Taking It All Read online

  Counting back from three, Paul instructed them into first one, then three rounds of tequila shots, watching as the girl’s cheeks took on an alert redness. Her eyes dancing toward him, she began to giggle softly. The noise jingled like music in his ears.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You don’t even know my name.”

  “You can fix that.”

  “It’s Brittany. Brittany Haverford. And you’re Paul. Paul Le Montaigne.”

  “Has been all day, unfortunately,” Paul affirmed. “Tell me more about what happened with you back at the café. Seems an unfortunate turn of events. You were really wonderful this morning. I’m sure if I went back in there and demanded it—“

  Brittany stretched her palms in front of her face, looking mortified. “No. Absolutely not. I’ll—I’ll figure something out.”

  But as she was already generously tipsy, she began to flutter through conversation of what had happened to her that day: the call from the scholarship office, the realization that she wouldn’t be able to go to school for a while, perhaps ever again, then the subsequent firing, from a boss who wouldn’t stop using the word “artisanal” without irony. The story was heartbreaking; emitted from such gorgeous, pink lips, with her red cheeks lined with tears.

  Paul couldn’t help considering that this girl’s problems and his could be linked, inextricably. That they could tie them together, much like the people in the black and white movie, and solve one another’s issues. Peering at her, almost incredulously, he recognized she was one of the most gorgeous, interesting women he’d been around in a long time—and that, almost more importantly, she probably seemed “simplistic” and “common” in his parents’ eyes.

  After all: when you spent the majority of your time in a chateau in the south of France, almost everyone looked relatively “common.” All the heiresses they’d introduced him to over the years—from places like Tokyo to London to Los Angeles—had been tight-lipped and pale, with bones sticking out at their waists and hollow cheeks. They’d held not a glimmer of warmth, not the way Brittany the barista did.

  He could get back at his parents. And he could help this girl dive through the stressors of her common, horrible life.

  And when it was all over, he could see his daughter again.

  In his mind, as he knocked back the fourth shot, he couldn’t imagine a better course of events.

  He just had to find a way to present them to Brittany in a way that seemed feasible. He had to layer on the charm.

  Chapter Seven

  Manhattan stretched across the horizon across the East River as Paul and Brittany walked, their hands falling to their sides and their arms occasionally brushing. The romantic tension between them seemed taut, electric, with Brittany occasionally glancing up at him with hopeful eyes. Slipping her thin arm through his, her drunkenness her excuse, she sighed evenly, saying:

  “You really knew how to turn this day upside down for me.”

  Paul chuckled lightly, slipping his hand against the small of her back. The darkness had ascended over their shoulders, allowing the Manhattan lights to twinkle above their heads, giving everything a fantastical appearance. With Brittany’s background, growing up far from the rev of the city, she felt completely enamored, as if the world was opening its secrets to her, giving her all she needed to survive.

  “You know, I have a predicament of my own,” Paul began then, gazing down at her. “A bit more complicated, admittedly, than your scholarship and work situation. But in essence, my parents have decided that I don’t deserve to be a part of the Le Montaigne company, nor that I should receive my inheritance unless I’m married off.”

  Brittany halted, blinking up at him with laughter in her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Isn’t that the storyline of every storybook prince or princess?”

  “It’s a bit romantic, isn’t it?” Paul said. “At least, on paper. But in the real world, with the weight of this on my shoulders, I know I have to make strides to marry. I don’t have much time. And I can’t imagine that love for someone will just fall into my lap, so to speak.”

  “It’s a lot to ask your heart to do,” Brittany whispered. She halted, gazing into his eyes, sensing the air changing around them. Shifting, she removed her arm from his and stood, like an island, waiting for a call from shore.

  After a dramatic pause, Paul leafed through his pocket and drew out a back box. Popping it open, he revealed a vintage engagement ring, its diamond large and its surrounding jewels twinkling in the bright city lights. Brittany brought her hands to her mouth, immediately enamored, yet with a pulsing doubt in the back of her mind: This wasn’t how she’d imagined her “marriage” going. She’d imagined love. She’d imagined a career, a job, a life alongside someone, rather than just picking up the pieces of a broken one and throwing them at a wall.

  “Brittany,” Paul said, not bothering to get down on one knee, probably not wanting to make a more ridiculous show out of this most ridiculous affair. “I know I only just met you. But I promise to cherish how much you’d help me, if you so choose to marry me. And I promise to pay for your schooling and any other expenses in the coming years. Because, if you agree to marry me, you’ll be saving my life.”

  The speech was passion-filled, earnest, leaving Brittany’s heart rattling around in her chest. Earlier that morning, as she’d brushed her teeth, wrapped eyeliner around her eyes, hummed along to the radio station, she hadn’t a clue that someone named Paul Le Montaigne existed. And now—she was going to agree to be his public fiancé? All in the name of money?

  “Don’t worry,” Paul said then, pushing through her hesitation. “I won’t ask you to fall in love with me, like the people in the film. That stuff doesn’t happen in the real world. Out here, it’s just bills and the crushing weight of our parents’ expectations.”

  Brittany sighed, bringing her hands forward to collect the box, in which the ring sat, filled with expectations and promise. The fire in Brittany’s belly still burned with lust for this man before her, the most gorgeous person she’d seen up close. The fact that he even wanted to spend an hour with her—let alone a fake eternity—made her feel electric, alive.

  She stuttered into it, hating how unsure she sounded. “Sure—yes.”

  With a flourish, Paul took the box back, bringing the band over her fourth finger and then lifting her hand to his mouth, kissing it with supple lips. His dark, penetrating eyes told her she’d just crossed a boundary she could never uncross; that her life had just altered, shifted for good.

  “I don’t think you’ll regret this. It’ll be the best decision of your life, linking up with the La Montaigne family. Just you wait,” he boomed.

  Leaving her at the banks of the river, he turned toward the skyline, lifting his phone and dialing his parents. With a bright, unnatural voice, he told them:

  “Dad. Mom. Oh, good. You’re both here. I wanted to tell you that I’ve given what you said a great deal of thought. You were right to pressure me into getting my life together. And for this reason, I’ve asked my new girlfriend, a gorgeous designer named Brittany, to be my wife. She’s said yes.”

  A long pause happened, then. Paul brought his hand to his waist, listening—his head tilted.

  “No. She’s not an heiress, Mom.”

  “And no. She doesn’t come from new money. Jesus, Dad.”

  “She’s just a marvelous woman. You’ll have to meet her. She’s going to be your daughter in law, for god’s sake. Merde. Alors…” He trailed off.

  After another dramatic hole in the conversation, during which Brittany’s ears filled with the chaos of the city around them, he hung up the phone. Spinning back toward her, he looked arrogant, bright eyed. He shrugged, giving her a simple smile.

  “And just like that, we’re getting married,” he said. “Better buckle your seatbelt, as they say. Things are about to get wild.”

  Chapter Eight

  Paul’s Williamsburg loft looked swept from the pages of a
design magazine, utilizing all the interior design tactics Brittany had been trying to hone during her years of school. As she left the elevator, her thin form swallowed hole by the enormous space, she glanced around her, emitting a long, even sigh. Out the floor to ceiling windows, she saw a sweeping view of Manhattan, which made her bones ache. From her own Brooklyn apartment, she’d had a view of a brick wall, a reminder, constantly, that she was ramming her head into a metaphorical one.

  “This is insane,” Brittany whispered. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Well, I suppose, it’s your home now,” Paul said, his voice becoming insistent, almost booming. It made Brittany’s drunken headache. Leading her down the hallway, he pointed toward the furthest door, stating: “That’s your room, there. I want you to make yourself comfortable. I’d texted ahead, had the maid put out a bunch of towels and other things for you. I’m not sure you’ll have time to go home and collect your things before our big day.”

  Incredulous, Brittany swept her head toward him, her lips parting. “What do you mean?” she asked, laughing. “We aren’t getting married this very hour, are we?”

  Paul gave her a coy smile. “Actually, Brittany, the parents don’t want to wait a moment more. We’re doing it the old-fashioned way. The arranged marriage way, only, we’re arranging it ourselves. We’ll be married tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.” The word echoed around Brittany’s brain. She leaned back against the hallway wall, blinking her large, doe-like eyes up at him. She felt she was suddenly faced with a nightmare, unable to wake up. The heat gravitating off of Paul’s body made her skin feel electric, bright—yet the knowledge of what she was actually doing, in the light of a more sober brain, was absolutely terrifying.

  “Is that going to be a problem?” Paul asked her. “Or should I go hunt for another Brooklyn girl with money problems?”

  “No, no,” Brittany whispered, swiping her blonde hair behind her ears. “I’m just tired, I guess. I might just sit for a bit. Collect my thoughts. Big day, you know?”

  “Sure. And remember, Brittany. Everything for tomorrow will be worked out, without your assistance. Most girls have to plan their weddings. But you? You have the luxury of kicking back. Enjoying the day.”

  She had no answer for him.

  Brittany felt Paul’s eyes upon her as she entered her bedroom, diving into another room that was bigger, still, than her entire apartment. A white bedspread gleamed in the brightness of the overhead light, and a large painting, probably an antique, stretched across the wall in a chorus of blues and purples and bright pinks. Tossing herself onto the bed, she tried to ease her racing heart.

  As she lay back, she heard the doorbell to the loft. Craning her ears, she listened close as Paul opened it, greeting the arrival with tense, angry words.

  “Didn’t mention you’d be stopping by.”

  “Didn’t think I’d have to, if I was bringing Lea. Besides, my mother is busy right now. I don’t have another option.”

  “Of course.” In the other room, Paul laughed, whispering something, his voice tinged with joy. “By the way, Elena. I’m getting married tomorrow.”

  The woman laughed dryly, sounding incredulous.

  “You can laugh, but listen. You’ll be hearing from a lawyer soon enough to re-examine my custody rights. Everything’s about to change around here,” Paul affirmed.

  Custody? Brittany burst up from her relaxed position, listening more actively. Was there a child involved?

  “Well, you know, Jack’s got good money and good lawyers, too. I can’t imagine anything you did could match him.”

  Creeping toward the door, Brittany found herself suddenly face-to-face with a little girl—blonde haired, blue-eyed, with curls descending down her back. She wore a bright pink dress and a coat that traced down her back, making her look as if she’d just raced down the hall to see her. Blinking brightly, the little girl kept her mouth pressed tightly closed.

  “Hello,” Brittany whispered, her heart hammering. “Can you tell me your name?”

  The little girl shook her head, biting her bottom lip. Her cheeks were bright pink, almost cartoony. Outside, Paul continued to fight with the strange woman—perhaps his ex-wife, if her hunch was correct. Brittany beckoned toward the girl, telling her: “You can come in here, if you want. While they keep fighting out there.”

  The girl finally spoke, her voice bright and whimsical, as if she were singing a song. “You’re getting married?”

  Brittany nodded, feeling like an alien on a far different planet. “I suppose so.”

  “Do you think that means I’m the flower girl?” she spoke, bringing her hands together, like a prayer. “I’ve always wanted to be a flower girl. My friend Ashley, she was…”

  In that moment, Paul appeared on the other side of the young girl, bringing a strong hand to her shoulder. Glancing up at Brittany, he gave her a wry smile, a small shrug. “I see you’ve met Lea,” he said.

  Lea scrambled back from them both, looking anxious at the sound of her name. Racing back toward the living room, she left Paul and Brittany staring at one another, Brittany looking incredulous.

  “And who on earth is Lea?” she asked, her voice catching.

  “Well, she’s my daughter, of course,” he affirmed. “Does this change anything?”

  Brittany’s mind raced with panic. Gripping her hands together, she hunted for the words to say that would make this all okay, that would ensure she could go through with this, regardless of the child and the lack of love and the fear in her belly.

  But she had nothing to say.

  Chapter Nine

  When Brittany awoke the next morning, she heard the bustle outside her room. Cracking the door, she was thrust into a spectacular world: white-clothed workers, scrambling to create a spectacular wedding for her—yes, Brittany, the very girl who’d been sorting muffins the previous day. Raisin. Craisin. Chocolate chip. Jesus. Now, she peered across the chaos to find her soon-to-be-husband, that handsome, scheming man, darting about, eating a croissant and speaking in booming tones to a horn-rimmed person who appeared to be the wedding planner.

  “The ceremony’s on the terrace. Right. And we’ll have the hor d’oeurves out here—along the counter, with the bartender—right, to the side of the terrace.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Paul caught a glimpse of Brittany, peering out from behind the door. With fluid steps, he crossed the massive room toward her, through three florists who were dividing flowers, one after another on the dining room table. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the cheek, allowing her to inhale his musk.

  She felt a sizzle of fire through her brain, a reminder that she was lucky just to be chosen to be in the same room as this handsome man, let alone his wife. Sham marriage or no.

  “How are you feeling about everything?” Paul asked her, entering her room and sitting at the edge of the bed, his face taking on a stoic expression. He was wearing another, immaculate suit, his hair swept back with just the smallest amount of gel, his face firm and professional. He looked eternally ready for the pages of a magazine, while Brittany couldn’t have looked more like she’d just rolled out of bed.

  “Fine,” Brittany murmured, crossing her arms over her chest. In the midst of all the crazy things in her life, she felt she had nowhere else to turn. He had a daughter, sure. But that wasn’t any of her concern. Not now. It wasn’t like she was going to be taking him to design class with her. They would have separate lives, with minimal contact. She could handle that, right? “I think it’ll be wonderful to know your daughter,” she whispered.

  “Not sure that’ll happen much, anyway,” Paul boomed, bringing his hands together. It was obvious he didn’t want to speak about this much—about the logistics of actually being married, what it would mean. “The makeup and hair ladies are arriving in just a few minutes, which means we’ll get you all dolled up to be around these high society assholes.”

  Brittany sniffed, trying to joke. “Isn’t t
hat who you are?”

  “Suppose so. But I’ll tell you, this open bar. It’s going to be pretty life altering. Best bartender in the city. Even better than Clyde.” Hey paused, giving Brittany his first honest look of the day: eyes centered, eyebrows high, just as he’d looked at her in the café—just the day before, but something like a million years ago. “Hey. Just letting you know. When you mingle with my parents and everyone later… out there… I’m going to need you to pretend that we’ve been together for a while. Six months, at the least. Otherwise, they’ll think—“

  Brittany lifted her hand, stretching it out and gazing at her half-bitten, coffee-tinted fingernails. “I get it.”

  But did she?

  As the day moved ahead, it became an ominous blur: with three women racing into her bedroom, brushing through her hair, applying mounds of foundation and blush and eye shadow, peppering her with hairspray, and then spinning her toward a mirror—revealing a stunning, 20s-era model, with wide-set brown eyes, pale skin, and bright red lips. Peering at herself in the mirror, Brittany felt suddenly caught off-guard, realizing she wouldn’t have a single person at the wedding to see this big, wicked moment in her life—this great, horrible sell-out.

  Sarah had sent her nearly 40 messages since Brittany had been fired, wondering where she was, what had happened. And the message she returned—telling her the address to come to, to dress in her absolute best, that she would explain later—was ominous and almost twisted. What on earth would Sarah say to her?

  She would say she was absolutely crazy. Brittany knew that for sure. She would say she should have come home, talked it out, arrived at a better conclusion.

  But what could be better than having an unlimited supply of cash at her disposal, in return for selling her soul?