“Okay,” I say, exhaling his perfect scent from my tightened lungs. “You can be my plus one. But let me warn you … you have no idea what you’ve just signed on for.”
But to be fair, I’m not sure I do either.
Sixteen
Jude
* * *
Hunter LeGrand’s assistant, Marissa, escorts me to his office Monday morning. He’d texted me late last night, asking me to be here by nine AM sharp for a “progress report,” which was shortly after Lo called me in tears and freaking out because she got a hospital bill in the mail for twenty-eight thousand dollars from the last time Piper was hospitalized with complications from her juvenile diabetes. I don’t know why her restaurant even offers medical insurance to its employees when it’s not much different than not having insurance in the first place.
“Would you like anything to drink, Mr. Warner?” Hunter’s assistant asks, her baby blues fluttering and her tight floral dress leaving little to the imagination. Everything about her is fake … her breasts, her lips, even her eyelashes that look like thick strips of mink glued to her lids.
“No. Thank you.”
She smiles. “All right. Well, Mr. LeGrand will be here any minute. Make yourself at home.”
Marissa turns, her chestnut-colored ponytail swinging over her shoulder, and she closes the double office doors behind her.
This is the second time I’ve been in Hunter LeGrand’s office, but the first time I’ve actually had a chance to do a little gawking.
Heading across the room to what can only be described as a “wall of accolades,” I find framed and matted newspaper articles, photos of Hunter with various rock gods and music icons from Paul McCartney and JAY-Z to Chris Stapleton and Cardi B. In the center of it all rest his platinum records. I count twelve, all of them in the last handful of years, all of them on newer, lesser known musical acts who’ve gone on to massive overnight success. Hunter might be new to the music industry, but his reputation has quickly become that of a star maker.
Taking a seat in one of the onyx leather guest chairs, I cross my legs wide and glance at the gold-plated clock on the edge of his oversized mahogany desk. A cup of platinum pens emblazoned with Blue Stream’s logo rests in a shiny gold cup next to his iMac monitor.
His office is boastful and unoriginal, everything I’d come to expect from someone whose Wikipedia page appears to have been written by the subject himself. I’d never seen anything so braggadocios before, so filled with the kinds of personal and specific things only those close to him would’ve known. His bio alone was twice as long as Dr. Dre’s, and Hunter’s only been around a few years.
The double doors burst open, damn near making me choke on my heart as it leaps into my throat, and Hunter LeGrand strides across his expansive corner office, his left hand smoothing down his black silk tie. Unbuttoning his gray suit coat, he hangs it on a gold rack in the corner before taking a seat at his desk.
“Jude,” he says.
“Hunter.”
“What do you have for me?” He leans back in his seat, the corners of his mouth turned down as he studies me.
“Everything’s … going well.”
His frown deepens.
“Just … well?” he asks, leaning forward and pushing a hard breath through his flared nostrils.
“It hasn’t even been a month,” I say. “We’ve been spending some time together, but I’m not going to come on too strong.”
And I’m not a fucking miracle worker …
Hunter’s steely gaze flicks away for a moment and he does nothing to hide the displeasure in his groan. I didn’t much care for this Napoleon-complexed douche the first time I met him, but now all I want to do is punch his stupid face and tell him to go fuck himself.
“Is Love being difficult?” he asks.
My nose wrinkles. “Love” and “difficult” don’t even belong in the same sentence.
“Not at all,” I say. “But this needs to happen naturally.”
Hunter may be used to snapping his fingers or slapping down his AmEx and getting what he wants without having to wait, but his expectations are impractical here.
“Can I ask, why the six-month deadline?” I scratch my brow. “It just seems a little … unrealistic.”
“Unrealistic for a guy who’s got no game, maybe?” Hunter says with a smug chuckle, adjusting his tie. His teeth are fake as fuck. Bright white, perfectly straight, and obviously veneers. Imagining Love with Hunter is somewhat satirical to me.
He’s so plastic.
She’s so real.
“Insulting me isn’t necessary,” I say, stuffing my irritation down so I don’t accidentally clock his ass.
“Take her to a romantic getaway or something,” he says, like the solution was so simple and right there in front of me all along. “Women like that shit. Take her on a shopping spree. I gave you that credit card for a reason.”
“I’m actually going with her to her sister’s wedding in a couple of weeks,” I say, “but as far as the shopping goes … I don’t think she’s into that. She doesn’t seem that materialistic to me.”
Hunter slaps the table and laughs. “You’re going to West Virginia? Have fun. And of course she’s into material shit. How do you think I kept her around so long?”
“I feel like we’re not talking about the same person here …”
His brows furrow, as if I’ve insulted him, but he deserves it. The Love he described in that ridiculous binder is nothing like the Love I’ve been getting to know.
The way he described her when he first prepositioned me, made it a little easier for me to say yes. I’d walked out of his office already of the opinion that she was a horrible person and I was simply hired because Hunter was tired of waiting for karma to do its job.
Their story isn’t uncommon around here. Wealthy Manhattan men get into ugly divorces all the time, losing half their wealth or more, and their ex-wives walk away with smugs on their Botoxed faces and enough money to buy private islands and French chateaus many times over.
To a self-made man, I can understand how infuriating that would be and how a man with little self-restraint and a bottomless bank account could be driven to actually go out and buy revenge.
“People change,” I say.
Hunter’s chin juts forward and he tilts his head to the side, like he knows I’m right, but he doesn’t want to admit it.
“But back to the time frame here…” I continue.
He exhales. I knew he was trying to circumvent my question before. “What about it?”
“Even if she was madly in love with me, I don’t think I could get her to marry me six months in,” I say. “She’s pretty level-headed, and she’s not afraid to say no.”
“Love?” He asks with a laugh.
“Yes. Love.”
“Look, if you’re getting cold feet about this, just say so. We can go our separate ways and forget this whole thing,” Hunter says, rising and hunching over his desk. His gaze tightens, squinting. “Just remember, there are two very distinct paths for you here. The first path? All your dreams come true. You’re a millionaire. You’re famous. You never have to want for anything the rest of your life. The second path? You’re right back where you started. You’re some schmuck struggling to pay his rent and working dead-end jobs and playing in coffee shops and bars hoping to be discovered—but you’ll never be discovered. I’ll make damn sure of that.”