Chapter 1 - The Price of Holding His Hand
“About what?” Grant asked.
Claire glanced at the black sedan waiting beside the curb.
“Sounding like you mean things.”
For a moment, neither moved. Rain shimmered beneath the streetlights, and the driver stood patiently beside the open rear door. Grant’s gaze remained on her face rather than the midnight-blue dress she had spent an entire afternoon choosing.
“I generally mean what I say.”
“Then these six weeks should be interesting.”
She stepped into the car before he could answer.
On the drive from Providence to Newport, Claire reviewed their arrangement in her head. Six weeks. Several public appearances. One hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Enough to keep Monroe House Events alive through winter, pay her employees, and silence the landlord whose final notice still sat beneath her kitchen fruit bowl.
It was a business agreement.
She intended to remember that.
Beside her, Grant checked his phone, declined three calls, and finally turned it facedown.
“What should I know about your family?”
“My grandmother likes honesty.”
“That seems inconvenient for tonight.”
“She dislikes rehearsed affection more.”
“Your mother?”
Grant looked toward the rain-dark window.
“My mother likes knowing where everyone belongs.”
“And where do I belong?”
His jaw shifted.
“Beside me.”
The answer arrived too quickly to feel practiced.
Whitaker House rose above the ocean behind iron gates, all limestone, glowing windows, and old money pretending it had never worried about anything. A valet opened Claire’s door. Before she could steady herself on the wet driveway, Grant offered his hand.
He waited.
She appreciated that more than she wanted to.
Inside, a woman in emerald silk approached with a smile so precise it seemed professionally maintained.
“Grant. Finally.”
“Mother. This is Claire Monroe.”
Evelyn Whitaker’s eyes traveled over Claire’s gown, her borrowed earrings, and the hand still resting lightly in Grant’s.
Then she leaned close enough that only Claire could hear.
“How much did you cost?”
Claire felt Grant’s fingers tighten.
She could have pretended not to understand. She could have protected the evening, remembered the payment, and swallowed the insult.
Instead, she smiled.
“Less than good manners, apparently. You seem to find those prohibitively expensive.”
Somewhere behind Evelyn, someone choked on a drink.
Grant made a sound Claire had not expected.
A laugh.
It was brief, almost startled, but real.
Evelyn’s expression hardened.
Before she could respond, a small silver-haired woman appeared with a cane and an expression of open delight.
“Oh, thank heaven,” she said. “Someone interesting.”
Grant bent to kiss her cheek.
“Happy birthday, Nana.”
“Seventy years, and your mother still thinks a dinner party is a border inspection.”
She turned to Claire.
“Beatrice Whitaker. You may call me Bea. Everyone worth knowing does.”
“Claire.”
“Yes, darling. I gathered that while you were rescuing my birthday.”
At dinner, Claire discovered that Grant’s family spoke in compliments that required translation.
His uncle Richard praised his dedication before mentioning declining investor confidence. His cousin Adrian admired Claire’s business before asking whether organizing centerpieces was difficult work. Evelyn referred to a woman named Vanessa three times in twenty minutes.
“Vanessa understood the responsibilities of this family,” she said.
Grant set down his fork.
“Then perhaps you should date her.”
Beatrice laughed into her wine.
Claire should not have enjoyed herself.
But beneath the table, Grant’s knee brushed hers, and when he murmured, “You’re doing remarkably well,” she felt an unreasonable warmth.
“I organize weddings,” she whispered. “Your family is basically a reception where everyone objects.”
His mouth curved.
Then the dining room doors opened.
A little girl stood beside a housekeeper, clutching a stuffed rabbit with one ear hanging by a thread. She wore pajamas beneath a cardigan and looked terrified of the room.
“Uncle Grant?”
Every expression at the table changed.
Grant rose immediately.
“What happened, Lucy?”
The girl stared at the floor.
“I couldn’t find the hallway with my room.”
Evelyn sighed.
“We discussed interrupting adults.”
Claire watched the child shrink.
Before she could speak, Grant crossed the room and crouched in front of Lucy, heedless of his expensive suit.
“Then I’m glad you found me.”
His voice was different.
Gentle. Steady. Familiar.
Lucy touched the rabbit’s damaged ear.
“He’s coming apart.”
Grant examined it with grave attention.
“That looks repairable.”
Claire stood.
“I have emergency sewing supplies in my bag.”
Six people looked at her.
She shrugged.
“Event planner.”
Ten minutes later, she sat in a quiet sitting room sewing a rabbit’s ear while Lucy leaned against Grant’s shoulder.
May you like
The cold billionaire watched the needle move.
And for the first time that evening, Claire wondered who had taught him to hide this version of himself.
