assistants carry in wooden trays. His name is Manuel and apparently, he's Saks' top jewelry expert consultant, here to help Grayson choose an engagement ring.
