The Arrangement Read online

Shit. He’d completely forgotten. His assistant would have sent Celeste flowers. He made a mental note to call her later.

  Emily crossed her legs. “You look handsome.”

  So slick, so professional. He thought of Natalie’s shy, slightly awkward presence and felt his heart swell. He was doing the right thing.

  “You look gorgeous,” he said. “Shall we get some wine?” It was for her, to soften the blow. He had a divestiture to deal with this afternoon, so he had to keep his wits about him. “Red or white?”

  Emily smiled. “Whatever you’re in the mood for.”

  He ordered a bottle of white and their lunch—a plate of pasta and clams for him, a caprese salad for her. This place was fast, catering to the bankers, traders, and attorneys who had to get back to the office. He’d picked this restaurant, and this meal, for that exact reason. He didn’t want to eat a long, lingering lunch with a breakup hovering over him. Emily asked about his work, but he shifted the conversation back to her and her workout class. As she droned on about boxercise (he knew it was something like that), he wondered what she was wearing under that beige dress. Emily always wore expensive lingerie. Was she expecting their meeting to end in sex, as usual? Could it end in sex, as usual? Would it be crass and cruel to break it off with her after she’d serviced him? He nibbled a breadstick and decided it probably would be.

  When their meals arrived, Emily picked at her salad, eating the tomatoes and basil but scraping the fresh mozzarella off to the side. Natalie ate real food, ate it with gusto. The way Emily was toying with her entrée made him think of a bratty child. He chewed a mouthful of pasta and decided it was time. Reaching into his pocket, he brought out the black velvet box with the pendant inside.

  “I got you something.”

  “Oh my god!” Emily dropped her fork, pressed her hands to her surgically enhanced bosom. She flashed him a grateful smile, then dived for the box. Her eyes were alight, glowing with avarice, as she opened it. She took the delicate jewelry from its satin nest and held it before her.

  “It’s beautiful.” She beamed at him. “I love it.”

  “I wanted you to have a token of my affection.” He cleared his throat. “And my appreciation.”

  The light in Emily’s eyes faded as realization struck her: This was not a Valentine’s gift. She set the necklace back in the box and closed it. “Thank you.”

  “You’re an amazing woman—beautiful and accomplished. I’m sure there are plenty of men who would love to have a relationship with you.”

  “Are you ending things?”

  “I would love to keep seeing you but . . . it’s my daughter. She’s going through some difficult stuff. She needs my support and attention right now.”

  He’d practiced the lie, but even to his own ears, it sounded disingenuous. If Violet were going through stuff, Gabe would be the last person to whom she would turn.

  Emily read his deception. “I thought she lived with your ex-wife?”

  “She does. But she wants to move in with me. Part-time at least.”

  “We could dial things back. See each other less often.” She was grasping, trying not to lose her allowance. “I respect your relationship with your daughter.”

  “I think a clean break is for the best.”

  He expected her to object, to try another tack, but she pressed her lips together and forced a small smile. “Okay.” Disappointment made her eyes shiny. “I understand.”

  This was why he paid for his relationships.

  Emily tossed her napkin onto her half-eaten salad, dropped the velvet box into her bag. “I’ve really enjoyed our time together.”

  “As have I.”

  “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  “Of course.” He reached in his pocket for one last gift. “I’d like you to have this.” He slid the envelope across the table toward her. “It’s two months’ allowance.”

  In one swift movement, she snatched it up, slipped it into her purse. “I appreciate that.”

  She pushed back her chair and stood. Gabe got up, too.

  “My driver will take you back to Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “Thanks.” She kissed his cheek, lingering just long enough for the pheromones to kick in and make him second-guess his decision. “Goodbye, Gabe.” And then she walked out of the restaurant.

  Gabe sat down and signaled the waiter for the bill. He had to get back to the office, had clients coming within the hour. He downed the glass of wine he hadn’t planned to drink, feeling a little forlorn. Emily had been sweet, beautiful, compliant. The ease with which she’d allowed him to end their relationship made him appreciate her more. But he had done this for a reason, and that reason was Natalie. He would see her on Saturday, but he didn’t want to wait. He wanted to see her right then, as soon as possible. She would distract him from the niggling sense of loss he was feeling. Pulling out his phone, he texted her.

  Drinks tonight?

  He waited for a response, but none came. The bill arrived, and he paid it with cash. As he left the restaurant, he checked his phone again. Still nothing. Walking back to his office, he felt agitated, on edge. What if Natalie wasn’t infatuated with him after all? Perhaps the wide-eyed ingenue act was exactly that—an act. Maybe the little bitch had been playing him?

  “Watch it, asshole,” he snarled at a tourist whose eyes were clamped on the digital map on his phone. But it wasn’t the distracted Midwesterner he was angry with; it was Natalie. He’d dumped Emily to be with her, and now, she was ghosting him. He was pissed at her, and at himself. He had given this unsophisticated girl the power to hurt him, and he didn’t like it.

  In the cavernous lobby of his office building, his phone finally buzzed. Pulling it from his coat pocket, he saw the name: Nathan. He’d added the fake name to his contacts on the slim chance that Celeste or Violet glanced at his phone. But it was Natalie. Relief flooded through him. She was into him, after all. Of course she was.

  I’d love to. Where?

  He would respond to her after his meeting, make her sweat a little, give her a taste of her own medicine.

  “Hold the elevator!” Gabe called. With a spring in his step, he jogged toward it.

  18

  * * *

  The Arrangement

  The L train rattled and shook its way into the Third Avenue station. Nat stood, along with the other morning commuters, pressing themselves toward the door, straining for their final destinations. She was running late for class, but at least she’d be there. She’d been tempted to skip again—she was exhausted, mildly hungover—but she didn’t want to fall behind. Ava had notes from their perspective class for her, and she had an acrylics project due and a lettering assignment to work on. But as she climbed the stairs to street level, she realized she would be present in body only. Her mind, her heart, her moral compass were firmly stuck in the events of last night.

  Gabe’s text had surprised her. They’d already made plans for Saturday; she hadn’t expected a man so busy and powerful to also be so spontaneous. She had hesitated before replying. Was seeing him again so soon a mistake? And on Valentine’s Day? She had made a pact with herself. She would go on two or three dates, make a little money, and then she would stop. Nat was not sugar baby material. But what she had with Gabe felt different. He was so attractive, so charming, so attentive. She had already kissed him, had slept in his arms. She was already falling for him.

  The blossoming relationship was debauched, immoral, wrong. But she’d wanted to see Gabe again, wanted to kiss him again, even. It wasn’t about the money—though she couldn’t deny that it was extremely helpful. She had pushed aside her niggling conscience and agreed to meet him for late drinks. They’d arranged to meet in the East Village. There was a poky little bar he liked that played live jazz at a volume that still allowed conversation. As she’d gotten herself ready, she’d experienced a confounding twist of emotions: anticipation, excitement, and something that felt a lot like shame.

 
She’d splurged on another Uber. She knew that, at the end of the night, her wallet would be lined with hundred-dollar bills. It was a luxury she could grow accustomed to, the kind of perk that made life in Brooklyn easier. But when her car had stopped in front of the cool establishment, she paused before exiting. Her pulse was skittering, her heart hammering in her chest. It was like her intuition had known that this rendezvous was a turning point. That it would change everything.

  She was at campus now, the walk through the chilly streets a blur. Hustling toward her illumination lab, she tried to shake off the reminiscence. But as she slid into her desk, booted up the computer, she knew it was fruitless. A smile flitted across her lips, chased away by a queasy feeling in her stomach. As the instructor, annoyed by her late entry, shot her a look, her mind drifted back to the previous night’s date.

  The club had been dark, almost hazy, though the fog may have been in her brain. She was on her third rusty nail (she had told herself she’d have no more than two, but Gabe had a way of making her feel adventurous, almost reckless). Onstage, a beautiful woman was singing, silky notes effluviating from her throat. The ambience was undeniably sultry.

  “I love this place,” Gabe said. “I come here when I’ve got a difficult case. Nothing as relaxing as Scotch and smooth jazz.”

  “Totally,” Nat agreed, as if this was also a habit of hers.

  Gabe smiled at her, then took her hand in his. “I’d like to talk to you about making this more . . . official.”

  The whiskey (she was developing a taste for it) burned her throat. “Umm . . . I’m not sure.”

  He removed his hand. “You’re not interested?” His blue eyes were cold, his tone accusatory. He was angry at her for leading him on, for wasting his time. But she saw the pain beneath it. Her ambiguity had hurt him.

  “Of course I am,” she said quickly. It was her nature to smooth things over. Ten years with a volatile father had ingrained it in her. “I’m just new to this. I don’t really know what that means.”

  He smiled, his eyes melting. “I’d like to set up an arrangement so I can see you regularly. I’ll give you an allowance of thirty-five hundred a month.”

  Three thousand five hundred dollars. Every. Month.

  “In return, I’d like to see you a couple of times a week. Our schedules permitting, of course.”

  She gave a slight nod, a small smile. Her throat was too dry to speak. And even if she could, how to verbalize the thoughts swirling in her head? This was never her plan, not what she’d wanted. But suddenly, she couldn’t find any downside to it. She enjoyed spending time with this man who had introduced her to Scotch and jazz. She loved the way he looked at her, touched her, spoiled her. All her financial worries would be eliminated with this arrangement. And she had made peace with accepting money in exchange for her time, her attention, and whatever else might happen between them. At least she thought she had. . . .

  “There are a few things you need to understand.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m devoted to my daughter. I’ll be with her most weekends, so I won’t be able to see you.”

  “Right.” Nat respected his dedication to his only child, and the schedule aligned nicely with her desire for freedom.

  “This weekend is an exception. She’s spending it with her mother at their house on Long Island. I keep a small weekend place there. Sometimes, my daughter joins me in the city.”

  “Okay.”

  “She can’t ever know about you,” Gabe continued, his voice firm, adamant. For the first time, she could see him as a cutthroat attorney. “I keep my family life and my dating life separate. My daughter and my job will always be my top priorities.”

  “Sure.” Before this moment, Gabe had made her feel special and adored. Now, she knew exactly where she stood.

  “If you can respect that, I think we can have something great together.”

  “I can. Of course I can.”

  “Good.” He smiled as he reached into his pocket, extracting a plain white envelope. He held it under the table, away from prying eyes. “This is for you.”

  Her hand reached out and took it, depositing it swiftly into her purse.

  “Thank you.”

  And with that, Natalie had a sugar daddy.

  * * *

  It was surreal and fucked-up and amazing, all at the same time. Nat needed to talk to Ava. Her friend had knowledge and experience, would talk Nat through her jitters and qualms. Ava was not in this class, but Nat would see her later, in Western civilization. Nat shifted her focus to the task in front of her, using 3-D lighting techniques to give an animation depth and dimension, but she was too late. The professor announced that class was over. She’d squandered the hour, her thoughts trapped in the past.

  Nat logged off the computer, gathered her bag, and left the studio. Traversing the hallways on autopilot, her fellow students were faceless blurs, her mind, again, on the night before. On Gabe. He had summoned his driver, had kissed her goodbye, his mouth warm and hungry and tasting like whiskey. His hand found its way into her hair, the other to her waist, pulling her closer into him.

  “I’m so happy you’re in my life,” he’d whispered.

  “Me, too.” And she’d felt that way then. But not now.

  Now, she felt anxious, worried, afraid she was in over her head. Initially, she’d thought she would be repulsed by an older man, disgusted at the thought of his body, of his hands touching her. But that was not the case with Gabe Turnmill. When she was with him, she felt giddy, happy, sparkly. When he kissed her, she melted, when he touched her, she wanted more. She had never felt this way before, not with Cole, not with Miguel. But this was not a real relationship. Gabe was paying her.

  Now, Nat was afraid of falling for a man she could never really have.

  19

  * * *

  The Incident

  Ava was not in class, which afforded Nat the opportunity to repay the note-taking favor. Her focus was improved this session, and she religiously jotted down pertinent facts in the professor’s monologue on the Enlightenment. Surreptitiously, she texted Ava.

  Are you sick? I’ll take notes for you.

  But her friend didn’t reply. When class was over, Nat checked her phone again. Still no response. She had a three-hour window before her next studio session. It would be well spent catching up on what she’d missed yesterday, but without Ava’s notes, she wouldn’t make much headway. Nat decided to visit the penthouse apartment. Her sick friend would appreciate the homework, and Nat could take care of her. If Ava had a cold, she could fetch her some soup; if she had a hangover, Gatorade or greasy takeout.

  She texted Ava again.

  Coming over with class notes

  The text flew away with a computerized whoosh. Nat looked at the screen; the phone registered it as delivered but not read. Could Ava be sick in bed without her phone? Asleep? Could she have lost the device? With an uneasy feeling tickling her belly, Nat hurried toward the Chelsea pad.

  The doorman greeted her in the lobby. “Hello, miss.”

  She recalled his Brooklyn accent, his weathered appearance, but not his name. “Hi. I’m a friend of Ava Sedin’s. In the penthouse.”

  “Right.” He picked up the phone to announce her arrival. “Your name?”

  “Nat.”

  She waited as the phone rang in Ava’s apartment. And rang. Could she be out? Too sick to answer? Finally, the doorman said, “Good morning, Ava. Your friend Nat is here to see you.”

  Ava’s voice on the other end of the phone was inaudible, but the doorman—Pete! That was his name—nodded. “I’ll send her up.”

  In the elevator, Nat checked her phone. Ava had not replied to her texts, though her friend was clearly able to answer her telephone. But there was a message from Gabe.

  Can’t get you off my mind. Hope you’re having a great day.

  Her legs went wobbly, her lips curled into a delighted smile. Feeling like a schoolgirl, she texted back:
>
  Thinking of you 2

  The elevator doors slid open, and Nat hurried into the sumptuous hallway. She was excited to see Ava, to tell her about her relationship. Ava had become a friend and confidante, the only person who knew about Nat’s secret life. Nat could count on Ava to guide her through this unknown territory. The blond girl was savvy, experienced. She might even have advice on how to handle the Cole situation, which, Nat realized, had almost slipped from her mind, thanks to Gabe Turnmill’s attentions.

  She knocked on Ava’s door and waited. And then, she waited some more. It was quiet in the apartment, no music, no TV, no sounds of life inside. But Ava knew Nat was there, she had invited Nat up. Eventually, she heard the shuffle of sock feet moving toward the door, and it opened.

  “Hey,” Nat began, and then stopped, shocked by her friend’s appearance. Ava’s right cheek was red and raw, her lips cracked and swollen. Both her eyes were bloodshot, puffy from crying. “Oh my god.” Nat pushed her way inside. “What happened?”

  Ava closed the door and locked it, throwing the deadbolt. “Come in,” she said, leading the way toward the low slate sofa. A pillow and fluffy blanket covered it; a makeshift bed. Ava tossed the blanket aside so they could sit.

  “What happened to you?”

  Ava gave a rueful smile. “Bad date.”

  “A date did that to you? Did he hit you? Who was it?”

  “It was my own fault.” The battered girl reached for an ice pack resting on the black marble coffee table, held it to her cheek. “There were red flags, but I ignored them. I got greedy.”

  Nat reached out, held Ava’s free hand. “Tell me. . . .”

  “I went back on the site. I don’t know why. I’ve got some good daddies in my life, kind and generous. But I was looking for something different. Something exciting.” She moved the ice pack to her swollen lips. “I messaged with a guy—really handsome, into boats and travel. Spring break’s coming up. I thought he might take me somewhere if we hit it off.”