The Reality of You (18 page)

Had he been this way
with the ballerina? The cover model? Was this part of the three-week dating
session? More importantly, could I stay immune to it?

My mind in a whirl,
I absently made my way out of the bathroom. Though dealing with conflicting
emotions, I paused at the corkboard. Faded pictures, mostly of a young boy from
about birth to about the age twelve, covered more than half of the board. They
depicted summer fun from tennis to fishing to rowing to splashing on the beach.
There were a few with an older man, maybe in his forties, but it proved hard to
tell. The few with the man were grainy. In more than half of the pictures, the
boy was with a pretty, dark-haired woman who appeared to be in her late
thirties. In one picture, they sat on the bench of the grand piano, her hand
turning a page, and I was reminded of Reese saying that he didn’t play piano
anymore.

The sight of younger
Reese happily playing piano next to his mother had a breath catching in my
throat.

I was having a
really hard time being callous.

Dammit.

Chapter 20

I’d
decided that I really, really liked Reese’s house in the Hamptons. The day thus
far had been made of awesome. The weather, sunny and sixty degrees, was perfect
for an early spring day. First, there was the amazing sex, and that had stayed
at the back of my mind like a series of naughty pics throughout the day. The
sex was followed by an invigorating run on the beach, after which he chased me
back to the house, then an afternoon of watching old black-and-white movies in
his home theater. I might have thrown a few pieces of popcorn at Reese, and he
might have thrown a lot more back. Lastly, there was the boat ride where he
rowed across the pond on the north side of the property while I sat and watched
the muscles under his T-shirt bunch. Of course, with his hotness only feet
away, I almost fell in the water getting in and out of the boat. We argued,
laughed, and flirted throughout the day. It was like a long, fun day of
foreplay. And even though a tinge of nervousness—I remained a bit
star-struck—stayed with me throughout the day, Fangirl
and
I loved verbal foreplay.

I couldn’t wait for
the night, but now we were heading to town to pick up dinner.

Paul had already
pulled up ‘the car’—some silver, shiny, little sports number—in front of the
main entrance.

As Reese opened the
passenger’s side door for me, I asked, "What kind of car is this?”

“An Aston Martin.”

A startled giggle
escaped me because Kara had compared him to that type of car that night at the
bar.

His eyes tapered at
my odd giggle.

I quickly shut my
mouth and slid into the plush seat then watched him round the front of the car.

Once he settled into
the driver’s seat, he said, “It’s not exactly mine. My father bought it, and it
has stayed here at the house for summer driving for the last fifteen years or
so.” He started the car and rounded toward the wooded lane.

Darn. The car
so
fit him. “What kind of car do you
have?”

“None. I have Paul.
No need for a car.”

I stared at the
woods on the side of the lane without seeing them. A billionaire without a car
collection? I found the concept rather refreshing.

I turned to him. “So
why not have Paul pick up the food?”

Though his eyes
stayed on the road, his head tilted in contemplation. “I thought a car ride
would be enjoyable. Excellent
views
up here, and you came in the dark last night.”

It proved hard to be
callous when he was being considerate. But he was right. The views being a mix
of farms and glimpses of other huge houses, vineyards, and woods made for a
pretty drive. It took about ten minutes to get to town, which was just a small
strip of unique stores and upscale restaurants. Reese parked in front of one,
and as soon as we entered the obviously upscale—its modern décor and sleek
furniture described the food better than any menu—restaurant, a middle-aged,
attractive chef appeared.

He greeted Reese
enthusiastically—wealth buys friends, I supposed—and in seconds, we were back
outside with the trunk open while a line of cooks brought out box after box of
packaged food. As the food kept coming and the chef kept shooting me interested
glances, Reese introduced me and handshaking commenced. Once the trunk was full,
we were off.

On the way back,
though we joked about the amount of food and Reese even flirted by talking
about eating morsels off each other, the chef’s glances had me wondering about
other women again. Damn Kara and her shoving Internet pictures in my face any
chance she got both before Puerto Rico and after Reese and I had shown up at
the pool hall. It wasn’t like I’d expected him not to have dated previously. It
was just that I had faces—all beautiful—stuck in my memory thanks to my
roommate. And thanks to her, I knew that, beyond beautiful, the women he had
dated in his past were far more glamorous than boring old me.

As the house came
into view, so did a sleek, black Bentley parked in front.

I peeked at Reese,
but the sight of his face, drawn and angry, kept the question of if he’d been
expecting visitors behind my teeth. I’d seen him angry in Puerto Rico many
times, just nothing like this. With his brows low and his cheekbones a tight
slash on his face, he looked like he was about to explode.

The moment we got
out of the car, Paul appeared.

Reese handed him the
keys. “Mrs. Wright?” he asked in a steely tone.

“She’d be the only
one who I can think of who would tell her you’re here.”

A visible vein
pounded at Reese’s temple. “Terminate her. One month’s pay, but no referrals.
And find someone who can clean
and
keep their mouth shut.”

Paul nodded his
consent and went to the trunk. Reese stalked into the house. Filled with
hesitation, I followed at his heels, not entirely sure if I wanted to go inside.
Of course, my lame ass assumed that a model or ballerina waited inside the
house. I had been slightly stalking Reese for almost a year without even
meeting him. Would I be stalking him full time after he moved on?
 
Would he catch me stalking him in the lobby?
Or going to and from his limo outside after I got canned for my stalking?

Over his shoulder,
Reese mumbled, “I’m sorry about this.”

Yes, I had a feeling
this was going to suck.

Inside, we found the
waiting female in the sitting room directly off the entrance.

Reese didn’t enter
the room. Rather, he spit out the word, “Grandmother” from the edge.

Sitting in a
high-backed chair, the white-haired woman dripping in gold and diamonds stared
at him for a long moment before her regard shifted to me standing at his side.
“Since you won’t visit me in the city, despite us living less than two miles
apart, and never seem to be home at your residence, I decided to visit you
here.”

“Please spare me
your explanation,” Reese said coolly. If I had determined that he could be a
cold asshole previously, his tone and expression were ten times worse than what
I had witnessed. “I’m aware of why you came, and there is no purpose for your
invasion.”

Her stare, as cool
as his, shifted to me again. “I’m your grandmother. Naturally there is a
purpose. In fact, a very good one.”

“There is no
purpose,” Reese retorted. “I’ll find your driver and you can be home before
ten.”

Besides being
clueless about the animosity in the air, I felt incredibly uncomfortable. The
tension between Reese and his grandmother was so strong that I almost wished it
had been the pretzel ballerina waiting.

Almost
.

Resting her jeweled
hand on the head of an elaborate cane, she shook her head. “I’m far too old for
back-to-back drives in one day. Maurice has already set up my things in the
first-floor bedroom. He can take me back in the morning.”

Arms tight at his
sides, Reese looked like he was about to lose it. “All right, stay then,” he
said, his jaw strained. “Maurice can take you to dinner also.”

She lifted her chin
as her eyes angrily glittered at him. “I’ve already given him the night off. I
anticipated sharing dinner with my grandson.”

“Considered all
possibilities I see,” Reese said in a flat tone.

“Construing
manipulation for a grandmother’s care?” she asked dispassionately.

“You don’t care
about—” Reese paused, noticing my wide gaze flicking from her to him. “Fine,”
he said, past clenched teeth. “Dinner will be ready within the hour.”

Reese grabbed my
upper arm and dragged me toward the hallway as he stalked off.

In the kitchen, he
let go of my arm and leaned against the counter, his back to me, breathing
deeply. I’d been wondering if he ever planned on introducing me to his
grandmother, but now was not the time to ask. Though the bedazzled girl
in me wished he would open up to me
about whatever was going on, the realist in me realized that there wasn’t a
point. And to top that off, how could I expect him to open up when I’d lied to
him about my job?

He finally pushed
away from the counter. Not exactly angry-looking, his face appeared closed off.
“Would you like a glass of wine while I prepare dinner?”

“Um, sure,” I said,
taking a step toward the island piled with the white takeout boxes Paul must
have brought in while Reese and his grandmother argued. “But let me help you
cook.”

He raised an
eyebrow.

My expression turned
mocking. “Said yourself you couldn’t cook. Between the two of us, maybe we
won’t ruin what I’m sure is quite the dinner.”

He let out a long
sigh. “I’ll pour us each a glass.”

Luckily for us, the
boxes had directions on each—what needed to be warmed up, how long, and if it
needed to rest. Though I’d never heard of such a thing—resting food—I was quite
certain the chef’s wisdom beat mine. We divided up the boxes and got to work.
Reese was as lost in the kitchen as I was. We spent most of the time searching
for pans, serving plates, and cooking instruments. We sipped our wine and
worked. We didn’t talk much. His mood remained pensive, mine highly curious. I
wasn’t about to pry. Unless he decided to share, the reason for his and his
grandmother’s dislike would remain a mystery.

As I finished
everything up, Reese set an end of the massive dining room table. Most likely, we
would have eaten in the kitchen, close and romantic, but dinner wouldn’t be
anywhere near romantic now. At last, we took in covered platter after covered
platter of items that smelled amazing even under lids.

After everything was
set out, Reese went to retrieve another bottle of wine from the cellar and to
get the ‘old bat.’ Nice. I smiled weakly in confirmation. His dislike seemed a
bit overboard for a crankity old woman. I had a feeling that this dinner was
going to be torture of the worst kind, even worse than when I bathed Mr. Dario
in red wine.

When we all sat
down, his grandmother immediately said, “So Ms. …”

“Naomi Porter, but
call me Naomi,” I said, passing her a basket of bread that had been labeled
‘rustic truffle and herbs.’

She snatched the
basket from me. “You may call me Mrs. Richards.”

I nodded stiffly at
her tone more than her request, realizing that she was Reese’s maternal
grandmother since the last names were different.

She took her time
spreading her linen napkin on her lap. “So what is it that you do exactly, Ms.
Porter?”

I wondered if
Reese’s obsession with the Ms. thing came from this woman.

“It doesn’t matter
what she does,” Reese said, slipping a grilled apple with goat cheese and
walnuts onto my plate.
  

His grandmother kept
staring at me with a demanding gleam.

“I…um, I’m currently
working as a temporary secretary.” My stumbling at the beginning of the reply
had to do with the fact that I’d lied rather than had been embarrassed about my
position. But the look of contempt on her painted—what was with old rich women
who couldn’t give up the
Estée
 
Lauder
mask?—wrinkled face told me that she’d read it as embarrassment. Great. I
supposed a model or ballerina would have impressed her more.

She paused buttering
her bread and looked to Reese. “Truly? A secretary?”

This question wasn’t
directed to me, instead to Reese. Yet my dumb ass gradually got the glaring
clue that his grandmother had come because of me. Obviously, she wasn’t aware
of Reese’s dating habits. In a little over a week, her fears would be naught.
Perhaps wanting her grandson to settle down was the reason for the friction
between them. If so, it seemed a whole hell of a lot overwrought, especially at
my expense.

Reese set his wine
glass down with a clank. “Better than a socialite who sits on her ass all day
other than shopping,” he said in a mocking tone.

Grandma’s jaw
tightened and her lids lowered until her eyes appeared like slits. “One does
not gain class by sitting on their bottom.”

For a moment, I was
stunned and slightly mortified by her assessment of me. Evidently, I didn’t
have class, wear the right clothes, hold myself in a poised manner, or most
importantly, come from a wealthy family. Then I thought,
Whoop-de-fucking-do
. I liked where I came from. My parents were
made of awesome. I took a bite of the apple goat thing. It was quite delicious.

Reese handed me a
bowl of salad—arugula with balsamic vinegar, pine nuts, and something else I
couldn’t recall from the chef’s note. His incensed gaze nailed his grandmother
to her chair. “Your definition and mine of class are completely different. It
might be best if you don’t bring it up again.”

Reese’s sticking up
for me was nice but unnecessary.

After putting some
salad on my plate, I handed the bowl to her. She snatched it from my hand.

“You were raised in
New York?” Grandma asked me.

I started to think
that their clashing might be inevitable with the woman’s tenacity. “Madison,
Wisconsin,
to be exact.”