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Crossland laughed, pressing his lips together. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times like he was trying to come up with the correct response.
I rolled my eyes. “Great,” I said. “I’m so going to blow this for us. No one is going to believe we’re an item. No one will believe that you’re with me?—"
“Hey,” he said, reaching across the space between us. He slid a comforting hand down my arm. “That would be the other way around. No one would believe someone as amazing as you would have the patience for someone as obnoxious as me. And you’re doing great. I promise. I think it’s only me that can tell when you’re surprised by something. I’m sure no one else will be paying that close attention.”
Was he saying he was paying close attention to me? And why did that notion give me butterflies? Of course, he was paying attention to me. I was his employee, his investment, his ticket to winning a bet for fuck's sake.
“I get it,” he continued. “My world is completely ridiculous sometimes, but having the stylists come to us is just easier sometimes. It helps us avoid the circus of paparazzi or other people tracking us down.”
“I’ll try to do better,” I said. “At schooling my reactions.”
“You don’t need to,” he said. “You’re already perfect.”
Ten minutes later, as promised, a multitude of stylists stormed into the penthouse, staff rolling in racks upon racks of clothes—dresses, gowns, rompers, pant suits, shoes, bags, and jewelry—everything I could ever want or need for this weekend and more.
“Oh, man,” I said as I looked through the racks of gowns. “Jesse wouldlovethis.”
“Did you want me to fly him out?” Crossland asked, and it was such a casual inquiry that my heart melted just a little.
“He’s holed up in his studio right now,” I answered. “But thank you.”
“What do you think of this one?” I asked minutes later after trying on a black gown.
“Beautiful,” he said, looking up from where he’d opened his laptop on the coffee table. “But not the one.”
I agreed with him, nodding before I headed back into the primary bedroom to try on another one.
What kind of life was this? I literally lived paycheck to paycheck, buried in debt and always short on groceries…and here I was surrounded by elegant gowns that cost more than my car and with a fake boyfriend offering toflymy best friend out just for me?
How was this my life? And why did I feel guilty for enjoying it?
After a few hours of shopping inside the penthouse, I had more than enough outfits to last me the weekend and a stunning, dark blue gown that would complement the tux that Crossland was going to wear in the wedding.
And after a quick dinner, the whirlwind of the day caught up to me, and I was more than ready for bed.
I grabbed my PJs out of the suitcase in the bedroom, quickly changing into them before heading out, finding Crossland still hunched over his laptop.
“Do you ever stop working?” I asked. He’d worked half the time that I’d been shopping, only pausing to say yes or no to an outfit. There were moreyesesthannoes, but I actually liked his honesty. He stated what he wanted, when he wanted it.
“Not really,” he said, looking away from his laptop to give me his full attention. That was another thing I liked. He never ignored me or tried to split focus. If I said something, he looked at me and listened—really listened—and it was something I was absolutely not used to. “Kind of comes with running the familyempire,” he continued, then shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal to be running numerous companies. “I don’t really have a steady set of hours, but because of the income streams, I do have the ability to be super flexible about when and where I answer the constant influx of questions.”
“That must be difficult,” I said.
“How so?” he asked.
“Well, I have a steady set of hours regardless of whether I work a single shift or a double. I know at the end of my shift, I get to go home and check out. But that’s not really your life, is it? Do you ever get to check out, Crossland?”
He considered that for a moment. “Not in my world. But hey, that’s a small price to pay for all that I’ve been given.”
I smiled back at him, lingering near him even though the bed was calling my name. I liked how humble he was, especially because I had expected him to be overly confident and entitled thanks to the money he had, but he wasn’t.
“Do you want me to take the guest room to the left of the primary or?—”
“Primary,” he said, as if it wasn’t even a question. “You get all set up in there and I’ll take one of the extra rooms.”
“Okay,” I said. “And we need to be ready to leave at nine a.m.?” I asked, wanting to be extra sure about the time.
“Yes, my team will be over here to help us get ready, unless you’re against that?” he asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
