“I don't think Gant is going to be opposed to taking you on a date.”
“I’m not going to reach out to him and ask.” I pop a grape into my mouth. I’d die of embarrassment if I called him and asked if we were going on this date for him only to remind me that wasn't the deal.
“No, we don’t call, sweetheart.” She takes a sip of her tea. “We’ll wait for him to show up here.”
“You really think he’s going to show up here?” A smirk plays on my grandma’s lips. She’s up to something.
“Yes, I do. Sooner rather than later. I’m sure he’s seen the pictures too.” One had been with Gant. One I don’t remember the guy's name, and the other was with that creepy Sean guy.
“I think I’m missing something.” I pop a few more grapes into my mouth. I would think the article would turn him off to the idea of me.
“Most men don’t like to share.”
I bark out a laugh. “I don’t think Gant has any problem tracking down a date, Grandma. Not when there are women out there willing to pay to go on a date with him. Very beautiful women at that.” This only makes her smile bigger.
She's definitely up to something. I’m not sure what it is yet, but I know that it definitely has to do with Gant Fréres.
Chapter Nine
Gant
If Prince Charming lived in the modern world with camera phones and online tabloid gossip columnists, he wouldn’t have had to go house to house with a glass slipper like a traveling salesperson. All he would have had to do is open his phone and read the numerous messages from friends and acquaintances about the mystery woman at the children foundation’s charity ball.
An Abbott!
She’s probably not the only illegitimate kid he has.
At least she wasn’t raised with them. Maybe she’s normal.
I saw her last night. She’s not that pretty.
That lie was from Supreme Dering, who tries arduously to live up to her name. I replied swiftly, You’re right. She’s not pretty. She’s gorgeous.
Dering didn’t respond again after that, but my text did generate a number of question marks and crying emojis. It’s best that my sad social circle clocks where I stand up front.
The gates to Belle Époque open as soon as I arrive. Either they have a long-standing order to let anyone in who has a net worth higher than a certain amount or they’ve been waiting for me. Hopefully it’s the latter.
I don’t live like my mom or sister, and I certainly don’t have a mausoleum like Belle Époque that could have been featured in Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous if Marguerite Abbott was that kind of wealthy woman. She is not, though. She, like my mother, has this belief that if you flaunt your wealth it’s because you just earned it or you have very little of it. The Abbott money goes back far enough that the dirty way it was acquired has been long forgotten.
I curve around the giant water fountain with its dancing nymphs and park in front of the stone steps. A white-gloved valet appears and holds out his hand for the key. “I won’t be long,” I tell him.
I suspect I’ll be kicked out soon after my appearance. The Abbotts don’t hold a lot of love for me. Sticking a fork in a man’s nuts apparently engenders lifelong animosity. Who knew? The doors open easily for me, and the butler intones with a small bow, “Mr. Fréres, the madam awaits you in the parlor.” He gestures toward a blue door behind him.
“Glad to know I’m expected.” I stick out my hand. “The name’s Gant, and you are?”
The butler’s forehead creases with lines as he looks at my outstretched paw with suspicion. “Huntington,” he finally says.
“Huntington. Got it. I suspect I’ll be kicked out as soon as Mr. Abbott figures out who I am, so when you’re throwing me onto the front step, do it gently, will you?” I give him a firm shake before opening the door.
“Mr. Gant Fréres has arrived,” Huntington introduces me.
I feel like I’m in a period set. Paislee is sitting behind a piano while Marguerite stares at her granddaughter with unabashed affection from a sofa that her family probably brought over on the Mayflower. So that’s how the wind lies. Papa Abbott can’t be too happy about this.
“Marguerite, you have a magnificent view here.” I bow over her hand and give it an air kiss.
She giggles girlishly and wags a finger at me. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“I thought of coming earlier but figured it would be rude. You should eat your breakfast in peace.”
“Come sit next to me. I haven’t seen much of you at any of our events. Where have you been hiding?”
“I teach school, ma’am.” I settle onto the sofa. From behind the grand piano, Paislee watches me carefully, like I’m some snake about to poison her. Wonder if she’s had a bad experience with a man before or if her daddy got into her head. It’d be a shame if the woman of my dreams started out hating me because I once stabbed her old man in the gonads. The way he kept her a secret, you’d think she’d be on my side.
“Schoolteachers can’t socialize?” She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “If that’s the case, maybe the school board needs a visit from me.”
Alarmed, I shake my head. “Just me being lazy, ma’am.” Given the Abbott power here, a word from Marguerite might reduce our school days to four days a week. “I promise to attend more of them. Before I didn’t have a reason.”
“Before, hmmm?”
The piano cover closes with a thud. “I told the people at the auction I wasn’t interested in the date.”
Marguerite’s mouth tightens minutely. I jump in. “It’d be a shame if they invalidated the bid because I didn’t deliver on my promise.”
“Can they do that? It’s already been processed on my credit card.”
“And that’s another thing. I didn’t want you to pay for it.”
“I didn’t. It’s Grandma’s money. By all rights, you should go out with her. She won you. Not me.”
“If it’s my purchase, then I have the ability to gift it to you,” Marguerite says.
Paislee’s light green eyes are piercing in the sunlight. I don’t like there’s a big-ass piano between the two of us or that I’m sitting on the sofa with her grandmother. I get the sense that all of this wealth, this newness, isn’t settling in well for Paislee.
I wish we’d met at the yogurt shop or the bookstore because I’m not a man who loves butlers and valets and white-aproned maids moving soundlessly in and out of rooms carrying trays of refreshments. I’m a man who lives in a small two-story brick house with a postage size backyard. I mow my own grass, buy my own groceries, and cook my own dinners. I think Paislee is that type of person, too.
“Then let’s do it this way. Forget about the bid and the auction and the prize. Paislee Abbott, I’d like to take you out for dinner. Will you go?”
“It’s Rhodes.”
Marguerite sucks in her breath.
“What’s that?” I ask in mild confusion.