Page 21 of Acquiring Ainsley
“I know what you said. You don’t want to go through with it.” I leaned closer to her. “But I think you were being too hasty when you said it. And I think you should give me, and the offer, another chance.”
She gulped. “Okay.”
“How about I pick you up? Noon? We can have lunch at Taboo.”
She pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth and regarded me. “Taboo sounds good. But I’ll meet you there.”
“That works for me,” I said, somewhat disappointed that she didn’t want me to pick her up. Still, I’d take whatever I could get. “We might as well get to know each other better, since it’s been so long. And we—well, we’re going to be quite entwined for the next few months.”
I knew it sounded presumptuous, but I didn’t care. I knew how to make deals, and how to get what I wanted.
And I wanted Ainsley.
“I told Ashton that my answer is no,” Ainsley replied. “I’m not doing it. I won’t marry you to save our family. I’m not for sale, Trevor.”
“I’m not trying to buy you.” I lowered my voice. “All I’m asking for is a meal. You can give that to me, can’t you?”
We stared at each other for another long moment. I took in her bright eyes, pouty lips, and smooth skin, then realized to my surprise that I wanted to memorize it all.
“Okay,” she said. “But that’s it.”
Then she turned on her heel and entered her unit without so much as another word.
What the hell was I thinking? Was I insane? Was I crazy?
Clearly.
The following morning, those questions, and one resounding answer, ran through my head from the minute I opened my eyes. They dominated every breath I took, every time that I blinked, every moment that passed.
What in the world had I agreed to?
Lunch with a man my father hated, that’s what.
Still wearing the previous night’s cocktail dress, I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled into the master bathroom. I’d taken Trevor’s advice about the aspirin and the water, but I still had a hangover, one that made my mind feel like mush and sent a dull ache through my body with every move that I made.
God, I’m getting too old for this…
I splashed some water on my face from the faucet, took off the dress, tossed it into a dry-cleaning bag, and grabbed my pink robe from the hook on the back of the door. After tying the belt around my body, I made my way into the kitchen and located my clutch, where it still sat on the center countertop. I took my phone from it, unlocked it, and noticed I had fifteen emails in my inbox. Still feeling the effects of the night before, I sank into one of the barstools that rimmed the counter and read the first few messages.
After scanning through offers to fifty-percent-off sales and a variety of spam advertisements, I opened something that I dreaded the second I saw it: a “checking in” message from NYC Wholesale Scarves and Wraps, one of the vendors I’d been in talks with about my upcoming silk scarf range. Before my brother’s bombshell news, we’d been within a few days of signing a major contract.
Ugh. They needed an answer, and soon. I had no idea what I would say to them, but I also knew better than to reply on the fly. Instead, I clicked out of the emails and opened my contact list. I needed some advice, and I knew the best place to get it.
“Bonjour,” Mom said as she answered the phone, her soft alto voice having no trouble at all with the nuances of French. “Comment ça va?”
“Bonjour.” I turned on the coffeemaker and laughed. “You know it’s me, Mom. It’s on the caller ID.” I located a single-serve coffee pod in the cabinet and shoved it into the machine. “How are you?”
“Wonderful, darling. Just getting ready for the next guests this week. I have a couple coming in from Ontario, and they’re celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”
After her contentious, dramatic, tabloid-chronicled divorce from my dad, Mom had taken her $20 million settlement and moved to Bourdeau, France. She bought a chalet overlooking Lake Bourget and turned the carriage house accompanying it into a small bed and breakfast. She loved it so much that she never came back to the United States. She said life was a lot simpler there, and she wanted it to stay that way.
For one thing,Page Sixdidn’t give a damn what she did as she lived out her life in France.
“Looks like I’m full for the rest of the month, too,” she said on the phone that morning. “Lots of repeat customers.”
“That’s great.”
We fell into familiar small talk about town gossip and basic comings and goings as my coffee brewed, but I was only giving half-interested answers. And she noticed. It didn’t take very long.
