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“Sherry?” I actually have no idea what that is. “No. No, thanks.”
Hoping I don’t sound annoyed, I realize I should get the awkward introductions over with. This guy’s someone I’ll probably be dealing with for the next three months.
“I’m Paige Holly,” I say.
“I’m aware,” he reminds me.
“And you are?”
“Oh, of course. I’m Grayson, the valet.”
“Why does a single guy need a butler?” I catch myself. “You don’t have to answer that. Sorry, I was just thinking out loud.”
“I’m really more of a property manager. Mr. Brandt is only here a couple days each week. I alternate between the three properties he owns, ensuring they’re ready for him per his preferences.”
I blink. What have I gotten myself into?
“Oh. I see,” I say with a nod.
I actually don’t see anything.
“I’ll go find Mr. Brandt and let him know you’ve arrived.”
“Umm—are there lights?” My voice comes out weak and pathetic.
“Certainly. Delphi, turn the lights on,” he calls, and the room brightens.
I feel like a fool for not guessing he wouldn’t have this place rigged to the nines with every piece of smart home technology.
Grayson exits and leaves me in this pristine abyss of a room by myself. A Picasso replica hangs over the fireplace. At least, I think it’s a replica.
In a billionaire’s house, you can’t be sure.
I move closer to the wall to investigate, but get sidetracked by pictures of a young Ward.
The “Brandt boys” as kids are adorable. Ward stands out immediately even though he’s roughly the same size as Nick until their teen years. Interspersed between pictures of the boys together are photos of them with their grandparents, scenes of Ward with a younger, stylish Beatrice and an older man hanging over him, plus intermittent works from Picasso’s blue period which happens to be my fave.
But why are there no pictures of his parents?
Weird.
I slowly scan the walls a second time, looking for the Brandt brothers, or at least Ward with a couple younger than his grandparents.
Nothing. Evidently, my fake fiancé doesn’t have a single picture with his folks.
He’s a Wardhole and a workaholic, but he cares intensely for his grandma and little brother. He’s a family man at his core, so the absence is striking.
What’s going on with the Brandts?
There might be things about Ward I just don’t know. But I know him well enough to be sure he’s not the type to just write family off without good reason.
The painting over the fireplace is so detailed, it could easily be authentic. With Ward taking his sweet time, my curiosity gets the best of me.
I climb up on the rock ledge in front of the empty fire, hoping to get closer to the signature.
I’ve seen enough Picassos in school to take a fair guess if the signature is original. Even standing on the ledge, it’s still too far above my head to inspect. I stretch up on my toes, putting my arms out at the side to hold my balance.
I know what to do.
Crossing the table, I pull a chair over to the fireplace. Then I try to get all four legs settled on the stone ledge, but when it’s obvious that’s not working, I settle for two. The other legs are almost-but-not-quite on the very edge of the platform.
Risky, yes, but I’m dying to know.
I scramble up on the chair, inching closer, straining my eyes.
In the corner of the painting, it’s there. Thick black letters, but a good replica might also reproduce the signature exactly.
Picasso was one of the few artists lucky enough to make his signature worth something during his lifetime. I lean forward for a closer look.
The chair wobbles.
Eek! I throw my arms out, trying to rebalance, but—
The chair teeters back and forth once. Back and forth twice.
Then I’m falling, weightless for a split second before my back crashes against an unforgiving wood floor. “Ow!”
Where’s my dark knight when I need him?
12
Ninety Damn Days (Ward)
Thump!
“Ow!”
The walls of the house are pretty solid, but I could hear a human body falling from a town away.
“Paige is here,” I say glumly.
Nick looks up, his eyes darting around.
The door to my study creaks open. “Mr. Brandt?”
I nod. “I’ll be right there, Grayson. Go check on her, please, and see if she needs an ice pack.”
“Yes, sir.” Grayson closes the door.
“Ice pack?” Nick echoes.
“That sound was her falling.”
He stares at me.
“How did you miss the thud followed by the scream?” I grumble, slapping his shoulder. “Pay attention!”
“I just assumed it was a pipe or something.” He shrugs. “But why would Paige go falling over the second she shows up?”
“Because no matter how many pairs of sensible shoes I force on her, she still insists on wearing something horrible she can’t walk in,” I growl.
Not to mention something that’s pure torture to look at. Those demon heels summon every bad thought I shouldn’t be having about my soon-to-be fake fiancée.
