Chapter 4 - The Woman Who Knew the Number
Vanessa Carlisle arrived at the charity luncheon wearing winter white and the expression of someone inspecting a house she intended to buy.
Claire recognized her from photographs.
Elegant. Wealthy. Familiar enough with Grant to kiss his cheek while holding Claire’s gaze.
“Finally,” Vanessa said. “I’ve heard so much.”
“Then we’re uneven. I’ve only heard your name at dinner.”
Vanessa smiled.
“Evelyn does enjoy consistency.”
The luncheon occupied a sunlit room at one of Grant’s hotels. Claire had arranged donated books along the walls and small evergreen centerpieces on the tables. Every expense had been approved by the nonprofit. Her invoice carried the same rate she charged any client.
She had made certain of that.
Across the room, Grant crouched beside Lucy while she showed another child the cardboard bookmark she had made.
Vanessa watched them.
“He’s lovely with her in short stretches.”
Claire turned.
“What a strange way to compliment someone.”
“I mean he has responsibilities. Children need stability.”
“Yes. They do.”
“Then you understand why temporary distractions can be damaging.”
Claire placed a stack of programs on the table.
“If you have something to say, say it.”
Vanessa’s smile thinned.
“One hundred and twenty thousand dollars seems very generous for six weeks.”
Claire’s fingers went still.
Vanessa noticed.
Of course she noticed.
“Relax. I’m not judging. Everyone has a price.”
Claire stepped closer.
“Who told you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Before Vanessa could answer, Grant appeared beside them.
“Claire?”
She looked at him.
“Your private arrangement seems to have a growing audience.”
His gaze shifted to Vanessa.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing she doesn’t already know.”
“Leave.”
Vanessa blinked.
“Grant.”
“Now.”
A few nearby conversations faltered.
Claire caught his sleeve.
“Not here.”
He looked down at her hand, then toward Lucy.
The anger did not disappear, but he contained it.
Vanessa left with her chin lifted.
In an empty service corridor, Claire faced him.
“How many people know?”
“My attorney. Your attorney. Us.”
“And whoever told Vanessa.”
“Yes.”
“Did your mother know before that first dinner?”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“That isn’t the same as no.”
“No,” he admitted. “It isn’t.”
He pulled out his phone.
Claire stopped him.
“I don’t need you to order an investigation while I stand here. I need to understand whether you realize what this could do to me.”
His eyes lifted.
“My company survives a scandal,” she said. “Your family survives embarrassment. I’m the woman people will call a liar every time I ask them to trust me with their wedding.”
Grant lowered the phone.
“You’re right.”
She wished agreement made her feel safer.
That evening, he arrived at her apartment carrying a paper bag.
She opened the door only halfway.
“Is that an apology?”
“Thai food. The apology is separate.”
She should have sent him away.
Instead, she stepped aside.
They ate at her small kitchen table beneath a ceiling stain she could not afford to fix. Grant listened while she described building her company after her mother’s illness, losing their savings to years of ordinary expenses that never stopped arriving, and learning how quickly capable people could become desperate.
He never interrupted.
When she finished, he said, “I knew the business numbers. I didn’t know any of that.”
“People aren’t balance sheets.”
“I’m learning.”
She looked at him.
There was no expensive restaurant, no audience, no carefully chosen touch.
Just Grant, sleeves rolled up, holding a cardboard takeout container in her kitchen.
He asked about her mother.
Claire told him she had loved terrible television mysteries and always guessed the murderer based on who had the nicest kitchen.
Grant laughed.
Then Claire cried without warning.
He set down his food.
“May I?”
She nodded.
He moved his chair beside hers and held her while she cried for a woman who had been gone three years.
He did not tell her how to feel better.
That undid her more than anything.
When she finally looked up, his face was close.
“I want to kiss you,” he said.
Her heart stumbled.
“Because you should?”
“No.”
“Because someone might see?”
“No.”
Claire touched his cheek.
“Then ask me again.”
He did.
She said yes.
The kiss was slow, uncertain only at the beginning.
Afterward, Grant rested his forehead against hers.
May you like
Neither mentioned rule six.
The omission sat between them long after he left.
