Chapter One – The Encounter

Sarah

This damn iPhone. Damn technology. And these damn fingernails. I struggle to finish typing out the text message on these tiny screen buttons, with my phone hidden underneath the table.

Anything, Johnny. Please. I just need anything. I'm desperate, I type out, having to backspace several times to fix my typing mistakes when my manicured nails get in my way.

Johnny is considerably faster at texting than I am – probably because of his masculinity and the fact that he doesn't go in for regular manicures – and a reply comes quickly.

Sorry, Sarah. I can't do it.

For a brief moment I drop the phone to my lap and sigh out loud. I should be used to it now. I've pretty much run through my entire list of contacts and exhausted all my options and I've heard I can't do it more times in the past week than I have in an entire lifetime. My description to him, desperate, is a misnomer at this point. I've far surpassed desperation and I'm quickly approaching the next level – depravity, the kind of desperation that leads you to do crazy things like sell your kidney on the black market or succumb to prostituting yourself on the streets. I'm not sure which one I'd prefer at this exact moment, but one doesn't sound any worse than the other.

“Are you listening to me?”

I look up and realize that I've been so engrossed in myself, I've forgotten that my best friend, Katherine, is sitting across from me at the table. Decked out with her diamante-studded Chanel sunglasses atop her head, her long eyelashes barely peeking out from underneath her bangs, she gives me that look.

“Of course I was listening to you,” I say, and gently place my cell phone into my purse, which sits next to me on its own chair.

Truth be told, I didn't hear a word she said. I forgot she was even here. Kate isn't “forgotten” often, unless it's me who forgets her presence. Wherever she goes, from the moment she steps into the room, all eyes are on Katherine Carrington – and it's not because of her bubbly personality.

“What did I say, then?” she asks, her fork partially up, ready to take a small bite of the prosciutto stuffed mushrooms on her plate, which if I'm being honest, absolutely sicken me at the thought.

For most people, this would be the point that they would stutter and struggle to come up with a small tidbit of information that they might have heard, knowing that the odds of failing miserably are great. But this is Katherine. I have good chances.

“Prada,” I say, picking up a forkful of penne pasta and placing it very lady-like in my mouth.

“Like I was saying,” she says, her eyes wide, “their new line is...oh, my God, Sar, it's absolutely fabulous. I don't think I've ever seen anything more amazing. Even Daddy was impressed. It was the best Fashion Show I've been to yet. Oh, and while I was in Paris, I met this man...”

I keep eye contact with her, but tune out again. Having a conversation with Katherine Carrington is like watching The Young and the Restless – you can miss half an hour of the conversation and still pick up exactly where you left off, because it never changes. There are only three things Katherine Carrington cares about – haute couture, money, and rich men.

Katherine's father, who is affectionately – and creepily – known around circles of women as “Daddy Carrington”, is part owner and half the brilliant mind behind Carrington and Kennedy. Daddy Carrington, to describe him best, makes Donald Trump look as ugly as Carrot Top, as important as the valets outside this restaurant, and as broke as a McDonald's fry cook. Saying he has more money than God would actually be an insult to this man.

Kenneth Carrington and his partner, Sheldon Kennedy, own hundreds of hotels across the entire world. It all started as a ten-room dump motel in 1953, somewhere outside Juarez, Mexico, that even the roaches wouldn't inhabit. Somehow, by 1981, the year Katherine and I were born – only two months apart – Carrington and Kennedy Hotels had morphed into hundreds of upscale hotels in the biggest and richest cities across the world, that only the elite could afford to stay at. Elite like Kenneth Carrington and his family – wife Elsbeth (not to be mistaken with Elizabeth), scholarly son Richard (otherwise known as Little Rich), and doting daughter Katherine. Elite like Sheldon Kennedy, his trophy wife Margaret, and two doctor sons Calvin and Jude.

But not his daughter – the one he long ago disowned, kicked out of the family. The daughter he no longer has – Sarah Kennedy.

Yep, that's me.

I could sit here and write a list for you, detail all the reasons I've been disowned, cast off, discarded, renounced – pick any word you prefer – from the Kennedy family. But it would take ages, and truthfully, it would bore you so much you'd wish for death. Suffice it to say, I no longer exist to my mogul father. My mother acknowledges my existence, but only to avoid maternal shame and losing her title as trophy mother and wife. My brothers love me – and not only out of obligation, which I'm quite proud of – but don't speak of me around Daddy. After all, they don't want to end up like me – cast away from Island Kennedy by their own father, without a cent of Daddy's money.

That was two years ago. I've managed since then, finding a job as a legal aide at one of the top law firms in Manhattan. It hasn't been easy. I'm not living in Trump Towers, but I have a decent little apartment, not far from Times Square and close to the best shopping district the city has to offer. Elsbeth used to consider me as one of her own daughters; now she'd much sooner let a homeless man who lived in squalor inside her house than she would me. Rich used to adore me, even had a pretty intense crush on me in high school; now he doesn't speak to me, much like my parents.

But Katherine...Katherine has always stuck by me. Through thick and thin. Through bad and good. Through all the dirty, ugly details of my falling out with my father, she has always been there for me.

“Sar, I keep telling you – you should come next year,” she says, placing her cup of coffee gently on the saucer it came from. “It's the most fabulous thing.”

“Yes, well, Kate, some of us do have jobs,” I remind her, picking up my own coffee cup to take a sip.

“Oh tosh,” she says. “You know I'll take care of it.”

“Your dad would sooner pay immigrant workers a fair minimum wage than pay to send me to Fashion Week in Paris.”

She points a long, pink manicured nail at me. “See, that's how rumors get started. You know Daddy pays those sweet little housekeepers more than fairly.”

I smile at her, a real shit-eating grin, and bat my eyelashes slightly.

“Daddy doesn't hate you,” she says. “He just tries to stay neutral, so he stays in your dad's good graces. I'm sure once I asked, he'd be more than willing to bring you along.”

I bite my tongue. That's what I call the Famous Kennedy Load of Bullshit – deserving of the importance the capitalization gives it – but I can't tell Katherine that. Like any spoiled, rich socialite, she's brainwashed to think that Daddy Carrington walks on water and can do no wrong. I've heard her tell stories about how he's been knighted by queens and blessed by one of the Popes...which anyone with half a brain would know is a complete load of bullshit, but an impressive story nonetheless.

Unfortunately, being a Daddy's Girl at one point myself, I can't bring myself to tell her the truth about her life. I can't bring myself to tell her that her thirty years on this Earth has been one big, elitist lie after another.

I can't break her heart like mine was, because I know how it feels when the only world you know comes crashing down around you.

I'm opening my mouth, about to give her a polite but definite decline, when I see her overly made-up eyes open wide. Suddenly, a look comes over her face similar to the one she makes when she sees a Gucci purse she's been eyeing, or a pair of Louboutin pumps, shiny and brand new in the window. I know she's seen someone.

She raises her hand and lifts herself up out of her seat slightly to give a little wave behind me, and I'm about to turn around to see who she's discovered, when she calls.

“Lance!”

I've just turned around and that's when I see him, stepping out of that shiny, black BMW. Just like him, the disgustingly pressed suit and the black wingtips that I'm surprised he graces the dirty New York streets with.

I try not to groan, so as not to hurt Katherine's feelings, but I'm sure underground workers in China can hear it.

She's waving him over frantically, and I wish I could call Scotty to beam me up, or otherwise morph myself out of here.

“Katherine,” I hear him say in that overly-saccharin voice. “A little early for cocktail hour, isn't it?”

“Oh, Lancey,” she says with a smile. She stands up and behind hiding my face, I can see her embrace him in a hug. “You silly. A little brunch, that's all.”

I only lower my hand so I can grab my coffee, but out of the corner of my eye I now see him turn his head toward me.

“Sarah,” he says, still smiling, but noticeably less cordial than he greeted Kate.

I finish sipping my coffee and swallow before slightly smiling his way.

“Lance.”

“It's good to see you out and about,” he says. “How is the law profession treating you?”

I see the snide turn in his upper lip, and I know that I'm meant to see it.

“It's amazing,” I respond. “I love my job.”

“Secretarial work is a good look for you,” he says. “Lucky for you, hard labor hasn't aged you a day.”

Thirty seconds. He's beat his new personal record of asshole-ism. I want to pounce on him like a territorial lion and claw his eyes out with my newly done acrylic nails. The only reason I think twice is because the dress I'm wearing for today's outing cost me two weeks' pay, makes my Target clothes look like dishrags, and I'd hate to dirty it with his blood.

“Being an unadulterated dickhead hasn't aged you a day either,” I say with a smile. “That's a nice suit – tell me, is it real skin from one of your clients you screwed over or is it a really good reproduction?”

He chuckles. “Same Sarah, as always.”

“As always. And being a thief hasn't changed you either.”

He ignores my jab and goes back to Kate, and I turn back to my coffee, proud as a peacock that I made it through the minute-long exchange that was forced onto me.

Lance Bass – the only man in the world that I can't stand, and have more hatred toward than my own father. As is her personality, Kate worships him. Me, personally, I'd rather strangle him with his self-imposed crown until he begs for my mercy. His BMW has more class than he does.

It wasn't always that way. I mean, is it ever? You don't always immediately hate a person from the moment you know them. I didn't always hate him.

From the age of thirteen, when we entered junior high, Katherine and I both attended Thornhill Academy. Of course, one of the most elite private schools in the country; only the best for the Carrington and Kennedy children. As eighth graders, we met suave, savvy, sophomore Lance...although back then, he went by James. His father, James Sr., owned the best law firm in the entire state of New York, Bass and Associates. Carrington and Kennedy Hotels used him as their exclusive lawyer, which meant he was included in our immediate circle.

His mother, Diane, a lowly teacher by our inner circles standards, would have tea with our mothers every Sunday morning after church while our fathers would converge in my father's huge upstairs office, undoubtedly talking business. From the time I entered the Academy, there wasn't a Sunday that Lance wasn't at my house – which only led to bad, horrible things.

From the moment we were introduced to him, Lance was known as the “bad boy” of Thornhill. At least, as “bad” as a rich lawyer's son attending a private school can be. While the other heirs were busy studying to make good marks so they could attend law school and medical school and make their fathers proud, Lance was the one wearing sunglasses in the back seat of the class room, trying to impress the girls. When the other boys turned sixteen and drove to school in brand new Cadillacs and Lexuses, Lance was the one to pull up in an electric blue Ferrari, looking better than candy to a toddler.

I was the least immune to his gravitational pull.

By the time I turned sixteen, the three of us – Kate, Lance, and I – were inseparable. It started with “Tea Time Sundays” as he called it. Soon, the three of us walked home from school every day – until of course he got the car, when he would drive us home. Eventually, he would only let me have the front seat, relegating Kate to the back.

I knew things had started to change when he would go out of his way to drop Kate off at home first. It would just be me and him, cruising the streets like the blue-collar teenagers, listening to Radiohead and Pearl Jam. Rebelling, basically, because I knew that if my father knew about it, he'd drop dead of a heart attack and proceed to roll over in his newly-dug grave.

And in case you're wondering, listening to the Devil music of Radiohead and Pearl Jam isn't the reason my father disowned me. At least, not the only reason.

You know how it goes from here. Sixteen-year-old girl and eighteen-year-old boy, cruise in his car listening to music. Conveniently, they find themselves on the scenic outlook, more commonly known as “Lover's Lane”. By the grace of God, it's an unseasonably warm day and the young girl, prepared for an early-spring chill, has dressed in a tasteful cardigan. Of course, it's so hot, she has no choice but to remove it, leaving her soft, creamy skin exposed in her school-approved camisole. Suddenly, the boy realizes that this thirteen-year-old girl has blossomed into a pubescent sixteen-year-old with an hourglass figure and, God's only gift to horny teenage boys, cleavage.

One thing leads to another, and innocence is lost.

You'd be half-right.

God knows – and I'm ashamed to admit it so openly – I was ready and willing. That blonde hair, those green eyes, and that pathetic not-so-bad-boy facade had me from the get-go. And for a while, it seemed to be that he felt the same way. I knew him; I had been best friends with him for three years. I watched as puberty took its evil and embarrassing toll on him, listened to his voice change to that deep tone that made all the girls swoon. I was not immune to his sex appeal, but that didn't change the fact that I saw him as one of the best friends I had ever had, aside from Kate.

But just as it looked like it might happen, something suddenly changed in him. Suddenly, I was untouchable; he backed away from me as if I was Chernobyl, started the car, and drove me home with hardly a word. I went inside with perfectly-coiffed hair, pissed as all hell.

I knew it was over when, instead of going to Prom together as was the plan, he went with someone else. And I guess I've never really gotten over it.

But now that I'm older, thirty-two to be exact, I have a lot more reasons to hate him.

No, really; I swear I do.

“What is it with you and him?” Kate asks me once he walks away and she sits back down.

“Whatever do you mean?” I ask sweetly, as if I can even pretend I don't know what she means.

“You can't even give him a simple, civil 'hello',” she says.

“He's scum,” I say. “The man has absolutely no morals. He's the biggest thief I've ever known – and that's saying something considering the high society circle our parents run in aren't known for being big on morals. Everybody knows he's the biggest lying, cheating, dirty lawyer in New York, a rather low standard for lawyers, period. And he's a Ponzi schemer.”

“That's not true,” Kate insists. “He's a sweet man.”

“Please,” I half-scoff. “The man would steal the shirt off his own mother's back if he stood to gain something from it.”

“I don't understand how the two of you came to have such a distaste for each other,” she says. “You two were joined at the hip in high school. Everybody knew you had a thing for each other.”

“We had a thing for about a week,” I say, emphasizing the words in my voice in lieu of using air quotes. “What thing we did have was imagined at best – mostly by you. It equaled up to no more than a close friendship, cruising in his fancy car that Daddy paid for, him dreaming that his disgustingly charming personality could win him an all-expenses-paid trip in my pants.”

See, I've conveniently left out the part where I tell her that he had an all-access pass. It's better that way.

“He wasn't like that, Sare-Bear,” Kate says, and I cringe inwardly at the use of the childish nickname my Daddy used to call me...you know, before I was dead to him. “Lance is a good man. He comes from a good family. He had a bit of a rough edge in high school, but it was just a personality quirk; something that made him different from the other 'Daddy Rich Boys' in school.”

It doesn't escape me – the irony of her referring to our schoolmates in a derogatory manner, considering she's the apple of her father's eye and gets everything she wants.

“Everybody knew he had it so bad for you, Sar,” she says.

Her tone of voice is serious; she says it in such a way that you know she's turned off her debutante nonsense and she's being completely honest with you. But it's funny, because all I can think is, I remember the whole thing going down very differently.

“Well, I don't know what everybody else saw that made them think that,” I say. “Lance and I were just really good friends. And then we grew apart. I become one person and he became a completely different person. He became...what he is today. And I don't find it appealing, neither in a romantic sense or in a friendly sense.”

Looking at her face, I can sense a displeasure. Actually, it's almost disappointment. It's odd; from the outside, the first impression one usually has of Katherine Carrington is that she is a spoiled, rich brat whose only interest is spending as much of her Daddy's money as she can and keeping up the ridiculous appearances that come along with her life. But like an onion, when you peel back the skin, you find one astounding layer after another.

“It is what it is, Katie,” I say, knowing I'll soften her with the nickname. “Trust me, there's no love lost between Lance and I. I'm totally fine with where the two of us stand.”

I can tell she's not completely satisfied with my answer, but I just don't feel like talking about it anymore. I know of only one thing to do, so I suddenly perk up, straightening my back and lifting my chin in the air regally.

“Shall we excuse ourselves for tea?” I ask, fanning my hand out towards the sidewalk next to me.

I hear a small giggle escape her throat. She knows that I'm making fun of our mothers, who would always “excuse themselves” for tea on the “veranda” as if they were the most important people in the world; the fact escaping them that behind the fancy exterior, they were really simple people walking out to the porch.

“To the veranda?” she asks, returning to her lady-like appearance.

“After you, m'lady,” I say.

We both stand from the table, continuing to be as ridiculously elegant as we can possibly stand without launching into a throe of giggles at each other. I smooth my dress down and grab my clutch purse from the chair, and quickly start to follow after her towards her Mercedes.

I don't even realize I'm passing his table until I'm stopped, abruptly, by a heavy hand wrapped around my wrist.

I gasp slightly, and look down, seeing his fist wrapped around my arm. It's not quite what I would call a death grip, but it carries a certain desperation to it, and he certainly doesn't know his own strength.

For the longest time, he doesn't speak to me, he only stares. I look away for a moment to his brunch partner, who seems as stunned and confused as I am. It has the air of a business meeting, a very important one by the looks of it, and I'm rather shocked. It's definitely not appropriate behavior, even for him.

“Sarah?”

I look over, and Katherine has come to a full stop, turned toward me, looking between me and Lance with a mixture of emotions – confusion, curiosity, and a touch of what almost seems like fear.

“Are you coming?” she asks me.

“In a minute,” I say. “Go on ahead without me.”

She does, turning the corner to head towards the car without a second thought because, obviously, she trusts him without question. I watch her until she's out of sight, and it's then that I glance back down – first at the business man. He has decided he's over the situation; he's back to sipping his drink, something that no doubt to me looks alcoholic, and avoiding the odd encounter in front of him. I can still see a touch of confusion and even bewilderment in his face, but knowing he associates with lawyers – and drinks alcohol at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning during a business meeting – God only knows what stranger things he's seen in his life.

I look back at Lance, and it's only then that he lessens his grip on my arm.

“I apologize for my backhanded jab at you earlier,” he says. “It was good to see you today after so long, Sarah.”

The tone in his voice is softened, and even the look on his face is almost endearing.

“It was good to see you again too, Lance,” I say, unable to help myself, because I'm so surprised, what else can I really say?

“It's been too long,” he says. “I'd like to catch up. If you would do me the honor, I'd love to take you for a drink tonight. What would you say to a scotch at Pegu, tonight at eight?”

For a moment, I consider it. I hate it, but there's still that little part of me – the part that is sixteen, that lives for him, that breathes him in, that wants him to live for me and nothing else in the entire world. It's so appealing, the idea of just me, him, and a bottle of scotch between us, because it's been so long.

And then I remember the sixteen years of scorn.

“I don't drink scotch,” I say, twisting my arm to encourage him to release me.

He does, and I rip my arm away. I'm slightly thrilled at the look of surprise on his face.

“And I may not be my father's daughter anymore, but I still have enough class to not grace you with my presence,” I finally say. “Go to hell.”

It's with only a smidgen of satisfaction that I walk away from him; mostly, I'm pissed.

But that's no surprise. After all, it is James Lance Bass.

Chapter Two – The Hustle

Lance

I still can't believe it.

I don't know what I can't believe more – the way she talked to me, so hostile and yet with that same Kennedy class she's known for, or the fact that she still hates me after all these years.

I can't say that I blame her, but you would think after sixteen years, she would have softened a bit.

I stand at my huge window, from the tenth story of the building, and look down on the bustling streets of New York City from my office at Bass and Associates. My hands are stuffed in my pants pockets, and I'm just thinking. There's a million things I should be doing. I have a deposition in two days I should be preparing for. The Carlisle contracts are haunting me, waiting for my approval. Then there's the big account, the biggest one in the history of Bass and Associates, that my father shouldered off onto me and has been breathing down my back for the last week to work on.

But I don't care. Right now, all I can think about is her.

It's not the first time I've run into her. After sixteen years of living in the same city, or at least in close proximity, I gave up trying to avoid her. I don't go out searching for her specifically but every now and then, we have an encounter. Sometimes I cross paths with her on the street. Sometimes I have to pass by her desk, since we do both work in law and our law firms are natural competitors. And, being part of the Kennedy-Carrington-Bass social circle, and such good friends with Katherine, I'm bound to run into her socially now and then.

When we run into each other alone, we either glance at each other and avoid all other contact, or at the very most, give a polite smile or a cordial, quiet “hello”. Around Katherine, we have to muster the courage to give a little more – a bigger smile, a louder hello, even a “nice to see you” once in a while. I know she does it for the sake of Katherine. They're best friends, attached to each other at the hip, and Sarah would sooner chew off her own arm than let a little thing like me come between their friendship.

I do it because after sixteen years, I still can't let Sarah Kennedy go.

She owns me; every piece of me.

For a moment, I thought maybe she was considering taking me up on my offer. It was just a scotch; not a date or a marriage proposal. And then she said those words...go to hell.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. She could have said worse; she should have said worse. I did her dirty. She always deserved so much better than what I gave her. She deserves an explanation.

But how am I supposed to tell her that we couldn't be together because precious Daddy Kennedy threatened to kill me if I ever touched her?

I was a pretty bad guy back then. Granted, I could have been a lot worse, from stories I've heard in the inner circle about hooligans in public schools; but in “high” society, I was the smokin', drinkin', motorcycle-ridin' nightmare of every father with a little girl. I mean, I never smoked; I only had a beer or two occasionally; and I didn't even own a motorcycle. But I was that guy – that guy every girl wanted to bring home, and every father dreamed of pulling a gun out on.

I dated a few girls, sowed my wild oats, but it was never anything serious because Sarah was always “it” for me. The girls I dated knew it, too, because every one of them hated me hanging around Kate and Sarah so much. It was usually the reason for my break-ups, because I refused to stop.

By the time Sarah had turned fifteen, she was blossoming into this beautiful creature. She was always beautiful, but in those two years since I had met her, she had turn from a silly, immature thirteen-year-old into a charming, sophisticated young woman. Long, flowing blonde hair, bright blue eyes, sun-kissed skin, and – I was never one to focus on a woman's figure only – a body that could have stopped traffic. I was always going to ask her out, but I was afraid. I also thought she was too young; she needed to have fun, break other boys' hearts, experience life at its fullest. I wasn't the best man I could have been back then – I didn't want to be the one to break her heart.

And then she turned sixteen. Her parents held a huge Sweet Sixteen party for her at the biggest hotel in all of New York state, owned by Carrington-Kennedy of course, in the luxurious banquet hall. She personally invited me. A Sweet Sixteen party wasn't really my thing, but I knew it meant a lot to her that I attend, and part of me couldn't turn down seeing her celebrating such a big milestone. It was an overly-done formal event, so I wore my tuxedo and drove up with Katherine, putting up with her over-excitement of the event the whole ride over.

And then I saw her in that ball gown. And I fell in love.

That night, I decided that one day, I would marry Sarah Kennedy.

But her father had other plans. He never was thrilled about my presence, always knew there was something about me that he didn't like. Something wild, something more dangerous than he wanted around his little girl. I guess that night he sensed that something changed between me and his daughter, and he decided to put a stop to it.

He pulled me aside that night and told me that if I ever put my hands on his daughter, he would make certain that I would never touch another woman ever again.

With Sheldon Kennedy, that is most certainly a death threat.

I'm sure Sarah has no idea of half the things her father has done, or is capable of doing – and in my opinion, she shouldn't be made aware of them. My father has been his lawyer for over a decade and now that I'm a partner, I handle a good fifty percent of the business that Carrington-Kennedy does, so I'm obligated to know – and obligated to not tell her. But I can't be sure she doesn't already, knowing that he disowned her two years ago.

I have no idea what happened. Katherine has never told me the whole story, and of course Sarah hasn't and wouldn't, since she tries not to talk to me if at all possible. It all happened after Sarah and I stopped speaking to each other. I had been away for eight years, getting my law degree two hundred miles away at Harvard. I was always so busy studying and trying to do well in school that I was out-of-touch with reality when I finally came back to New York to take the bar and come to work in my father's law firm. After I became a partner, I was still out-of-touch, too busy at work to know what was going on outside of depositions and briefs.

All I know is that one day, suddenly, Sarah was engaged. And then not long after that, she wasn't; there was a canceled wedding, and she was dethroned as a Kennedy.

I had my hopes that she would come to me and profess that the reason she broke off her engagement was because of me, because she had always been in love with me and couldn't stand to marry anyone else. But that never happened.

I'm lost in thought staring down at the city streets and the tops of buildings when I hear my door open, and shortly after, a short rap on the wood. I turn around to see my secretary, Heather, standing at my door.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Bass,” she says, “but there's a woman out here who says she needs to speak to you.”

“I don't have any appointments coming up, Heather.”

“I know, sir. But she says she's a friend of yours and needs to speak to you immediately.”

I'm about to dismiss her with orders to send away whoever it is, but then I see Katherine, her fancy sunglasses over her eyes and her purse thrown over her shoulder, push her way past Heather and into my office.

“Ahh, yeah,” I say, smiling at Heather. “It's fine. Please hold my calls, Heather.”

“Yes, sir.”

She nods cordially and closes the door quickly, and Katherine smiles at me before she places her sunglasses on the top of her head and seats herself across from my desk.

“Well, isn't that one a little pip,” she says. “Yes, sir. No, sir. Mr. Bass, can I blow you, sir.”

“Katherine, my dear,” I say. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Can it, Lance,” she says. “You know why I'm here.”

I can't help but smile.

“Well, aren't you a big ball of sunshine today,” I say.

“You're a dickhead,” she says. She throws one leg over the other with attitude. “Thirty seconds. You get one jab and you have to hit that one nerve.”

“Oh, spare me, Katherine,” I say. “It's not like I hurt her feelings. Sarah Kennedy has the skin of a turtle's shell and the bite of a piranha for the comeback. She always knows how to tell me to stick it and is never afraid to follow through.”

“And so she should,” she says. “I can't believe you brought up her job. You know she's sensitive about it. You know she hates it.”

“And that's my fault, because...?” I ask. “What do you want me to do, give her a job?”

“Novel idea. She'd be a good replacement for Miss Yes Ma'am out there.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, a hint of sarcasm in my voice. “I see that going well. Today she told me to go to hell. Give her five minutes and a chance and she'll poison my coffee with antifreeze.”

“Sarah has class,” she responds. “I think cyanide is more her style. Ooh, or arsenic.”

“As interesting as discussing all the ways Sarah has come up with to kill me is,” I say, “I'm sure you didn't crawl away from daddy's credit card to talk with me about it. So Kate, what do you really want?”

I see a mischievous smile come to her face.

“I heard through the grapevine that you're in a little trouble,” she says.

“And which grapevine would this be?”

“Richie has a big mouth,” she says. “And these days, he doesn't only use it to suck up to daddy and his partners.”

I purse my lips slightly. Richard, Katherine's big brother, always has had it out for me.

“Ahh yeah, the old boy isn't in prison yet then?”

“Not yet,” she says. “But one day he'll need to use his big mouth for that, too.”

She smiles, but I can't.

“What do you want, Katherine?” I ask.

“Lance, I want nothing,” she says, bringing her hand up to her chest to feign innocence. “How can you even think that about me? I only care about you, want what's in your best interests.”

“As long as it's also in your best interests.”

“It may be,” she says.

“So what have you heard?” I ask.

“I've heard you need a lot of money,” she says. “I've heard you need it fast. I've heard if you don't get it fast, you may end up best friends with a roommate named Big Bubba. But prison orange isn't your color, you know? You'd look like a big traffic cone. Your skin and hair, you need a more autumnal shade...”

“Get to the point, Katherine.”

“Tax evasion is pretty bad,” she says with a smile. “Fifty thousand. I mean, damn.”

“Actually, forty-three. But go on.”

“Daddy won't help you out of this one,” she says. “For a lawyer, he's always had outstanding morals, which is a bit of a surprise considering he works for my family. But maybe I can help.”

I can't help that my eyebrows perk up. Katherine has an uncanny ability to always know too much, especially about dirty laundry or skeletons in the closet. I'm not surprised she knows about my...predicament.

“And just how would you be able to do that?” I ask.

“Well,” she says, “I do have a trust fund.”

“You mean, you're willing to give me forty-three thousand dollars out of your trust fund?” I ask, surprised.

“You are my friend, after all,” she says. “But, as previously established, I only do things if they're in my best interest or I have a motive.”

“And what would your motive be, exactly?”

It seems like forever that she stares at me before she finally speaks.

“I want you to repair things with Sarah,” she says.

“And how do you suppose I do that?”

“You're going to live with her.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “Say what?”

“I will give you fifty-thousand dollars, guilt-free and no strings attached, if you agree to live with Sarah in the same house for a hundred days.”

I take a moment to soak in the information, confusing as it is, and only have one thing to say.

“Well then, I'll see you on visitor's day in prison, Kate.”

She stands. “Lance...”

“Kate, it's not going to happen,” I say. “I'm sorry. Aside from the fact that is too weird for words, Sarah is never going to go for that.”

“You let me worry about that,” she says. “She will not only agree to it, she will be under the same contract as you will be.”

Again, my eyebrows perk.

“Contract?” I ask.

“Well, as a lawyer yourself, I feel I should warn you that it's neither professional nor admissible in any court.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small stack of papers. “Of course. But I feel that it will pass your standards, Mister Big-Time Lawyer Boy.”

I walk over to her and grab the papers, unable to help myself; I just have to find out what she's up to this time. And as I begin to scan my eyes over the paper, I realize it's nothing like she's ever come up with before.

“I, James Lance Bass,” I say, reading from the paper, “agree to spend a period of one hundred consecutive days cohabiting with one Sarah Madeline Kennedy. Under the terms of this agreement, I understand I will be provided with a stable, comfortable living environment in which I will live with Ms. Kennedy for no less than a period of one hundred days.”

I find myself pacing, circling a one- or two-foot space in front of her, as I read, my eyes growing wider as I read on.

“The terms of this contract are as follows: One, I agree to not move any other persons into the house without prior permission from Mrs. Katherine Carrington. Two; I agree not to move out, leave, or otherwise break these terms to which I have agreed to before the one hundred days is up. Three...”

I stop, and look up at her.

“Katherine, this is insane,” I say. “For one thing, I have a job, I have responsibilities, I can't afford to play stupid little games with you.”

“There's a clause in there,” she says, walking over to me. She looks over my shoulder at the paper and points out a small paragraph about halfway down the page. “See? Six; I can leave the house for regular work and social duties.”

“I have a house,” I say. “I'm not going to play house with someone so you can get your jollies off by screwing with me and Sarah.”

“I'm not screwing with anybody,” she says. “I know you and Sarah can mend this, if you guys will just bear each others' company for a little while.”

“Tell me, why do you feel the need for Sarah and I to mend anything?” I ask her. “What concern is it of yours?”

“Because Lance,” she says, frustration in her voice. “I know you have feelings for her. I know she has feelings for you. It drives me crazy to see you two so crazy in love with each other, and yet so stubborn that you keep living the same miserable life trying to convince yourselves that you're not in love with each other!”

“We're not in love. In fact, I don't even think Sarah is in like with me!”

“That's what you see,” she says. “I, on the other hand, see something entirely different.”

She sets her purse down, and starts walking back towards me.

“I see the sparkle in her eyes when she sees you walk towards her,” she says. “I see the hurt that still lingers from whatever happened to tear you two apart. I see the frustration that she can't repair things with you.”

She approaches me, and adjusts my tie.

“Look at it this way. You need money. You're desperate for it. If you don't get the money you need, you're going to spend a lot more than one hundred days locked up in a worse place than a house with Sarah.”

I lock eyes with her. Unfortunately, she's got me there. A hundred days locked up in a cramped house with Sarah Kennedy would be less life-threatening than five years in prison with riff-raff.

“Read the clause at the end,” she says, her voice low. “That's the part that benefits you, my friend.”

I sigh and flip the sheet of paper over to the next page, and my eyes land at the bottom.

“In exchange,” I read, “I will receive fifty-thousand dollars to pay off my debt, payable a week after my move-in date. If I complete the one hundred days in full, without breaking any clauses in the contract, and I still have not repaired the relationship with Ms. Kennedy, I will receive a bonus of twenty-five-thousand dollars, payable two weeks after the move-out date, for my efforts.”

“Hmm?” she says, her eyebrows raised, looking at me.

“You're willing to pay seventy-five thousand dollars to not only bail me out of trouble, but force me to make up with Sarah?”

“I'm paying a hundred-and-fifty-thousand, darling, because Sarah is getting the exact same contract, with the exact same clauses, as you are,” she says. “It's a small price to pay for happiness for the two of you.”

“Or a small price to pay to watch this blow up in all our faces,” I say.

“I promise you,” she says. “You won't regret it. Just give it a chance.”

I stuff my hands in my pockets and return to my window. I look down at the city streets again as I ponder the situation.

Prison would be miserable, I know that. And if I don't take care of the situation I've put myself in soon, that's exactly where I will find myself. But...can I possibly live with Sarah for that long?

On one hand, it's everything I've ever wanted – even if it's only a fantasy I'll be living. On the other hand, I know all too well how Sarah feels about me, and knowing the two of us, we'll make each others' lives miserable.

But is it possibly worth it?

I lower my head, close my eyes, and sigh.

“When do I move in?”

Chapter Three – Day One

Sarah

“Can I take your bags, Miss Kennedy?”

I step out of the limo, looking at the Carringtons' fifty-year-old chaffeur, George.

“Oh, George, you don't have to,” I say.

He smiles at me.

“I'd be pleased to, Miss,” he says.

Even though I don't have much of a smile in me, I return one.

“Fine, George,” I say. “But you should stop working so much.”

“Keeps me young,” he says with a grin, giving me a slight wink. I laugh as I step out onto the sidewalk and he closes the door behind me.

As he steps behind the car to open the trunk and grab the first of my five bags, I take off my sunglasses and prop them on top of my head, staring up at the huge house in front of me. I sigh.

I feel like I've sold my soul to the Devil.

And of course, the Devil wears Prada – because the Devil is Katherine Carrington.

For the past three days, I've done nothing but let everyone who knows that I'm moving into this house know that I'm doing it by force, not by choice. Of course, all those who know I'm doing this think I'm doing it to win a bet with Katherine to soothe my aching pride and huge ego. In reality, I'm doing it for a much more dire situation – money – but they don't have to know that.

I thought the whole situation was one big joke when she came to visit me that day at my office, contract in hand.

“No!” I yelled, throwing down the papers on my desk, not caring whether I lost my job for making a scene in front of all the clients or not. “No way, Kate! No way in hell...”

“Now, calm down,” she said, her hands up defensively. “It's not worth having a fit over.”

“Having a fit?” I yelled. “You want to see me throw a fit? I'll show you a fit...”

After my boss, one of the partners, came out of his office to ask me to keep it down or move it to one of the empty conference rooms, that's where I spent the next five minutes listing to Katherine why her little “scheme” wouldn't work.

But in the end, she won – because she was the one who had me pinned into the chair as she leaned down into me over the large table.

“You need money, Sar,” she said. “And you're going to do this. You're going to do this because you need money. You're going to do this because it's better than any other options you have. And you're going to do this because you know I'm right about the two of you, and it's not going to be half as bad as you think it is. So deal with it.”

That's Katherine. Always so caring and loving, with a soft spot for her friends and their welfare. I want to barf on this green, freshly cut lawn.

But unfortunately, she's right. My stubbornness is the only thing that keeps me from doing this gratefully. I know I'm getting a free pass. My options are slim, and this is a lot more dignified than picking out my best teddy and my new stripper name.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath in through my nose, letting the damp air and salty waters of Long Beach calm my spirit. Whether I like it or not, this will be my new home for the next hundred days.

“Can I get the door for you, Miss?”

I'm startled out of soaking in the beach environment by George. He's standing next to me with two of my heavy bags, one in each hand, attempting to hold them up while being chivalrous.

“Oh no, no, no,” I say. “George, please. Don't pull out all the punches for me. Let me carry a bag, open the door for myself. This is not me, I'm not Katherine. Please.”

He smiles. “Very well, Miss.”

“And please,” I beg. “Stop calling me Miss. It drives me crazy.”

I walk away with a smile as I take one of the bags from his hand and he follows me up the stone pathway to the door.

Somehow, Katherine wrangled her dad's beach house out of him for the whole ordeal – which is a miracle seeing as it's April and prime vacation time will fall right in the middle of our three months here. But I suppose being a high-power businessman, with who knows how many other summer houses, he can just choose to vacation in another location.

I'm not complaining. This is my summer vacation. I haven't been back to Long Beach in five years, and I certainly can't afford to rent my own beach house now. I'll take it.

In stark contrast to what I'm sure he's used to, I open the door for George, and he graciously nods at me as he carries my bag in, taking it right up the stairs to what will be my room. I, on the other hand, sit my bag down by the door and take in my surroundings.

It's an absolutely gorgeous place; high ceilings, open space, calming colors. The decorating is minimalist, with creamy white walls, modern white suede couches, and a few paintings on the wall. The staircase winds through the living room up into the second floor, the bright gold railing outshining the simple white carpeting. I can barely see the kitchen from where I stand.

And then there's the fireplace. The huge, white cobblestone fireplace. It's like heaven.

I listen. It's quiet. I'm alone; he's not here yet.

I sigh, smiling, and breathe in the air again. I know it won't last, but I'm satisfied.

And then...as if God was smiting me, I hear a tune start playing from the kitchen.

Sweet Jesus. It's Whitesnake.

I stand a moment, mourning my five seconds of peace, before I steel myself and walk through the living room to the kitchen where I hear the music coming from. As I get closer, I hear someone singing along to the tune, “Here I Go Again”.

I'm just about to cross the threshold of the kitchen when the guitar breaks into the main chorus line – and he barges out of the kitchen reliving his youth, singing wildly to the song, bumping right into me.

I scream and jump back when his head butts into mine, and he jumps back himself, surprised and confused.

“Lance, what the hell!” I yell, holding my palm against my forehead.

“Sarah, oh my God, I'm so sorry!” he says, yelling over the music. “I didn't know you were here, I thought I was alone! Are you okay?”

“No!” I yell. “No! I'm not okay!”

I storm away into the kitchen, holding my head still, and I can hear him follow me. I walk to the clean counter where the stereo sits, and instead of bothering to shut the thing off, I reach for the plug and yank it out, effectively ending his solo dance party.

“Hey, I was listening to that!” he yells.

“Do I look like I give a shit?” I ask. “You nearly killed me!”

“Oh, way to be dramatic,” he says, following me into the living room. “Just like you, a little goose egg and you think you're going to die. I apologized!”

“Not even five minutes!” I yell, stomping my feet. “Off to a great start, aren't we?”

We're interrupted by George, who apparently heard my scream and the kerfluffle that followed after, running down the stairs as if someone yelled fire.

“Are you okay, Miss?” he asks, stopping halfway down the staircase.

“Oh, yes, George,” I say, brushing him away. “We just had a little...collision, of sorts. Can you show Mr. Bass to the limo? He will get the rest of my bags.”

When I glance at him, he's not pleased, but I'm not pleased with myself enough to smile either.

“Leave them by the staircase,” I practically spit before heading up the stairs. “I'll be in my room. Please, feel free to leave me alone.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

George is long gone, and I've spent the last hour of my time here so far locked up in my room, sitting on my beachside balcony outside my door.

My head has stopped throbbing, at least.

The sun is about to go down, and our very first day is already looking like it will come to a disastrous close. Right now, I swear, if I could spend every hour of the next ninety-nine days hiding out on my balcony, I would.

I close my eyes but a few seconds later I hear a knock on the balcony door, coming from the inside. I open them and look up from my chaise lounge to see him peeking through the door.

“I apologize for coming in your room,” he says automatically, holding a hand up in the air defensively. “And I swear this is the first and only time I will ever do it. I just...” He pauses, opening the door further. “I had to bring you a peace offering.”

He shows me his hands, and he's holding two glasses and a package of frozen vegetables, with a bottle of what looks like wine tucked under his arm.

“I couldn't find a real ice pack,” he says, holding the package out to me. “Apparently, all the money in the world and Ken still can't even buy a real first aid kit.”

I grab the package from him, even though my head doesn't really hurt anymore.

“I also, uh, brought this,” he says, lifting the bottle up by the neck. “1978 Chateau Cheval Blanc. Yeah, I have no idea what that means.”

I try to resist the smile, but I can't. “It's French. '78, it was a...well, a pretty good year for Cheval. It's not really a vintage, but it is over $400 a bottle.”

His eyes grow wide. “Four hundred fucking dollars?” he says. “For sour grapes?”

“Fermented,” I say.

“Whatever, spin it how you want, it's thirty-year-old grapes,” he says.

“Aren't you a regular oenophile,” I say.

“I don't know what that word means, but it doesn't sound good.”

I can't help but laugh. “It's a wine connoisseur, you moron.”

He smiles. “I know...but I got you to laugh.”

I roll my eyes, wanting to smack him, but his humor and the relaxing beach environment has loosened me.

“May I sit down and share a bottle of fermented grapes with you?” he asks. “As a peace offering?”

I know I'll probably regret it later...but I can't help it. Wine sounds divine, and his company doesn't sound bad either.

“As a peace offering,” I say.

He smiles slightly as he closes the door behind him and sits the glasses down on the small table beside me.

“I don't know about you,” he says as he pulls out a small wine corker, “but this is my way of saying screw Kenneth Carrington and his fancy-ass $400 wine.”

“Here, here,” I say.

He pops the cork out of the bottle quickly, and pours two glasses about halfway, picking up one for himself and handing one to me.

“A toast,” he says, holding up his glass, “to tight-ass Ken Carrington.”

“And his ridiculous, yet beautiful Long Beach house that we will call home for the next hundred days,” I say, holding up my glass.

“And to the next hundred days,” he continues. “To hoping that by the end of it we're not insane, and haven't tried to kill each other, accidentally or on purpose.”

I smile as I clink my glass with his. “To the next hundred days.”

Chapter Four – Day Two

Lance

There's no music, only the sound of the radio playing the morning talk show, but I whistle a little tune to myself as I scramble the eggs and sizzle the bacon.

I had a good night.

Oh sure, it was only in my dreams that Sarah forgot the last sixteen years of strife between us and ended up in my arms. But we sat on that deck for three hours, watched the sun set over the beachside, and cleared out not only the Cheval, but another bottle of Kenneth's snooty wines.

She laughed; she talked openly. And by the end of the night, she went to bed completely hammered.

I could have taken advantage of the situation – kissed her, maybe even took things further. But not only am I too much a gentleman to do that, I don't want things to start off that way with us.

I want her to welcome me. Then, I want to woo her, like I should have sixteen years ago. I want to make things right between us, if she'll have me at all.

I guess I'm just a sap that way.

So I helped to settle her in bed, walked off to my own room, and went to bed with only my dreams to keep me warm.

“Gah.”

I hear a groan as I'm cooking, and turn around to see her in the doorway, in her blue robe, holding her head.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I say cheerfully, watching her take a seat at the table.

“Oh, don't talk so loud,” she says with a grimace. “There's already a rock band playing in my head.”

“Yeah,” I say with a slight chuckle. “You had a little too much wine last night.”

“Well, thank God it's the weekend at least,” she says. “Is there any coffee in this seventh circle of hell?”

“Right here, on the counter.”

She walks over and stands next to me as she pulls out a mug and pours hot, black liquid into it. She turns and leans against the counter and doesn't bother with cream or sugar, taking a drink immediately. Then I watch her stare at me as she comes to a realization.

“Wait,” she says. “You're cooking?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I say. “Why, is that a surprise?”

“No offense, but yes,” she says. “I pegged you for more of the beer nuts, take-out, and frozen dinners sort of guy.”

“Well, no offense taken, but you should know that just because I come from money doesn't mean I can't fend for myself,” I say. “We didn't have butlers or maids or chauffeurs. My parents taught me and my sister to spend our money wisely, care for ourselves, and not get too high-and-mighty.”

“And that's why you drive a BMW, eat at $100-a-plate restaurants, and work for your dad, right?” she asks with a smile.

“The spending money wisely part may not have been the lesson that sank in the most. Because what good is having money if you can't spend it on stupid shit?”

“Clearly,” she says, smiling. “And for the record, I was thinking the high-and-mighty thing didn't sink in too well either.”

“First pot-shot of the morning, I'll let it slide. But you'll change your tune when you taste this breakfast.”

I can tell she's surprised when I set a full plate of eggs, bacon, and toast at the table for her.

“This is a side of you I...I've honestly never seen before.”

That's because you've never given me a chance, I want to say. But I know Sarah well enough to know that a snide remark is enough to get her engine revving for a fight.

“Well, now you have,” I say.

She sits down silently, as I make a plate for myself and take the seat across from her.

“Mmm,” she says, a satisfied moan escaping her as she chews. “Mmmm, Lance, this is good! It's so...different.”

“It's my mom's secret recipe for eggs. I'd tell you what's in it, but then I'd have to kill you.”

She smiles at me from across the table.

“Well, it's better than any scrambled eggs I've tried to make, that's for sure.”

We sit completely silent for the next five minutes. It's the first time since our little spat yesterday evening that you can feel the tension that still exists between us. I'm just about to cut it when she speaks up first.

“So, I'm just curious,” she says, “and if I'm out of line, please, feel free to tell me. What is it that brings you here? To need fifty-thousand dollars so badly, I mean.”

As if I needed a reminder, it's just a jab in my heart to remind me that I'm not here for fun; I'm not living out a dream or a fantasy of living a life with Sarah, together and happy.

“Um...promise you won't make any snide remarks or nasty comments?” I ask.

“Promise,” she says. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Well...” I'm still hesitant to tell her; I am hoping to win her heart eventually, after all. “I, uh...I've sort of...not paid my taxes. For, you know, a while.”

She pauses. “How long is a while?”

“Uh...four years...or so.” I clear my throat, embarrassed.

“Oh.” By the look on her face, I can tell she's thinking, but she brushes it off. “Well, that's not so bad. You remember Evan Kramer, from back at Thornhill?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, four years ago, his dad got arrested at dinner with my father,” she says. “Turns out, he embezzled over two million dollars and his business partner found out. You wanna know why?”

“Why?”

“To keep his mistress and their thirteen-year-old love child,” she says, eyebrows raised. “How's that for high society?”

“Oh my God,” I say, chuckling.

“But if anyone asks...his business partner framed him and the mistress and kid are immigrants he helped rescue from Cuba,” she says. “Gotta keep up appearances, you know.”

“It's funny,” I say. “I remember back when we were kids, you were totally fine in your life. You went with the flow of all the brunches and dinner and debutante parties and the nonsense. It didn't bother you. Now, you have such a distaste for it, it's like you just want to forget it all.”

“Well,” she says. “People change. It just...got old.”

“Does it have anything to do with your dad?”

We're both quiet.

“Maybe,” she says quietly. “But can we not talk about him this morning?”

I can tell she's not mad, because she's not screaming at me, throwing things, or storming off. But looking back, I know I shouldn't have asked, or even mentioned him.

“Sorry,” I say.

Her demeanor changes. “No, it's alright, really. I just don't like to badmouth my family before I've had a full cup of coffee and a shower.”

A little chuckle escapes my lips. I take a drink of my own coffee and watch her eating, and I realize...this is the most normal exchange Sarah and I have had in sixteen years. It's possibly the most normal exchange we've ever had, in fact.

Is it too much to think that from Day Two on, this really will be easy? That we can manage our way through this and reach normalcy, if nothing else?

“So I told you my dirty little secret,” I say. “I told you what a bad, bad man I am for committing tax fraud. Now it's your turn. What brings you here? Why are you so desperate for fifty-thousand that you have to resort to living with me?”

“Oh, do I have to?” she asks.

“Hey, I made an ass out of myself,” I say. “Now you have to do the same. So come on, come on, spill it.”

She pauses, and shakes her head a little. “Well...I got hooked in with the wrong crowd.”

“No, that's not it, there's more to the story. Come on.”

She sighs. “I have...I have a gambling addiction.”

My mouth slows chewing, surprised. “Um...wow.”

“My luck took a turn for the worst,” she says. “I made a few too many trips to AC, and...well, here I am. My guy just happens to be a suspected member of the mafia, and I just happen to owe him $45,000.”

“Mafia?” I ask. “Sarah, why didn't you come to me?”

“Oh yeah, because you're the first person I'd think to come to when I'm in need of something,” she says. “Can we just drop it? It's nothing.”

“I don't think it's nothing,” I say.

“I didn't make a big deal out of your dirty little secret!” she says, suddenly raising her voice. “The least you can do is not make a big deal out of mine. Please, drop it!”

I raise my hands in defeat. She seems to accept it, and goes back to her plate of food, but I notice that she picks up her fork with a shaky hand.

It's then I start putting pieces together.

“I've been thinking about taking a weekend and hopping up to AC,” I say. “How is it?”

“Oh,” she says. “Don't get me started.”

“Fun?”

“Lots,” she says. “Maybe too much. Guess that's why I'm in the position I'm in.”

“What hotel did you stay at?”

She pauses. “Oh, the...uh...the Radisson.”

“Is it nice?”

“Oh, yeah, it's beautiful.”

Except there is no Radisson in Atlantic City.

I know for a fact that Sarah has never been to Atlantic City in her life, because about a month ago, Katherine told me that her father had gifted the two of them a weekend in Atlantic City for Katherine's birthday. She had told me how excited Sarah was about going, because she had never been to any city like it. The week after, I asked Katherine how it had gone, but she said they had to cancel at the last minute because Sarah had a “work commitment” and Katherine didn't want to go alone.

She's lying to me.

She becomes nervous and she picks up her cup, downing the rest of her coffee in one gulp.

“I just remembered,” she says. “I have to go to the office.”

“I thought you said you didn't work?” I ask.

“I never said that.”

“You said 'Thank God it's the weekend, at least',” I say.

“Oh, well, yeah,” she says. “I guess that's what I meant, but I just remembered one of the partners wanted me to get some files out of storage yesterday, and I completely forgot to do it before I left.”

“Convenient,” I say.

She seems to either not hear me, or ignores me all together.

“He'll have my head on a silver platter if I don't get it done,” she says. “I assume I'll see you later today?”

“Yeah, how 'bout I make you dinner tonight? Just you and--”

“Yes, sounds fabulous,” she says. “Sorry, I really gotta get dressed, but I'll see you then!”

She runs out of the kitchen and up the stairs so fast that I don't even get a chance to finish my sentence.

Well, that was strange.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sarah

He doesn't buy it.

I shouldn't have run out of the kitchen so fast. That was my first mistake. My second was running into him as I grabbed my bag and was about to head out the door, when he noticed I was in such a hurry I was wearing two different shoes.

He must think I'm such an idiot.

Wait, why do I care again?

I don't care. I have to remember that. All I care about is making it through today and the next ninety-eight days after this, and keeping my family secrets safeguarded from him.

Before I do any more damage.

Coming into the office today was a lie. I didn't really forget to bring files up from storage to my boss's office, but I had to get away, and that was the only excuse I could think of. I couldn't just escape to my room or the balcony, because the persistent asshole wouldn't be afraid to follow me and harass me for information, I'm sure. But I know he won't follow me to my office, because he doesn't step foot inside the competing law firm unless he absolutely has to.

But I did know that Mr. Beckett needed me to bring a box of files up to his office on Monday, so why not get a head start on the week?

It only takes twenty minutes to find the box in storage, and I carry it through the elevator doors wondering how I'm going to make up excuses to be gone from the office for more than half an hour. The elevator doors are just closing when I'm startled by someone stopping them with their hand.

He peeks inside as they open, and smiles at me.

“Sarah,” he says.

My stomach drops to my knees at the sound of his voice.

“Blake? What the hell are you doing here?”

Chapter Five – The Ex

Sarah

He steps onto the elevator with me before I can utter a protest, and the doors close behind him.

“I came to see you, Sarah,” he says.

I shake my head and look away.

“I can't believe you're doing this,” I say. “Coming to my work now, Blake?”

“What, I can't stop by for a visit?” he says defensively, but with a smile on his face.

“A visit my ass,” I say. “You no more stopped by to just 'visit' me than the Pope stops by McDonald's for a cheeseburger.”

“You must be a frequent visitor of McDonald's yourself by now,” he says. “I heard what happened. How Daddy cut you out of the family.”

I glance over, hearing his emphasis on the t when he says 'cut', and see him smirk. He takes his hand out of his pocket and holds it up to me, using two fingers to mimic a pair of scissors.

“Snip...snip...” he whispers.

I smile.

“Blake, you're just jealous,” I say. “'Cause you're not allowed to touch these Chicken McNuggets anymore.”

I use a semi-free hand to grab the bottom of my breast, giving it a squeeze and lift. I can see his eyes immediately go to my chest, and I can barely help the urge to roll my eyes. Men.

As if God himself sends me a saving grace, the elevator dings and the doors open to my floor, and I give him a slight wave and immediately step off. I know he's going to follow me.

And just as I suspect, he does...but what I don't expect is that he's so stunned by my “brazen” sexual innuendo that he stands and stares for a moment, and barely starts to step off the elevator as it starts to close, and like an idiot, bumps right into the door.

“Sarah,” he says as he recovers, the stumbling, bumbling fool that he is.

“Blake, go back to your own office,” I say as I set the box Mr. Beckett will need on my desk. “Carrington-Kennedy currently has no open cases with this firm. I'm sure Mr. Bass would be pleased to help you with anything you need if you just go there.”

“I'm not here for business,” he says. “I'm here for pleasure.”

“There's a sperm bank about twenty minutes from here,” I say. “They deal mostly with the pleasure sense, I'm sure they'll be able to help you.”

“That's cute, Sarah,” he says. “Really cute.”

“Yeah,” I say drolly. “People tell me that I'm just fuckin' adorable.”

“It's funny that you should bring up Bass,” he says. “Is he one of the ones that tells you you're just adorable?”

“What business is it of yours if he does?”

“I thought Daddy might be interested to hear.”

I stop.

“Well, congrats,” I say. “So you're the new man he promoted to being his gossip bitch. I'm sure you'll do well in the position.”

“Oh Sarah,” he says, his head shaking. “Why are you so bitter?”

“Why am I so bitter?” I can feel my blood pressure rising. “Oh honey, we could be here all night. Why don't you go back to your yard? I'm sure once Daddy Kennedy realizes you snapped your leash, he'll be rightly upset at losing the family pet.”

He stands there, watching me, as I put away folders and papers, readying myself to leave. Frankly, I'm no longer worried about dragging out my time away from the house – with Blake showing up, going back to the house to deal with Lance will be a picnic. I leave the box of files on my desk knowing I'll just come in a few minutes earlier on Monday to take care of them, grab my purse and coat, and start walking back towards the elevator.

“We're going to talk, Sarah,” he says.

“No, we're not,” I say.

As I walk past him, I'm startled when his hand reaches out and grabs my arm, his grip on me tight. I can't help it; I snap. I twist my body and my right hand flies up, striking his nose with the bony heel of my palm. He cries out in pain and shortly after, I have his arm locked behind his back, and he's leaned over in front of me, blood dripping out of his nose onto the carpet.

“Don't you ever touch me like that!” I say.

“Alright!”

His body loosens submissively, and after a few moments I let go of his arm, allowing him freedom from the locked position. He takes a few seconds to recover as he turns around towards me, stretching out his arm and wiping his bloody nose with his fingers.

“You're a crazy bitch,” he says as he looks at the red liquid on his fingertips.

“That's right, I am,” I say. “And if you know what's good for you, you'll remember that the next time you wanna stop by for a 'visit'.”

Holding my purse close to my body, I leave him to bleed on the carpet as I head toward the elevator. Going home doesn't seem nearly so daunting anymore.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I walk in the door, my senses are assaulted with the smell of something wonderful cooking on the stove.

“Mmm.”

I breathe in deeply. I know that scent. He's making his famous chicken fried steak, and it makes my stomach rumble at just the smell.

“Lance?”

I yell, but I quickly realize he's not going to hear me, because he's got the radio on, singing to the tune of “The Way You Make Me Feel” by Michael Jackson.

I lay my purse and my peacoat over the back of the couch, and I'm just about to slip my heels off my aching feet and walk into the kitchen when he bursts into the living room, sliding on the hardwood floor in his socks in his own version of a “Footloose” move. I can barely take a step before he grabs my hand and pulls me into a twirl.

“You're home,” he says when he pulls me into his arms.

“You're dancing like a moron,” I say.

“Cutting right into the heart as usual,” he says, and releases me.

He walks back into the kitchen. I silently giggle; number two out of the two days we've been here and again, we have an encounter over old 80's music. It's almost like the old days, except we're adults now. At least this time he got a handle on his coordination. It's almost charming.

No, damn it. I can't get sucked into that.

I kick my foot to throw my first heel off, leaning down to remove the other with my hand. I throw it over with the other, hearing it land on the floor with a dull thud. The hardwood floors feel good against my slightly aching feet, only covered with thin pantyhose; if I were less of a lady, and if I weren't in the presence of another man, I'd rip those off right now.

He turns the stereo down as I walk into the kitchen, coming to stand next to him near the stove.

“So what did you do today at work?” he asks.

“I kicked a guy's ass,” I say. I'm pulling out two wine glasses and another bottle of Carrington's fancy wines; after today, I need it.

“Whoa.” He turns to look at me, his eyebrows raised. “In the court room?”

“In the nose.”

His eyebrows lower, but he still has a distinct, astonished look on his face.

“You mean you legit kicked a guy's ass?”

“I legit kicked a guy's ass,” I say with a nod.

“Who?”

“Blake Peters,” I say as I start pouring the wine.

The room falls silent, and he drops the metal tongs he's using to turn the steaks in the oil. They clang against the metal pan, and I look over at him.

“Your, uh...your ex?” he says uncomfortably.

“Don't remind me,” I say. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, picking up the tongs again. “Drop of oil. Snapped at me. Ow.”

I narrow my eyebrows at him.

“So, Blake stopped by to see you then?” he asks. “What'd he want?”

“Not sure.” I lift my glass to urge the sweet wine into my mouth. “You're a lawyer. Is it technically still harassment if he's the one who left with a bloody nose?”

“There's a fine line between self-defense and assault,” he says. “If your right-hook is still as good as it used to be, you might have to add 'with a deadly weapon' to it.”

“Great, so now I have to worry about a lawsuit and how to explain to Mr. Beckett why his eggshell Berber is stained with red droplets,” I say.

“You drew blood?” he asks. “I'm impressed. I thought you stuck to stabbing enemies with clever insults only.”

“I pulled out a few of those too,” I say with a sigh.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lance

I'm sitting out on my deck, listening to the waves slap up against the shore. The sun set hours ago. The wind has picked up, and I can tell that a hell of a storm is on the way.

If not on the beach, in my heart.

Her ex showed up. In her office. I shouldn't be surprised; barring a sudden move or homicide – which at this point, I'm not sure Sarah isn't considering – of course he's going to still be around. I guess I just thought...

Well, I guess I thought she was done with him.

From the sounds of it, she thought she was done with him, too. A strong palm to the nose generally isn't a statement of unconditional love. If it was, I wouldn't be questioning whether Sarah really hates me or only wants to hate me.

But now, I'm worried.

I lift up the glass of scotch and take a drink. I'm generally not a hard drinker. I enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine with Sarah over dinner, and we talked for a while before she finally excused herself, saying how tired she was. I pretended I was tired too; walked her part of the way to her room, saying good night and watching as she walked in and closed the door behind her. But now, I'm here.

It has to be at least one in the morning. I have to be up early, at least by eight, early for Sunday standards; I absolutely have to do some work on the Carlisle account, or I may end up disowned by my father too. But try as hard as I might, I can not sleep.

Not with the thought of Blake on my mind.

Blake Peters was one-hundred percent, unscathed gold to Sheldon Kennedy; perfect son, perfect student, perfect lawyer material. For God's sake, if Sheldon had his way, he would have adopted Blake into the family and cast Jude aside, especially after Jude came out as gay five years ago. Marriage just gave Sheldon an excuse to welcome Blake into the family, and Sarah almost made that happen.

And then, she didn't.

Hmm, maybe I'm onto something.

My mind is working and the wheels are turning, but then they're interrupted. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shadow on the beach, heading out to the water. First, the shadow is nothing but black, and I can't see details. Then, the shadow steps out into the light of the bright white moon, and I see her nightgown.

Standing up from my chair, I rush over to the railing and lean over it slightly.

“Sarah?”

She turns towards me and looks up at me, her hair whipping around her face in the wind.

“Lance?”

She says it surprised; she didn't expect me to be up.

“Hang on, I'm coming down,” I tell her.

I'm sure it looks stupid – the way I'm running out of the room and down the stairs at a fast pace, at one in the morning, to go down to the beach in my sweatpants and t-shirt. I try not to race down the stairs and through the patio door in the dining room like an idiot, setting a decent pace as I walk through the sand toward her.

“Sarah, what the hell are you doing out here?” I ask. “It's past midnight, and there's a storm coming.”

She's staring out at the water, watching the waves roll in. She opens her mouth to speak, and softly shakes her head, but before the words can come out, she breaks down.

“Sarah, what's wrong?”

I'm shocked when she falls towards me, starting to sob into my shoulder wordlessly. I hesitantly put my hand on her shoulder; I don't know why she's broken down, much less how she'll react to my touch.

“Let's get you inside.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I'm sorry.”

It's about the millionth time she's said it. She's still in tears, but at least she's inside. The rain started pouring a couple minutes after I brought her inside. The chill in the air dropped a few degrees and I started a fire.

“Sarah, you don't have to be sorry,” I say. I poke the fire one more time to shift the logs and get a good flame going, and once I'm satisfied with it, I toss the poker back in with the other tools.

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” she says.

“Just start by telling me why you're crying.”

I come to sit next to her on the couch in front of the fire, drawing my legs up underneath me. The wind has whipped her hair into a mess, and I bring up my finger to coax a few unruly strands back into place behind her ear so I can see her face.

“I didn't want to see him, you know?” she says. “Every time he comes around, my life turns to shit.”

“What do you mean your life turns to shit, Sar?” I ask. “I mean, you clocked the guy in the nose.”

“It's not about that, Lance,” she says. “I mean, God, look at me! He shows up for five minutes and here I am bawling over it all night.”

“So, you miss him?” I ask, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice.

“No,” she says softly, wiping away a few tears. “No, it's not that I miss him. Not really – I mean, not him. Definitely not him.”

“Then what is it?”

She sighs. “I don't know.” She pauses hesitantly, but the tears have stopped. “I miss having the void filled. Now it's just...empty.”

“So you do miss him?”

“No!” she half-yells. “Not him!”

“Then what is it?” I've raised my voice too, but I can't wipe the smile off my face. She's confusing the hell out of me. “You say you don't miss him but you're empty. If there's a void there, he must have filled it. Ergo, you miss him, or am I wrong?”

“I miss someone, but it's not him.”

“Then who do you miss?” I ask softly.

She turns to look up at me shyly, her eyes peeking out from under long, wet eyelashes.

“It's you,” she whispers.

Chapter Six – Day Four

Sarah

“Mr. Beckett?”

He looks up at me from his desk when I peek my head in and knock lightly on the door, and holds his index finger up to signal to me.

“I want that date moved up to no later than May, Warner, or I'll have your head on a platter,” he says, before crashing the phone down to the cradle angrily. “So sorry, Miss Kennedy.”

“Don't even worry about it, sir,” I say. “Please, call me Sarah.”

“Well, now, we can't very well be on a first name basis if you insist on continuing to call me Mr. Beckett,” he says with a smile. “So, I guess it's Carl and Sarah from now on, or nothing.”

I smile. Mr. Beckett, my boss, is by all appearances a hardened man, especially in the office, the court room, or over the phone – but outside of law and inside of personal relations, he is a warm, kind man with a great smile.

“What can I do for you, Sarah?” he asks.

“Mr...Carl,” I correct myself. “I've finished filing and faxing everything that you asked me to. I wondered if there was anything else you needed me to do.”

“It's only three,” he says, taking off his glasses and setting them on his desk. “There was a ton of paperwork in there. You mean to tell me that you're already finished?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. “Oh, but I took about fifteen minutes after my break was over and I cleaned the coffee machine in the break room. The coffee was starting to taste a little funny, I hope you don't mind.”

“Mind?” he says. “Last time that machine got cleaned, I had to clean the damn thing myself. It's like none of the secretaries notice that the coffee tastes like mud.”

He's eyeing me suspiciously.

“Sarah, can I ask you a question?” he finally says.

“Yes, sir.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I'm sorry, sir?” I ask, befuddled.

“Come inside, sit down, come on,” he says, motioning me over. I step inside the door cautiously, and he sits up from his seat and walks over to shut the door behind me.

I can't deny that I'm worried. I'm not a lawyer; I don't have a semblance of job security at this firm. Secretaries are a dime a dozen. Mr. Beckett is usually so organized that he wouldn't even need a secretary right away...but I need this job.

“Is there something wrong with what I'm doing around here, sir?” I ask as I sit down in front of his desk.

“Only one thing,” he says. He's come back to his desk and he sits down in his chair across from me. “There's something wrong with the fact that I can't figure out why you're wasting your entire life filing paperwork and cleaning coffee machines.”

“I don't understand.”

“You have so much potential,” he says. “Kid, you have smarts, sassiness, speed, and the drive to get it all done. Don't forget that you're the daughter of Sheldon Kennedy.”

I bite my lip.

“Sir, with all due respect,” I say, “I prefer to make my own way without my dad's influence.”

“Well, wouldn't we all,” he says. “But Sarah, your father is not a person who hears the word 'no'. You know that and I know that.”

Isn't that the truth, I think to myself.

“Your dad could get you any job you – or he – wanted,” he says. “I think I know you well enough to know that you would prove from there that you can make your own way. But here you are, stuck in a dead-end job that is not going to get you anywhere.”

“Sir, are you firing me?” I finally ask, my hands clasped tightly together.

“Not a chance,” he says with a smile. “This office hasn't run this smoothly for five years. I'd do anything to get you to stay.”

“But?”

“But I guess I'm just wondering why a girl with your skills, plus your family's influence, is spending her days behind a desk answering phones and fetching coffee for an old curmudgeon like myself.”

“Because I like to?” I say.

He raises his eyebrows at me.

“Alright, it's not because I like to,” I say with a sigh. “Mr. Beckett, my father and I had a falling out. That's why I prefer to make my own way – that's why I spend my days doing secretarial work. He doesn't want to help me, and I'm fine with it because I don't want to accept his help.”

“Is that why you've been so distracted today?”

I knit my eyebrows together. “I don't bring my personal problems to work, sir. If I've been distracted, I truly apol--”

“Maybe distracted was the wrong word,” he says as he holds a hand up to stop me. “Maybe unsettled is the right word.”

I purse my lips. I can't deny that I've been exactly that – unsettled.

I don't know what I was thinking Saturday night. Normally I'd blame it on the alcohol but I didn't even go to bed tipsy, much less drunk. I was just laying there in bed, and I couldn't sleep, and I started thinking. First I started thinking about leaving Blake in the office with a bloody nose. But then, the anger started sneaking its way in, and as I thought more and more about it, the loneliness started to creep in.

When the loneliness starts sneaking in, that's when the vulnerability sneaks in, and that's when I start thinking about him.

Not Blake...Lance.

I'm...I'm in love with him. And for some reason, I couldn't hold it in Saturday night, and I accidentally told him.

He just sat there and stared at me. He didn't even say anything. It was almost like he didn't hear me, and I thought for a while maybe he hadn't. But then he spoke.

Me?

I didn't know what to say to him, so I couldn't speak. I couldn't very well deny what I had just said, because it was clear he had heard me.

So I just didn't speak. Instead, I just got up and went to my room, completely silently, and locked the door.

I grew up to be a dignified young woman – but not an eloquent one.

When I hid in the room for the night, I was absolutely horrified. The whole situation was embarrassing – him catching me outside (in my nightgown of all things), the outrageous sobbing and carrying on, and last but not least, my big-ass mouth. I thought for sure he would follow me, and I would hear a knock on my door after a few minutes, and we would have to have the uncomfortable talk.

But he never came to my door. In fact, he must have done like I did, and gone straight to his room and locked the door – and all day Sunday, he never came out.

I knew something was different when I walked down the stairs that morning (hesitantly) and I didn't hear him cooking or smell the food. In the two total days we had lived here, he had cooked all three meals that we had eaten here. Now, the kitchen was empty.

I grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat downstairs, watching a little television, waiting for him to come down – even though part of me was dreading it, another part of me was curious to know what he was thinking. Anxious, even.

But he never came down. I went back to my room eventually, tired of waiting around, and if he ever came out of his room for lunch or a refreshment, we never crossed paths.

This morning, I managed to avoid him altogether – mainly because he left for work long before I did.

“Sarah?”

I look up at my boss, realizing I've been lost in thought for several minutes.

“I'm sorry,” I say, shaking off the spacey, dumbfounded look on my face. “What did you say, Mr. Beckett?”

“Sarah, I'm not asking this question as your boss,” he says. “I'm asking this question as a friend – or at the very least, because I care about you. Is everything okay?”

I sigh, but I nod my head and smile, even though deep in my heart...

No. Everything is not okay.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lance

I'm supposed to be listening. But who could listen in a consultation meeting when their entire world has been turned upside-down like mine has?

I've been going crazy since Saturday night, trying to decipher those two damn words of hers – it's you. Two of the shortest words in the English language, that almost always have a clear and definitive meaning, but when paired with Saturday night's circumstances, have had me bending over backwards trying to figure out what it all could mean.

She up and left right after she said it. I could tell she was upset. She was just as confused as I was, maybe even a little embarrassed. I sat downstairs for ten minutes, trying to decide whether I should go up and talk to her, but in the end I decided that it would probably only further embarrass and confuse her. So I went to my own room and went to bed – not that I could sleep that much.

I woke up later than planned on Sunday and immediately went into a frenzy trying to get my work done. I didn't even go downstairs to grab coffee until close to noon, and by the time I got there, it appeared as if she had retreated back to her room. I glanced to see a cereal bowl and spoon in the sink as well as a coffee mug, but those were the only traces that she had left her room since the night before.

I spent most of the day holed up in my room trying frantically to focus on and do my work. I went down a couple of times for snacks or to get a glass of water, but incredibly, Sarah and I didn't cross paths all day long.

When I left for work this morning, her room was silent. I couldn't even tell whether she was still sleeping or had left for her own job before I did.

“Lance!”

I jump when I'm startled out of my daze by my father's commanding voice, and I realize that I've been staring into space, ignoring the meeting, the clients...and my own dad.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to recover. “I must have...I don't know, dozed off, I guess.”

One look into my dad's and the clients' eyes and I can see that neither of them is impressed.

“Dozed off?” my dad whispers harshly in my direction.

“Well, I was up late looking over the case,” I say, thankful I have a way to save my sorry ass. “You see, I couldn't sleep, because I was so thrilled with the loophole I found.”

“Loophole?” one of the male clients, a partner in a restaurant business, asks.

“I'd be surprised if the judge doesn't throw the whole case out,” I say. “Ten, twenty-thousand in damages, max.”

My father looks to the client, then to me. “Alright Lance, we're listening.”

The meeting lasts another hour, most of which is spent by my father raving to the client about the brilliant loophole I've found that will save our client hundreds of thousands of dollars in damages in a personal injury lawsuit they've hired us for. By the time we shake our clients' hands and see them out the door, all four of us have a smile on our face and are happy with how the meeting went.

But after they leave, I can tell my father is still pissed.

“Alright, son,” he says with a sigh, picking up his files and folders from the table to put them in his briefcase. “What's going on? I know you weren't up late looking over the case. Any idiot straight out of law school could find that loophole in an hour. You – you could find it in fifteen minutes.”

“I'm sorry, dad,” I say. “I just...I had some things on my mind is all.”

“Well,” he says, his look disapproving. “You know, I'd like to rip you a new one. It was highly unprofessional of you to be in a daze like that in the middle of the meeting, no matter who the client is.”

“I know, dad.”

“But,” he continues, “I know you, and I know you don't space out unless it's something weighing heavily on your mind.”

I lift my eyebrows slightly and nod softly.

“Don't do it again.”

I smile at his tone.

“I won't, dad.”

“So, what is it?” he asks.

I sigh. “I don't know. You know how I told you I was living with Sarah for a while, until she gets back on her feet?”

He nods. I don't like lying to my father, but I don't dare tell him that I'm living with her to settle a cash bet with Katherine to pay off my tax debts. He would disapprove in so many ways, and I just don't feel like hearing the lecture.

“That girl you used to pal around with back in high school?” he asked.

“We hung out, but I don't know if I'd call it paling around,” I say. “Anyway, she did something weird Saturday night.”

“Son, welcome to women,” he said. “They're always doing something 'weird'.”

“No, dad,” I say, frustrated. “Come on.”

He chuckles. “Alright, alright.”

“She was fine all evening, but then I found her awake around midnight,” I say. “She was crying, just really upset. And I tried to ask her what was wrong, but she was really vague about it. But then she said she was just feeling empty, she was missing someone. I asked her who, and I expected her to say her ex-fiance, Blake. But then she said, 'It's you.'”

“You?” he asks.

“That's what I said.”

“Well, you two have been on the outs for several years, haven't you?” he asks as we've both gathered our things and started to leave the room. “Maybe that's what she means.”

“But I've been around,” I say. “She knew where I lived, she knows where I work, she saw me around town sometimes even. She chose not to talk to me.”

“Son, let me tell you something about women,” he says. “Sometimes they're feeling things they don't even know they're feeling. Sometimes, they're mad about things, and they don't even know what they're mad about.”

“Wow, dad,” I say with a smile as we stop at my office door. “That's incredibly chauvinistic.”

“Try to give a kid advice and he calls you a chauvinist,” he says. “All I'm saying is maybe she's been mad at you all this time, but maybe she's missed you too, and she didn't even know she missed you until now.”

“Yeah,” I respond, more confused than ever. “Maybe you're right.”

“Contracts,” he says, his tone becoming serious. “On my desk. By five. I mean it.”

“Five on the dot,” I say, resisting my inner five-year-old's urge to finish with 'yes, dad'.

Without another word, he walks away to go back to his own office. I glance at my watch and silently groan when I realize it's already ten to four, sling my case back over my shoulder and grab my doorknob.

I manage to drop my case on the floor next to the door before I look up and stop in my tracks. She's been sitting in the chair across from my desk, but she stands and turns toward me, re-shouldering her purse against her arm.

“Sarah?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sarah

I knew he wouldn't be expecting me, but I didn't expect him to look so...deer-caught-in-headlights-ish.

“What are you doing here?” he asks me.

“I finished early at work, and Mr. Beckett told me to go home,” I say. “I knew you wouldn't be there, and I didn't really want to go home to a totally empty house, so...”

“I, uh...I didn't expect you,” he says, walking over to his desk.

“I know, I'm sorry, I should have called first.”

“No, it's okay,” he says. “Want a drink?”

“You mean, alcohol?” I ask. “It's not even four yet.”

“I'm a business lawyer,” he says. “If I didn't have alcohol in my office, I wouldn't be doing my job to my best ability.”

I smile, and he smiles back.

“Don't worry, it's mostly for show,” he says. “For show and to offer uncomfortable clients something to relax them. I have water, if you'd rather.”

“Yeah, a water's fine.”

I sit back down in the chair and release a heavy breath as he walks over to a portable bar, grabbing two bottles of water from a bottom shelf hidden from view. He walks over, hands one to me, then lifts himself to sit on the corner of his desk, close to me.

“So what's up?” he asks.

I twist open the white cap of the bottle and take a quick drink, because suddenly I'm parched. My mouth is especially dry, and it will be hard enough to say what I need to say without having a dry mouth.

“Lance, we need to talk,” I say after I've swallowed.

He's about to open his mouth to speak, but a knock comes on his door. Before he can shout a welcome, his secretary barges in.

“Mr. Bass, there's someone here to see you, and he's very insistent,” she says. “I don't think I can--”

Before she can finish her sentence, she's pushed out of the way, and he shoves his way into the doorway. I instinctively sit up from my chair and take a few steps backwards towards Lance, my breathing becoming heavy.

“Daddy?”

Chapter Seven – The Deception

Lance

Jesus. It's punishment; I'm sure of that. It's punishment for being such a little twerp in high school; it's punishment for hurting Sarah like I did sixteen years ago, and hell, maybe it's punishment for spending the last sixteen years being a total jerk to her. Whatever it's for, it must be some sort of punishment to have Sheldon Kennedy show up the same second that his estranged daughter is in my office.

The minute he pushed his way in, practically assaulting poor Heather, she goes into some sort of panic. She runs from her chair and turns, never taking her eyes off him, takes a few steps backwards, finally bumping into me slightly. Out of force of habit, I grab her by the shoulders and pull her towards me.

“Sarah,” Sheldon says. His voice is deep, commanding, and to be honest, incredibly scary.

“Mr. Kennedy,” I say, moving Sarah out of the way so I can step down from my desk. “Can I get you a drink?”

He takes a step forward and shuts the door, and I can feel Sarah lean into me a little more.

“A scotch, James,” he says.

I nod and squeeze her shoulders with my fingers. “Sarah?”

“Vodka on the rocks, heavy on the vodka,” she says tensely.

“Right,” I say.

I make my way over to the bar to start filling up some drinks, but warily, she sticks pretty closely to me, and I don't blame her. Sheldon Kennedy is, to put it lightly, a bear. He is all business, and has no qualms about putting the fear of God into you. That's how he has become so successful; fear and a scowl that could melt an ice queen.

I haven't sussed out Sarah's secret yet, but I'm not surprised at all that she balks from her dad's appearance.

“One scotch, sir.”

He's taken a seat in the chair next to the one Sarah once occupied, but she is still standing in the middle of my room, moving around as I do, sticking closely to me. I set the glass on my desk in front of him.

“Thank you, James,” he says.

I wordlessly hand Sarah the glass I've poured her vodka in, and I watch her as she lifts it to her lips. Even though I've poured the glass more than generously, I watch as she downs almost half the glass in one drink.

“Easy, Sar,” I whisper. “Remember, it's not even four.”

“Shut up,” she whispers back at me harshly.

Keeping her eyes on her dad, she crosses one arm across her chest as she dangles the glass in the other.

“Dad, what are you doing here?” she asks.

“I could ask you the same thing, Sarah,” he says.

“Well, I got off work early and thought I would come see Lance.”

“I heard you had new living arrangements,” he says.

“Yeah,” she says. I notice her shift her body, raising her shoulders and her chin, almost in an attempt to appear more confident than I know she must be right now. “Yeah. Lance and I are living together. Is that a problem?”

“Living together?” Sheldon asks.

“Well, when she says living together,” I start, suddenly becoming nervous. “I mean...she doesn't mean together together. She means--”

“Living,” Sarah says in a commanding tone. “Together. Living together. Lance and I – in the same house – living together.”

“Perhaps in the interest of everyone's safety here, Sarah,” I say, “this is not the time to stage a rebellion. You know?”

“I think this is the perfect time to stage a rebellion,” she says to me.

In the moment, I have to grant her a pass, because she has no idea how close she is to signing my death warrant – but nothing prepares me for what comes out of her mouth next.

“We're getting married, dad.”

It's silent for a moment, with the exception of the whoosh from the blood draining out of my face. Sheldon simply sits in the chair, looking at his daughter. I can't remember ever seeing such a deadly calm expression on a person's face before.

“Getting married?” he asks, the slightest of smiles on his face.

“That's right,” she says without skipping a beat. “Getting married.”

He turns to look at me.

“Is that right, young man?” he asks.

I have no idea if it's my fear of saying 'no' to this man, or my tendency to keep to my tough guy exterior, or simply my loyalty to Sarah that makes me nod my head.

“Yes, sir,” I say.

He looks at both of us a moment. But when he swiftly moves to stand up from my chair, I can't help it – my body jumps into motion and I take a quick half-step back, because I can't be certain that he won't try to kill me right here in my own office.

“Well, then it sounds like congratulations are in order,” he says.

From his tone, and the look on Sarah's face, I know he doesn't mean it. It's the way Sheldon Kennedy works – luring you into a false sense of security by saying something positive, while he plots your undoing.

“Sarah, I came to invite you to the Spring Ball,” he says. “I'm sure you remember the soiree we have every spring.”

“Yes, father,” she says, and I notice that she's no longer the rebellious, commanding woman; she's now her father's 'yes' man.

“Whether either of us like it or not, you still have responsibilities to this family,” he says. “I would highly recommend that you make an appearance.”

She nods.

“Your mother has asked me to tell you that she would really appreciate you being there,” he says, looking at her.

“I'll be there,” she says.

He turns to me. “James, I assume as you're engaged to my daughter and soon to become family as well, you will want to be there?”

The look in his eye tells me that wanting to be there is not a choice; like Sarah, I now do whatever he wants me to do.

“Yes sir,” I say with a nod. “I look forward to it.”

“Good, I will see you both then,” he says. He sets his glass on my desk. “I will leave announcing the news to your mother up to you, Sarah.”

“Thank you, dad,” she says.

He reaches the door and rests his hand on the knob, but he turns to look back at us once more. His eyes bore through us like an auger; I stand my ground while averting my eyes, but Sarah hangs her head, fearful of looking into her father's eyes.

Without uttering a word, he opens the door and walks out, closing the door harshly behind him. I hear her release a breath.

“Oh God, Lance, I am so sorry...”

“Engaged? Sarah, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I...I don't know,” she says. She's lost all her composure. “I just...I let him get to me again, and I guess I lost my head!”

“You know what you can gift me as a wedding present?” I ask. “You can gift me a burial plot, because your father is going to kill me!”

“I'm not going to let him kill you,” she says.

“Yeah, I'll just cower behind you while you're hiding from him.”

The moment it comes out of my mouth, I can tell it was wrong of me to say, because I see the instant pain in her eyes.

“Sarah,” I say softly. “I'm...I'm sorry.”

She purses her lips. “Let's just go to dinner. My treat.”

She shoulders her purse, folds her pea coat over her arm and walks toward the door, all the while tightening her lips together. She's willing them not to tremble, so I won't see how much she's let me get to her.

I sigh and grab my coat from the coat rack, leaving my bag exactly where I threw it. I haven't forgotten that in less than an hour, my father expects my work on his desk, but I'm not worried that he'll kill me. Sheldon Kennedy will get to me first.

“Fuck my life,” I say with a sigh as I follow her.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“This is a really nice place.”

Emotions have seemed to calm by the time we arrive at Per Se and are seated at our table. Sarah is quiet as the waiter hands us our menus and I thank him before he walks away.

“Lance,” she says from across the table in a hushed tone. “This is beautiful, but...I can't afford this place.”

“We'll just forget that you said dinner was on you tonight, and this will be my treat,” I say. I smirk as I open my menu. “Consider it my...engagement gift.”

The corner of her mouth turns up and I hear a chuckle escape her lips.

“I'm still sorry,” she says as she picks up her menu and opens it to look it over. “If I could take it back--”

“It's alright, Sar. I get it.”

“No, you don't,” she says to me. “You really don't.”

“Then tell me.”

She puts down her menu on the table and looks straight at me.

“How in the world could you possibly understand?” she asks me. “Your family...you and your dad are best friends. Your mom is a sweet, down-to-earth woman. Your sister owns her own successful bakery in Brooklyn. You work for your father. You couldn't even begin to understand the dysfunction of my family.”

“I'd like to, Sarah,” I say. “I'd really like to.”

She hesitates a moment as the waitress brings the Chateau Pradeaux we've ordered.

“Sar,” I say once the waitress leaves, “you can trust me. I know something bad happened between you and your dad. I want to know.”

For a moment, it doesn't look like she trusts me enough to open up. Then she clears her throat.

“My father...sold me, into marriage,” she says.

I'm sure my eyes go wide.

“Like...a dowry?” I ask.

“Not like a dowry,” she says. “It was a dowry.”

“To...Blake Peters?” I ask. I'm not sure if I'm in a stage where I don't believe her, or it's so outrageous I just don't want to believe her.

“Blake has always been my father's 'surrogate' son,” she says, using air quotes. “I think my dad loved Blake more than he loved Jude, especially after Jude told dad he was gay. And that's when everything started.”

I take a deep breath in.

“You don't owe the mafia money, do you?” I ask softly.

She slightly shakes her head.

“Three years ago,” she whispers, wary of the people in the restaurant around us. “My dad came to me and told me I was getting married.”

“Told you?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Pretty much like everything else in my life, it was up to my dad. I thought it was just an arranged marriage. It wasn't until later that I found out about the agreement.”

“The agreement?”

“Blake bought me,” she says.

“How much?” I ask.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars,” she says sadly.

I'm so stunned I can't even form words. For several seconds, all that escapes my mouth is a noise – somewhere between a scoff and a cough, and maybe a bit of a laugh. I'd be tempted to think she was screwing with my mind again...but on some twisted level, it's totally believable.

“For a while, I just accepted it,” she says. “It's what's happened my whole life. Daddy was always the boss, always had plans for me that I had no say over. Everything was always a business deal for him. I don't know why I expected this to be any different.”

“But...the engagement...?”

“I got tired of pretending,” she says, as if she's reading my mind. “After a few weeks, I couldn't do it. I saw the wedding date getting closer and closer, and I just couldn't do it. I didn't love Blake, not one bit, and I couldn't fake it. I told my dad I wouldn't do it.” She pauses. “I told him I wouldn't marry Blake. No matter what happened to me.”

“So, the money?”

“I was disowned and I owe my dad fifty-thousand dollars,” she says. “Twenty-five for the original...sale.” She pauses, to wash the disgust out of her mouth with a sip from her wine glass. “And another twenty-five for the cost of the wedding that never happened.”

I can't speak. Nothing that I could say could come close to what I feel right now. The lawyer in me wants to point out all the laws that Sheldon would be breaking – even barely, marginally breaking. The friend in me wants to give her a hug and tell her it will be all right.

The part of me that loves her wants to carry her off, away from her father forever. The part of me that loved her before, loves her even more now.

But she quickly gains her composure and looks me in the eyes.

“You know my dirty little secret now,” she says. “And if it's alright, I'd like to not talk about it anymore. I'm tired. I'd like to eat and go home to bed.”

“Yeah.” I nod slightly. “Let's eat and go home.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I still haven't gotten over it by the time we pull into the driveway of the beach house. We hardly spoke through dinner. It wasn't uncomfortable or anything; just normal.

But now I've got an unsettling feeling in my stomach. I'd like to pretend that my food hasn't set well, but that's not it.

I want to love her so badly.

I want to take her away from everything. I want to run, and make a new life with her somewhere else. I want to give her a life where she'll be able to put her past behind her, look to the future instead.

I just want us.

“Lance?”

Her voice breaks me out of my thoughts. I've been sitting in the driver's seat with the engine cut off, staring out in front of me. I look over and see her looking at me.

“Are you ready to go inside?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, with some hesitation. “Let's go...inside.”

We both unbuckle our seat belts and step out of the car. She hangs back waiting for me as I walk around the car.

“You know, I didn't tell you all of that over dinner so you can feel sorry for me,” she says.

“Why would you think that I feel sorry for you?”

She's taken aback a moment and I smile.

“That came out wrong,” I say. “I do feel sorry for you, just not in the way you're thinking.”

“Yeah, I...I get it,” she says. “I'm just saying, I don't want you to think you have to fix me or anything.”

I stop at the front door and face her, just short of unlocking it with my key.

“And what makes you think that I want to fix you?” I ask.

“You're a guy,” she says with a slight smirk. “And guys think that all women watched too many Disney movies growing up, and we all want a Prince Charming to come sweep us off our feet and save us from the wicked stepmother. White Knight Syndrome, and all that.”

“Did you ever consider that me wanting to save you – if I did want that, of course – wasn't so much to be your proverbial white knight as it would be to give you back the happiness I know you deserve?”

“And how do you know I'm not happy already?” she asks.

“I've only spent four days with you and I haven't once seen you smile,” I say. “I mean truly smile without hiding some sort of misery behind it. That's not the Sarah that I know.”

Her face falls, and she looks to the ground. “Maybe you never knew me. Maybe the Sarah you used to know ran away a long time ago.”

“That's not true.”

“How do you know?”

In the darkness, with only the little moonlight that bounces off the water's surface and reflects back to us, I put my fingers up to her chin and lift it so she's looking at me.

“Because I still see some of her in you,” I say. “I still see the same person now that I wanted then...that I wanted...”

All words fail me as I look into her eyes, so even though I know I probably shouldn't, I decide to go with everything I've been feeling, and show her. I lean down and to my surprise, as my lips touch hers, she doesn't flinch or back away from me.

She reciprocates. Under my touch, I feel her relax. I feel her pull in toward my body as I pull in toward hers. She lifts an arm and wraps it around my shoulder. She arches her back, relaxing her head and pulling me into her more.

Somehow in the middle of the fray, we stop, and she's turned so her back is resting against the front door and the palm of my hand is pushing against it. I pull away from her.

“We should go inside,” she says softly.

“I guess that was our intention, wasn't it?” I ask.

She moves away from the door, and I grab my keys and push the key into the lock to unlock it. As I do, I take the very quick second to consider – what just happened? I made the first move, but there were certainly moves on her part, too. I might have expected her to push me away, get angry, perhaps even slap me, but none of those expectations came to be.

Where does this leave us?

She steps inside and so do I. She doesn't even make the move to turn on the light, but she turns to me.

“I'm going to go to bed,” she says. “I'm...quite tired.”

Silently, I sigh. “Yeah, me too. I've got some work to do, but then I think I'll go to bed.”

I look for anything in her eyes that might tell me what she's thinking – regret, fear, disgust, discomfort – but she gives me nothing.

“Good night, Lance,” she finally says.

“Night, Sar.”

She glances at me quickly before she turns and walks up the stairs toward her room, only to disappear around the corner a few seconds later.

Chapter Eight – Day Five

Sarah

Today I have a shopping date with Katherine. I should know better than to mention what happened last night to her, but I also have to tell someone because I'm just so...confused.

On one hand, she's my best friend, so of course she's the first person I run to, logically. But I should have been prepared that word would get around about the sudden “engagement,” and I should have known that she would be one of the first to find out – and that she would be all too happy to throw it in my face.

“What colors are you thinking of?” she asks, a shit-eating smile plastered across her face. “I was thinking silver and Tiffany blue...”

“Shut up, Kate,” I say. “I told you already – I let my big mouth speak before my brain thought it through. And he picked this as the one and only time to agree with me and go along with it, and now we're falsely engaged.”

“I know,” she says. “How stupid do you think I am? I knew the moment I heard about it that it was a scam. You know exactly what one thing will set your dad off like this, and of course you find it too irresistible not to use.”

“How did you find out about it so quickly, anyway?”

“Oh sweetie,” she says with a laugh that oozes pity. “You've been out of the social circle far too long. You've forgotten how it works. Party line – your dad tells your mother in rage, your mother calls my mother in elation, and mother is bursting at the seams to tell me.”

“I should have known the bastard wouldn't keep his word when he said he'd let me tell my mother,” I say with bitterness.

And then I realize – I sound like I care. And why? It's a fake engagement.

“Our mothers are in full planning mode,” Katherine continues, by the grace of God looking as if she totally missed my moment of animosity towards my father. “Should you actually decide to go through with this, you'll be happy to know that you'll have a wedding and you won't have to lift a finger.”

“Yeah, and when I tell them it was all a scam, I'll be paying my dad another fifty-thousand for a wedding I didn't go through with,” I say.

“You could avoid that issue entirely and go through with it,” she says with a grin.

I chuckle. “Yeah. When all else fails, just go through with the fake wedding. Don't I have enough problems already?” I stop with her as she's looking through a rack of clothes. “I am primo at backing myself into corners that I can't get out of.”

“Maybe this is a good corner to back yourself into,” she responds.

“Is any corner a good corner to back yourself into?”

“Any corner with Lance in it is a good corner to back yourself into,” she says with an eyebrow raise.

Oh, Lord.

“Katherine, I'm just trying to figure out what happened last night. I'm not ready to jump even further ahead without knowing what I'm doing.”

Her eyes pop up at attention.

“What happened last night?”

The plan going into the day was to tell her and get it off my chest, but I can't help but feel the butterflies in my stomach launch into flight as I prepare to actually do it.

“He kissed me,” I whisper.

Her eyes go wide.

“He kissed you?” she asks.

I want to shake my head and tell her to wipe that lovesick, dreamy look off her face.

“It was...it wasn't like that,” I say, trying to act like I'm brushing it off. “We were both stressed out from the encounter with Daddy. I had straight vodka just to get through that encounter and then we went to dinner and I had wine too. I was probably half-drunk, so was he, we were both just...on edge. It...it's not really that big of a deal.”

“It's a massive big deal,” she says. “You and him – under stressful circumstances you argue, you fight, sometimes you even get ready to throw punches. You guys have never kissed before. I'd say that's a big deal, Sar.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” I say.

No, I'm not afraid – I'm terrified.

“Sarah, we all know how you feel about each other,” she says. “You love him. And he loves you. You two seem to be the only two that don't know it.”

“It was just a kiss, Katherine,” I say.

“Even you know that's not true, Sarah,” she says.

I sigh, because as dippy of a dumb blonde she can be sometimes, she can be right sometimes too. As much as I don't want to care about any of it – my family being excited about the wedding, my father actually allowing me the privilege of sharing the news with my mother – it's impossible to not care. It's what every girl dreams of, after all.

“What is your heart telling you that it wants?” she asks.

I'd like to tell her that my heart wants nothing, absolutely nothing to do with him; that I just want to get through the next ninety-five days of this stupid contract, earn my money, pay off my dad, and finally get Lance out of my life forever.

But I can't.

“I really don't know.”

“Well...do you want him?”

She stops sorting through the rack of clothes she's standing in front of, and looks at me with a leading expression, waiting for my answer.

But what do I say? Do I want him? I really don't know. Do I want more from him than what I have now? I suppose I do, although I don't know if I want just a better friendship than we have now. Do I have feelings for him? Most definitely – though I don't know what those feelings are, or what they mean.

I could tell her the truth...but I'd probably just end up more confused than ever. So maybe it's better to lie to her, or at the very least, hide my true feelings.

“No,” I say. “I don't.”

She raises her eyebrows but if she has any sort of verbal reaction to it, she hides it. She simply goes back to sorting through the rack of clothes.

Thank heavens that haute couture is more interesting to Katherine than my love life ever will be.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After a day of shopping, I come home to the beach house. I have at least five bags; things I probably shouldn't be spending money on. But after the past couple days I've had, a little retail therapy never hurt anybody.

“Lance?”

It's strangely quiet. I throw my bags down next to the couch and maneuver my purse strap off my shoulder, laying it down on top of the bags. It's odd to hear the house so quiet. I mean, since day one of this stupid contract, every time I've walked into the house it's been a weird flashback with 80's music and reenactments of Footloose; he's either singing at the top of his lungs or dancing while he makes dinner.

Today, the house is pretty much silent.

“Lance?”

I wait for a few seconds – no response. But there is the slightest noise coming from the kitchen.

I walk that way and push through the swinging door, to see him with the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, and see him setting the table in darkness, with only candles illuminating the room.

“Yeah, I just don't...” That's when he looks up and sees me, and he stops with the phone still to his ear. “Hey, let me call you back. Better yet...we'll just talk tomorrow, okay?...Alright, bye.”

He lets the phone fall from his shoulder and he grabs it quickly, disconnecting the call with a single beep.

“Sorry, I'd hoped to be done by now,” he says. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“What is this?” I ask.

“Candlelight dinner,” he says. “It's probably lame, I know, but I figure we ought to take advantage of the fact that we're living in a beach house for the next three months. Do things we wouldn't normally do.”

“Like dine by candlelight?” I ask with a smile.

“You hate it,” he says.

“No!” I regret it the moment I say it, with far too much enthusiasm. “No, I just...I mean, it was unexpected. That's all. I don't hate it.”

He smiles at me.

“So, what's for dinner?”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like we have so many times since we've been here, we end dinner with a bottle of expensive wine, only this time we take it to the living room. He lights a fire, even though it's only slightly chilly outside, and we're sitting on the couch with our legs folded underneath us.

He's telling stories, I'm telling a few myself, and I can't tell you how it starts, but...by the time the sun sets, I'm laughing. I'm laughing and actually enjoying my time with him.

But then the laughter dies down, and it starts to get quiet. I'm on my third glass of wine and feeling quite over-indulgent, alongside slightly-tipsy and nearly-drunk.

“I never...apologized,” I say. “For my dad the other day. The way he just burst in your office like he did.”

“He did take me by surprise a bit,” he says.

“He...God, he drives me nuts.” I can feel my frustration taking over. “It's like...everything is either black or white, and there's no gray area because there's no room for gray area. And I, unfortunately, live my entire life in the gray area.”

“There's nothing wrong with living your life in the gray area.”

“According to him, there is,” I tell him. “I'm a complete screw-up. I could have lived a great life just like him, working hard telling other people what to do as the head of some fancy-schmancy hotel. Then I could have settled down, married someone I didn't even remotely like, let alone love, and been the perfectly miserable housewife and mother to two-and-a-half perfectly miserable children.”

“Some people like that,” he says.

“Yeah, well, not me. White picket fences are worse than the bars of a prison cell. Even worse is iron bars in a rich, gated community. He wanted me to be a prisoner...and he was the warden.”

“Is he really that bad?” he asks. “Far be it from me to actually defend your dad, but maybe you're just misunderstanding each other.”

My 'are you serious' look must be evident on my face, because a second later he laughs.

“Okay, that was a stupid question,” he says. “Especially considering he basically sold you to the highest bidder.”

“And then there are times that I think...maybe I should have just gone with it. Maybe I should have just sucked it all up and married Blake. My life would suck, but maybe it wouldn't suck as bad as owing my father all this money and being estranged from my entire family.”

“No,” he says with a shake of his head as he leans forward to place his empty wine glass back on the table. “No Sar, you're not capable of being a captive, like a caged zoo animal. You have far too much spark to be able to live that way. You'd be miserable if you settled – so miserable you probably wouldn't care if you lived or died.”

“Is it so wrong to have dreams of my own?” I ask him. “To want more out of life than just what a shitload of money can buy me?”

“No, Sar,” he says. “It's not.”

“Thank you again for backing me up,” I tell him. “I know that faking an engagement and a relationship is not what you signed up for when you signed up for this.”

“No, because signing up for Kate's little science experiment so I can get money and she can get her rocks off was a far more ridiculous idea than signing up to help you pull one over on your dad.”

He chuckles, and so do I. “Well, you do have a point I suppose.”

It grows quiet, and I wonder if he'll say anything about the kiss. And for a bit, I start to wonder if I should say anything about the kiss. But just when I'm about to, I look over at him and see him staring at me.

“What?” I ask, laughing a little.

He stares a little longer before I start to grow self-conscious.

“What is it?”

Instead of saying anything in response to me, I see him start to lean over. The alcohol has done just a good enough job that it takes me a few seconds to realize his play.

By that time, his lips are already on mine.

But I quickly realize it's not just a kiss. I'm laid out on the couch and my arms are half-pinned to the cushion above my head. He's on top of me, all over me. He kisses me hungrily, like he hasn't kissed a woman in weeks...maybe months. And it all moves so fast that I don't know what to think of it. I should feel taken advantage of, maybe a little violated, like he's being way too pushy right now – because that would be my reaction to him if he had done this at any other time, before this stupid arrangement.

Maybe it's the alcohol – but I don't feel that way at all. In fact, I welcome it.

It feels amazing.

I lean my head back as far as I can, allowing him access, and he takes it – kissing down my neck, to my shoulder and collarbone. I feel him pulling the hem of my shirt up and we both lean up off the couch so he can pull it over my head. It gets tossed to the floor, where I'm sure the rest of my clothes – and his – will find their way soon.

I feel his lips traveling down my breast and cleavage before I speak up, my voice breaking.

“Lance...we should probably...”

“Bedroom,” he says.

And then, for a moment, it's like he snaps out of a haze he's been in. He stops kissing me, leans up away from me, and looks me in the eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he says softly.

I'm confused for a moment, unsure of whether he's changed his mind or not.

“I was going to say,” I say, “yours or mine?”

He thinks for a moment while he looks at me. I'd kill to know what he's thinking. One moment he looks like he's about to throw me back down on the couch, take off the rest of my clothes and do every single thing I could have only dreamed he'd do to me at sixteen years old. Another moment he looks as if he's about to fight it, apologize again and walk straight away – exactly like he did sixteen years ago.

The whole time I feel as if I'm reliving that night all over again.

“Mine,” he finally says.

And that's how I find myself falling down against his bed. He follows shortly after, climbing on top to straddle me. The first thing to go is my pants – then his shirt, and then his pants. Soon all of our clothes land on the floor in messy piles, along with his t-shirts and sweatpants and everything else he's thrown there while he's lived here.

It's not until I'm completely naked and on top of him, with him inside me, moaning and calling out his name that my drunk brain asks the question...

Just what the hell am I getting myself into?

Chapter Nine – Day Six

Lance

I left this morning at 6:30, right about the time the sun started peeking up over the ocean, leaving her completely naked, mostly covered in my bed sheets, fast asleep.

I am not proud of myself.

But if it makes the universe a little bit more even, karma bit me in the ass at 7:15 when I got in and my father called me into his office – where he is still giving me the biggest ass-chewing of my entire life.

“Two days,” he yells at me, pacing around his desk. “Two whole days ago those contracts were supposed to be finished and on my desk ready for our clients to sign, James.”

I wince. When he uses my given birth name, rather than calling me Lance like he has for the majority of my thirty-four – almost thirty-five, if I make it out alive – years, I know I'm in trouble.

“I know.”

“Two days!”

He looks at me expectantly.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks. “What was so important that the contracts couldn't be finished on time?”

My mind can't help thinking it – but luckily, my brain-to-mouth filter knows that screwing my lifelong crush is not the appropriate thing to say to him.

“I got distracted,” I say.

And then he gives me the look – the look which tips me off that that was also not the appropriate thing to say to him, and his head may explode.

“I'm really sorry,” I say. “I mean – dad, I am really sorry.”

“Well, frankly son, I am really sorry as well.”

I cringe. I'd have rather heard I'm not mad, just disappointed.

“Dad, I will absolutely have them done today,” I say. “I came in early today to get them done, because the other day...I guess I just forgot. I had Sarah's dad storm into my office, I had the calamity that followed after that...”

He still stares at me, looking slightly softened, but I know he's not. And rightfully, he shouldn't be.

“I should have stayed that night and finished them,” I say. “I know that's what I should have done. And I apologize for not doing what you trusted me to do, and that I let you down.”

He's silent for a long time. He sits back down in his chair, leans over his desk, and picks up his pen and a stack of papers. When it looks like he's started to get back to his own work, I'm unsure of what to do. It looks like we're done here and I should walk away with my tail tucked between my legs, but if by chance he's not even remotely done with me, I'm afraid to move a muscle and make him even madder.

“Dad?”

“You know, son,” he finally says, looking up from his work, “what upsets me is not that you got distracted, or you got busy, or whatever other excuse you came up with to avoid doing the work. What upsets me is the fact that you're sitting in here, in my office, even coming up with excuses at all. When I made you a partner, I thought I could trust you. I thought when I brought you on, I would not have to deal with this sort of thing with you.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

He softens. I haven't called him 'sir' in a really long time.

“They'll be done today,” he says. “That's not a question – that is a demand, Lance. I thought I could trust you with this, but I know now that I was wrong. And I'm sorry that I was wrong. Now in order to make sure that they're done, I have to do something that I never thought I'd have to do with you.”

I don't say anything, because the gavel is about to come crashing down.

“I'm bringing in a junior partner,” he says. “You'll work alongside Timberlake for the rest of this case.”

Outwardly I'm silent and accept my punishment, but inwardly I groan. I wish he'd have fired me instead.

“He'll meet you in the conference room in ten,” he says. Then he stares me down. “Go.”

Without saying a word, I get up out of the chair and head out the door toward my office. It's almost the worst torture he could bestow on me.

Justin Timberlake is one of those 'young whippersnappers', as all the seniors who have been trying to make partner for the last fifteen years like to call him. They used to call me the same thing five years ago when I was just out of law school, newly bar-approved, and my dad brought me into the family business. He was hired on barely riding on my coattails, and immediately started kissing as much ass as he could in hopes of climbing the ladders. Two of the asses he was exceptionally good at kissing was mine and my dad's. I was over it within a week and quickly became immune to his brown-nosing.

My dad, unfortunately, never did. And that's how he managed to land junior partner.

I don't necessarily hate the guy, but I don't particularly like him either, and I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual on his side.

“Well, well.”

The minute I hear his voice in the doorway of the conference room, exactly ten minutes – on the dot – later, I feel my lip curl into a slight scowl.

“Looks like we'll be working together again,” he says.

“Trust me, I take no pleasure in it,” I say.

“Oh, Bass,” he says.

He pauses, and he saunters – actually saunters – into the conference room, toward the large table.

“Won't it be fun?” he asks as he sits down across from me.

“The only thing I can think of that might be more fun is being water-boarded,” I say. “And I genuinely mean that.”

He smiles. “I'm sure you do.”

He throws open the file folder he's sat in front of him, eases back in his chair, and tosses his feet up on the table, casually crossing them.

“Hope you don't have anything important to do tonight,” he says with a smile. “I think this is gonna take a while.”

Nothing except going home to a girl that I've spent half my life pining for, before she regrets that she ever slept with me.

“Nothing at all,” I say with a sigh.

She's going to hate me anyway – what do I have to go home to?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sarah

“I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!”

“You don't hate him.”

Maggie sits at the table in the break room, watching me pace back and forth, slamming cabinet doors shut and coffee mugs down on the counter.

“Sure, you probably don't particularly like him right now,” she says. “But you don't hate him.”

“Actually, I'm pretty sure what I feel right now is genuine, unabashed hate,” I tell her. “For starters, I was fifteen minutes late for work this morning – apparently he forgot to set an alarm. But that's an odd thing since he apparently managed to wake up and get to work – and not only on time, but like an entire hour early at that. And then there's the fact that I ended up in his bed last night and he just leaves the morning after.”

“There is that,” she says, going along with my tirade.

“That kind of thing happens with one-night-stands, you know? I get that. But one would think that, if you're living in the same house with a guy, you could avoid that brand of shame.”

Maggie, one of the other partners' secretaries, is basically the only person I can talk to right now. In instances like this, I'd usually rely on Katherine – but asking for sympathy or advice from Katherine on this subject would be like asking an Iraqi soldier for where not to step on landmines.

“A hundred days, she said,” I mumble. “Fifty-thousand dollars. Back yourself into a corner. It's a good corner to back into. Don't worry Sarah, step on the landmine – I'm sure it won't explode!”

“Okay, you're rambling nonsense again,” Maggie says. “Rewind and start back at the beginning. A hundred days?”

I pour a couple of packets of sugar into my mug and stir it in as I sit down in the chair next to her. I'm not a person who likes to bring my personal life into work and vice versa, so I haven't told anyone at work about my game-show-style living arrangements yet. But I've worked alongside Maggie for two years and as far as work friends go, she's my best, so I'm wondering if it's not time to break that bubble.

“You can't tell anyone here,” I tell her. “I mean it, Mags. This break room is currently Vegas – what happens here, stays here.”

She holds up two fingers. “Scout's honor, Sar.”

I'm hesitant at first, but I launch into the story of how I found myself living with a best friend from childhood past, in order to gain an exorbitant amount of money, to pay off a debt that I shouldn't even owe. I leave out the exact details of how I've come to owe my dad so much money, because that's something I'm not ready for anyone other than Lance (and of course, Katherine) to know yet.

She listens and her face reacts to the story at certain points – widened eyes at the mention of my fifty-thousand dollar debt, shock and confusion at the idea of Katherine's hundred-day contract, a few giggles at my first interactions with Lance inside the house, and more shock at my dad's rude outburst into Lance's office.

And then I get to the kiss from that night, and she stops me.

“Freeze,” she says. “I need a mirror. I'll be right back.”

She stands up and runs out of the break room, and leaves me the one confused. She comes back a few moments later with her purse in hand, and sits down and roots around in it. Finally she pulls out a compact makeup mirror, and holds it in her hand.

“Okay, say that last part again,” she says.

I give her a confused look, but I do as she says.

“We went out to dinner, and when he took me home, he kissed me on the porch steps.”

“Freeze.”

I pause again, and she opens the compact with a click and puts it in front of my face, open.

“Look at yourself,” she says.

I look in the mirror at my reflection, but I see nothing.

“What am I looking at?” I ask her.

“Sarah, you're smiling.”

I look back at the mirror. I hadn't noticed it before, but the corners of my lips are turned up slightly, like I was smiling at some point and I didn't know it. And I remember what he said to me that night – that we'd only lived four days together, and he hadn't once seen me smile. Not like that.

“There are some unresolved feelings there,” Maggie says. “It's pretty obvious, Sar. The whole arrangement might be a little ridiculous, but I think you have to admit to yourself that it's working.”

“Unfortunately, I think I do,” I say.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lance

“Women...sssssuck.”

I can't deny that sitting next to Justin while he's completely hammered is a decent way to round out this horrible day.

The Carlisle contracts were finally finished at 7:45 on the dot this evening, and I personally hand-delivered them to my father who was still in his office, waiting for me. He said thank you and quickly dismissed me, and I'm pretty sure that I'm off the case. Which is actually fine with me.

I think I prefer it that way anyway.

The contracts were finished in time for me to go home and possibly salvage whatever I have with Sarah – half an hour of groveling, an hour of apologizing repeatedly, another hour trying to convince her that I wasn't trying to pull a one-nighter on her, and I could have happily ended my night laying next to her in my bed.

But I decided to come here, to the bar, with a man that I barely like instead. Because deep down, I'm too scared to go home.

“You pulled a dine and dash on her,” Justin slurs, looking at me.

“Dine and dash?”

“You feasted on an all-night buffet of a beautiful woman...and you forgot to pay the check.”

He is so drunk that he pops his 'k' when he speaks, and pokes me in the chest. But he's too aggressive and the motion throws him back a little bit, nearly making him fall off his barstool.

Finn, the bar's owner, looks at me as I grab Justin's arm to pull him up.

“Shall I be calling a cab, then?” he says in his thick Irish accent.

“Please,” I respond.

“Right.”

I shake my head as he walks away to call Justin a cab, and go back to my scotch glass. Justin may be a drunken idiot, but unfortunately he's right.

I could be at home with her right now. Instead, I'm here. It's 10:30 and I know she'll be going to bed soon. I think that's why I'm here.

Finn and I pour Justin into a cab fifteen minutes later and manage to give the cab driver his address.

“Do I need to be calling one for you?” Finn asks me as the cab drives off.

“I'm good, Finn, promise.”

He gives me the eye, so I extend my hand out to my side then bring it inward to touch the tip of my nose, showing him I'm sober.

“Right,” he says, and dangles my keys in front of me. “Get on home, then.”

The fifty-minute drive back to Long Beach gives me plenty of time to think uninterrupted. I roll down the windows as I drive down Broadway Street, letting the warm air roll over my face and through my hair.

With Don Henley playing over the radio, it almost makes me feel like I did sixteen years ago. Stupid. Carefree. Oblivious to what's going on around me while I pay more attention to what's going on in the little world I've created for myself. The fact that less than a week in, I've managed to get myself fired from one of the biggest cases my dad has ever given me because I'm so wrapped up in Sarah only attests to that. The fact that I don't care that I was fired proves it.

But the fact that I went out to a bar instead of going home to her proves that I am, in fact, as stupid as my eighteen-year-old self was back then. I know I can do better – for myself and for her.

But I have to get home first.

I pull into the driveway just before midnight. As I walk up the gravel pathway, I notice that as I hadn't expected, the lights are still dully lit in the living room. The last thing I want is a confrontation, but my heart jumps a little at the thought that maybe she's still up and I can explain myself to her, try to fix things.

But when I unlock the door and throw my keys and suit jacket on the table next to the door, I only hear silence.

“Sarah?”

I hear a mumble coming from the couch. When I walk over, I see her laying across it, a blanket over her.

She's fallen asleep waiting for me to get home.

I sigh and kneel down next to her.

“Sarah?” I whisper in her ear.

Her eyelashes flutter as she turns her head and opens her eyes, looking at me.

“Hmm? Lance?” she asks tiredly.

“It's almost midnight. What are you doing down here? Why aren't you in bed?”

“I thought you'd be home earlier.”

“I thought I would too,” I tell her. “I had to go in early to finish some paperwork, everything had piled up and I had to stay late--”

“I called your office,” she says sternly, coming back from consciousness. She pulls away from me and sits up, throwing the blanket off her body. “I talked to Heather. She told me that you left by eight with one of the junior partners.”

Guilt washes over me as she looks me in the eyes, unable to hide her disappointment.

“Sar--”

“No.” She puts her hand up, stopping me. “Don't. You don't have to, and I don't want you to. I just want to go to bed.”

She pushes past me as I sit there by the couch. I want to grab for her arm or do anything I can to get her to talk to me, but I don't. She's upset, it's my fault, and I've failed her again.

“You know...” She stops on the second stair of the staircase and turns to look at me. “I wanted to forgive you for this morning. Then you lied to me and came home smelling like scotch.”

She pauses, and her eyes bore through me like daggers.

“You're a jackass,” she says as she turns on her heels and walks the rest of the way up the staircase.

Chapter Ten – The Proposal

Lance

Day Twenty-Two

“Two weeks.”

Jude looks from the lit-up glass case that he's focused on, and looks at me.

“What's that now?” he asks.

“Two weeks,” I tell him. “Your sister. She hasn't talked to me in two weeks.”

He chuckles.

“Every morning when I walk into the kitchen and she's there, I say 'Good morning, Sarah.' She just grabs her coffee and crinkles up the newspaper in her hand and walks out of the room. When I come home from work in the evening, I say the same thing – 'Evening, Sar.' If I'm lucky, she doesn't walk out of the room, but she ignores me. When I ask her if she'd like to go out to dinner, she says 'No, thanks.' Usually I offer to make something for dinner after that, but she'll crinkle her nose up and say 'I already ate.' Then she walks out of the room. And that's been the extent of our conversations for two weeks now.”

Jude laughs. “She is rather good at that, being a cold person.”

“The ball is tomorrow night,” I tell him. “I have no idea how we're going to manage to pull this off if I can't even get her to speak to me.”

It's been twenty-two days. Almost a quarter of our one-hundred day contract is over. Katherine followed through on her end of the contract, giving us each the original fifty-thousand she agreed to pay us. Even though our time is not yet up and we still have over seventy days left to fulfill, both of our debts have been paid, and it's such a relief.

But just a short time after the money transferred from Katherine to me, the full fifty-thousand, she took it upon herself to remind me that if I wanted to pull off even a fake engagement, I'd better make it look real.

And that included a ring, and in our circle, a good proposal story.

And that's why I've called in Jude, Sarah's older – if by only two years – brother and one of my best friends from high school, to help me pick out a “fake engagement” engagement ring. He's the only one aside from Katherine that knows Sarah and can be trusted to know the real story.

“Forget pulling off a fake engagement,” I say. “I'm not even sure I'll manage to pull off a fake proposal if she's not speaking to me.”

“Well, all she has to say is yes,” he says, smiling at me.

“At least it's only one word,” I say. “And only one syllable. Hopefully she can exert the effort.”

“You'll pull it off,” he says. “Don't worry. I know Sarah, and if there's one thing she's committed to more than being a cold bitch toward you, it's pissing off Dad.”

“He's gonna kill me,” I tell him. “He's gonna murder me and bury my body in the desert.”

“Welcome to the Kennedy family,” he says. “Welcome to my world.”

“Is he still not speaking to you?”

“He speaks,” he says, looking over the rings in the glass cases. “He speaks because mother makes him speak. She wouldn't be able to stand having another child shoved off to the side by dad, and he knows that. He knows if he wants to keep his marriage intact, he's to stick to a strict 'grin-and-bear-it in public' rule.”

“Your family puts the fun in dysfunctional, Jude,” I say.

He grins. “Yeah. But that's okay. I've got Jackson, and that's a good enough escape for me.”

I was one of the first friends that Jude ever came out to – back in high school, in fact. Sarah and I were really the only ones who knew, up until he finally got up the courage to tell his family five years ago. Likewise, Jude is really the only other person that knows how real my feelings for Sarah are, that I'm not just playing house for a paycheck.

“I always knew I'd be helping you pick out an engagement ring for my sister,” he says. “But I always thought we'd be doing this much sooner than now. You know, like, fifteen years ago.”

“And that it wouldn't be for a fake engagement?”

He smiles. “Honestly, I don't know how fake all this really is.”

His response takes me off guard. “What?”

“Come on,” he says, finally taking his eyes off the glass cases. “If we're being honest, you and Sar should have been married sixteen years ago. I always expected you to put off college so you could hang around until she graduated, because I didn't think you could leave her for that long. I expected her to pop out a couple of kids shortly after that. If anyone was going to do the happily ever after thing, we all expected it to be the two of you. You surprised the hell out of all of us when it went the opposite way, man.”

“Some things just don't work out like you thought they would,” I respond.

“Whatever happened after her sweet sixteen party must be one hell of a story, then,” he says.

Even though he knows – all too well – that I don't have a model relationship with Sheldon, all that Jude knows is that their father can't stand the sight of me. What happened between Sheldon and I is a secret I've kept hidden for years.

“Regardless of what happened, you know you're still in love with her,” he says to me. “I know you're still in love with her. And I'm pretty sure, given the fact that she's living with you and opening up to you finally, that she's still in love with you. I don't think you can anymore pull off a truly fake engagement than you can pull off faking that you're not still in love with each other.”

I open my mouth to rebut him, but he stops me and points to the glass case he's found himself in front of.

“I found it,” he says to me with a smile on his face.

I walk over to the case and stand next to him as he points down into the case. Surrounded by every other ring set out on display, sparkling in the white-blue cast of light, is the ring – a modest round diamond surrounded by a white-gold band, with several smaller diamonds set in around it.

“That's the one,” he says with an assured nod.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sarah

“These need filed away. Oh, and these need to be put in storage, can do you that?”

I hand a couple of manila folders and a banker's box of other files off to Maggie as we all prepare to go home at the end of the day. I'm putting things away at my desk and so focused that I don't notice my brother step off the elevator, until he's standing right in front of me.

“Sare-Bear.”

“Jude! What are you doing here?” I ask him.

“Well, baby sister,” he says, running his finger mindlessly over a picture frame on my desk, “I thought I'd come give you a ride home.”

“That's alright,” I tell him. “I can grab a cab, don't you have to get back to work?”

“I have another doctor handling my patients for the night.”

His eyes dart away from me and he smiles, which causes me to stop and knit my eyebrows.

“Just what are you up to?” I ask him.

He looks up at me as if I've just accused him of a crime.

“Why do I have to be up to something?” he asks.

“You have that look.”

“What look?”

“That look like you're up to something,” I say with a smile.

“So a guy can't come see his little sister at work anymore without it meaning something,” he says. “It must mean he's up to something. A guy can't just be nice for no reason.”

“Who told you to come pick me up from work?”

“Lance might have mentioned something about you needing a ride home earlier today,” he says.

“Then you're up to something,” I tell him. “And if Lance is in any way involved, I don't want any part of it.”

I start to walk away, but he grabs me by the arm.

“Sarah Madeline, you are going to leave this office – with me,” he says. “And you are going to get in my car. You are going to buckle your seat belt and sit there, in silence, while I drive you back out to Long Beach. Then you are going to go inside and put on a pretty dress and enjoy what that man has planned. And you are going to like it.”

He isn't overly forceful, but the look in his eyes is serious.

“I don't have a choice, do I?” I ask as he holds my arm.

He smiles. “No, Sar. You don't.”

The ride from my office to our beach house takes about an hour – the traffic is pretty heavy even shortly after rush hour, but my brother drives like a maniac in Brooklyn traffic, and even crazier once we reach Rockaway territory. We stay silent; I don't dare criticize his driving, and the whole way he has a smirk on his face. I know he's up to something, and the simple fact that Lance's name was dropped leaves me curious and nervous at the same time.

We pull into the driveway and I see his BMW first – but curiously, when we park, I notice the white delivery van. I open my mouth to question it, but Jude is already turned to me, with his finger up to stop me.

“Uh-uh,” he says, shaking his finger. “No questions asked, no questions answered.”

He moves and unlatches the lid on his center console and pulls out a familiar piece of red fabric before he closes it – one of my pricey silk scarves, a gift from my mother.

“Where'd you get that?” I ask. “And what are you doing with it?”

He doesn't answer; instead he pushes me by the shoulders until my back is turned and starts wrapping the bunched up scarf over my eyes.

“Hey!” I yell. “What is this?”

“I was told to subdue you by any means necessary,” he says, and I feel him tying the knot. “I told Lance exactly how good I was at tying you up when we were kids, but he thought that was a bit much – so I told him he could save that idea for later tonight.”

I can't see a thing through the fabric of the scarf, but somehow I still see that smug smile of my brother's in my mind's eye.

“I hate both of you so much right now,” I tell him just as I hear him opening the car door and getting out.

He comes around to the passenger side and opens the door, grabbing my hand to help me out of the car now that I can't see. His arm is wrapped around my waist and one hand holding mine as he guides me up the driveway so I don't fall or bump into anything, especially when we reach the front steps. With one of my necessary senses down, everything else is heightened – I can feel the beach air stick to my skin, hear the water hitting the sand from what is essentially our back yard, and feel gravel crunching under my shoes.

He helps me through the front door and as soon as he closes the door, all that goes away and is replaced by the sound of people – I can't tell how many, but it's more than just Lance – bustling around from our kitchen.

“Who's in our house?” I ask.

“Don't worry, it's being taken care of,” he says to me, as he once again starts guiding me through our living room. “Now watch out, I'm going to help you up the stairs, so just be careful.”

Him maneuvering me up the stairs must be comical at the very least, and I wonder – since I still can't see anything that is going on around me – if Lance is standing in the living room watching the whole thing. My heels, although they're modest and easy to walk in, present problems when my foot hits each stair, since I have no idea of where I'm landing. Thankfully I make it up the stairs with no unlucky incidents, and he leads me a few steps down the hall toward my bedroom before he stops me and reaches up to grab the knot in the scarf.

“You've got twenty minutes to get ready,” he says as he unties it and removes it. He smiles and moves to block my view when I try to peek back down the staircase to see what's going on. “I laid out a few dresses you might like to wear – nothing too fancy. Throw your hair up and fix your makeup if you want, and just relax. Make sure you wait twenty minutes, no peeking before the time is up. Your surprise will be waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs when the twenty minutes is up.”

“Got it – ten minutes, right?”

“Sarah,” he reprimands, with narrowed eyebrows but smiling.

“Twenty minutes, I know,” I say with a laugh.

As much as I want to wait until he's disappeared at the bottom of those stairs and sneak down to see exactly what's going on, I resist. Instead, I force myself to go into my bedroom and get ready before the twenty minutes are up.

The first thing I notice after I close the door is three of my dresses laid out neatly on my bed, still attached to their hangers. My button-up and pencil skirt are so uncomfortable after a day at work that I can't wait to get them off, so I slip off my skirt and peel off my shirt.

I leave my heels at the door and walk toward my bed; when I see the dresses from my closet that are laid out for me I smile. My brother definitely picked them – these are all some of his favorites. There's a cherry red cowl-neck sleeveless dress with brass buttons and a white summer dress with blue damask details. But it's the last dress that I decide on – a 40's pin-up style dress with a navy blue flared skirt and a high-collared bodice with light polka dot details.

I take my time getting ready, because I have plenty. I splash some cold water on my face and fix my smudged makeup in the bathroom mirror. I let my hair down, run a brush through it, and pin it up in a loose bun with a silver hair clip.

It's then that I notice my hands are shaking. When I look back at my reflection in the mirror, and feel the excitement in the pit of my stomach, I realize I'm nervous.

They won't tell me what they're up to; my brother tells me it's a “surprise”. But deep down, I think I know what's going to happen tonight.

For sixteen years, I've put on a good show – or at least I've tried. If I've learned anything over the past twenty-two days, it's that I haven't been fooling anybody. My best friend has been onto me for years; my coworker can see it in my smile; hell, even my boss, who knows nothing about my personal life, can tell that I have things going on. And if I stop to be completely honest, I realize I haven't been fooling myself all that well either.

I know I'm in love with him; and I know that if what I think is going to happen tonight happens, it will bring up things for me that I've been trying to push away for sixteen years.

But I also know I have to remember that it's all for show. We are playing a role. It's something we've been doing our whole lives – playing roles for our parents, being good trust fund kids and doing what our parents want. I should be used to it by now.

But this role is one that I'm not sure I can play much longer. Not without getting hurt.

I push it aside – both because I don't want to upset myself, and because I'm sure I've exhausted all twenty of my minutes. I don't even bother doing a final makeup check before I walk out of the bathroom. I only take a couple of minutes to look through the bottom of my closet, and I grab the perfect shoes, a pair of white peep-toe wedge heels – which happen to be one of the most comfortable pairs I own, too.

My “surprise” that is waiting for me isn't that much of a surprise – when I reach the top of the staircase, Lance is at the bottom, smiling.

“I was really hoping for a puppy,” I say with a smile – not forgetting that I'm still mad at him for the night he came home from the bar.

“One surprise at a time,” he says as I walk down. “You look good, Sarah.”

I glance at him as I approach him – like me, he's dressed a bit more casual than he would be at work, wearing a white button-down shirt with a black blazer.

“You're not so bad yourself,” I say. “Are you going to tell me what this surprise is?”

“No,” he says with a grin. “But I'll show you. Come on.”

He grabs my hand and pulls me away, through the door of the kitchen. As he walks me through, I see three men in white uniforms bustling around our kitchen, but he doesn't stop.

“Who are these guys?” I ask him.

“Don't worry about that. Come on.”

He pulls me past the men as they work, all the way over to the sliding patio door. The way he yanks on my arm – not rough at all, but with zeal and excitement – makes me laugh a little.

“Are you ready?” he asks as he stops me right at the door, his hand on the lever.

“I'm ready.”

Whatever I thought I was expecting when he pulled that door open, it has to be even more impressive. My eyes widen, my jaw drops, and my hands automatically fly up to cover my mouth.

It's getting late, so the sun is just starting to set. The sky is turning a purple-orange-yellow gradient, and casting a greenish-blue glow over the water. Twinkle lights are weaved through the lattice work and pillars that frame the porch area. A small cafe table is set for us, and another man in a white uniform is already there, pouring something into glasses for us.

“You did this?” I ask, turning to him a little.

He moves to stand beside me, his hands in the pockets of his blazer.

“We need a story,” he says. “Something to tell at the party tomorrow. I didn't think telling people we're being forced to live together for three months was the kind of romantic story that would impress people.”

“So you set all this up and even hired staff so we would have a good story to tell?” I ask with a smile, finally recognizing that the men in white uniform are waiters.

He smiles. “If it's worth doing, it's worth overdoing, right?”

I laugh, feeling a heat wash over my cheeks.

“I can't believe you did all this,” I say. “I didn't know you had a flair for the romantic like this. This is impressive, even for you.”

“There's only one thing left to do before we can enjoy it.”

He looks away from me and motions to the men who are working around us.

“Can you guys give us a couple minutes please?”

They nod, and without saying anything, they both retreat from the porch and go back into the kitchen through the patio door. The last one through the door takes the time to pull the curtain back, giving us complete privacy.

“I fought with myself for several days over how exactly to do this,” he says, turning back to look at me again. “It's supposed to be all for show, and it has to be good so it impresses your family and your dad's friends...but I don't want to ruin it for you with all that, you know? It should still be special.”

I knew it was coming, and I tried to prepare myself – but when he reaches into his pocket again and pulls out the box, the one I know has an engagement ring, I still get that feeling I dreaded.

“You're my best friend, Sarah,” he says, holding the box out to me. “We've gone through some ups and downs, but you still mean everything to me.”

I reluctantly take it when he hands the box over to me. My hands are shaking as I open it and see the ring.

“I could ask you to marry me,” he says as he takes the box from me and removes the ring. “But that just seems wrong if you have to say yes and play along with all of this anyway. I'd rather ask you something a little more meaningful.”

He grabs my hand.

“Will you be my best friend forever? No matter what we're going through, no matter where we are in our lives.”

He looks up at me, and my eyes meet his. It's not a dream marriage proposal, but from the way he speaks I have a feeling he planned it that way, and that's okay with me – because it's not the marriage proposal I dreaded. It's not the proposal I dreamed of for so many years, the one I had always hoped would come during better times. The one I had always hoped would be real.

Most of the dread and sadness I felt knowing it was coming has passed, but a tiny bit still remains. So I muster a smile and a slight nod.

“Of course I will.”

Chapter Eleven – The Present (Part One)

Sarah

“Sarah, come on! We have to go!”

“Hold your horses,” I mumble to myself.

My dress is on. My makeup is done. My hair is perfect. My diamond necklace almost rivals the one the old lady threw into the ocean at the end of Titanic. I'm just reaching up to put my diamond earrings into my ears, and it catches my eye in the mirror.

A ring. On my finger.

Up until last night, I hadn't really let it get to me. It was more of a joke than anything. You know, Oh, haha, look at us, we're “engaged”. Actually, the whole thing felt sort of childish, like the kind of thing the two of us might have done in high school to screw around with our friends. We totally would have done that.

But now that the ring is on my finger, even though technically I know it means nothing, it makes me look at myself completely differently.

The whole thing was actually very sweet. I had never really pegged Lance to be one for tender gestures of romance like that – the candlelight dinners, the slow dances, the proposal he planned. I guess for so long I got used to him being such a hard character. To me, he always seemed sort of like my father in that way.

In fact, in a lot of ways, he reminds me exactly of my father. With the one exception being that so far Lance hasn't tried to sell me as a possession, but that's neither here nor there. In all other ways, he is so much like my father. I have heard before that women tend to gravitate toward men that remind them of their fathers, and I had never bought into it given my circumstances – but now I think that even in the case of women like me with callous bastards as fathers, it might hold some salt.

“Sar-ah!”

I hear him yelling up the stairs impatiently.

“We've got an hour drive into the city and the party starts at eight. Your hair is fine, you look great – can we just go?”

I can't help but chuckle as I finally put the last earring into my ear.

“Chill your shorts, I'm coming!” I yell down.

“It's good to know that a swanky society ball can force the lady within you to show herself.”

I smile as I do one final check of my hair to make sure that all the bobby pins are securely in place and I won't have a mess of hair falling out halfway through the night. I know the agitation and snide tone he's throwing around tonight is caused by jitters – for some reason, he's convinced that my father will have him done away with. I haven't really figured this mindset of his out yet, and it's had me perplexed from day one. Even with all my father's misgivings, he's never expressed any bad blood toward Lance.

It almost seems like there's something I don't know, but that could be paranoia. After all, my father does stand at a good six foot and change, with a build that could take Lance down in one carefully-planned clothesline.

When I'm assured that everything is securely in place and nothing – hair or otherwise – will fall out of place unexpectedly through the night, I grab my silver clutch from my bed and leave the room, turning off my light and closing the door as I walk out.

“Don't have a coronary,” I say as I reach the top of the stairs, finally. “I'm ready now.”

He's turned away from me, all the way on the other side of the living room as if he's been pacing around waiting for me. He turns to me as he hears my voice, and I know he's prepped to say something, but then his eyes hit me.

The fact that he stops dead in his tracks and his jaw drops gives me quite a confidence boost.

“Holy crap, Sar,” he says.

“I'll take that as a compliment,” I say as I hold the fabric of my dress up to walk down the stairs. “You look quite good yourself – it's a nice touch matching your vest to my dress. I like it.”

He looks away from me to look down at the vest under his tuxedo, which is about the same dark blue of my gown, as if he's completely forgotten what he was wearing.

“Are you ready?” I ask him.

“Uh...yeah,” he says, grabbing at his keys.

“Let's jet.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lance

The night has barely begun, and I've already stuck my foot so far in my mouth that I'm about to choke on it.

Actually, that was about the reaction I had when she showed up at the top of those stairs. I knew she would look good, because she always looks good to me; but I guess I'm so used to her wearing simple blouses and slacks, or a demure dress for going to work, I hadn't quite expected her to come down in a gown that would knock my socks off.

But that's exactly what it did. She's wearing a dusty blue strapless gown that hugs her upper body tightly, but flares out in the skirt. She has a silver belt of some sort wrapped around her waist, and it's studded with diamond and sapphire gemstones. She has her hair curled and carefully swept up in a way that, as a guy, I can't even begin to understand how she's gotten it to stay that way.

The only other time I've seen her this way is the night of her sweet sixteen birthday party. And that's why I reacted the way I did when she came down the stairs.

It felt like I was sent back through some cruel wormhole, right back to another time and place to be knocked down a notch and reminded me that she's not now and will never be truly mine. And as we get closer to the city, I think that's what this whole party tonight comes down to. A cruel reminder that she's as untouchable to me as ever.

“Sweetheart?”

I turn and Sarah is looking at me, with the huge, fake smile she's been wearing all night.

“You remember Mrs. Laporte don't you?” She grabs my arm and nods her head towards the older, red-haired woman standing next to her. “She's the district manager of all the Staten Island branches?”

I smile and reach my free hand out. “Of course, it's great to see you Mrs. Laporte.”

The woman shakes my hand and smiles back. “James. I haven't seen you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper.”

Sarah squeezes my bicep with her hands and we smile at each other again. I think she can tell by the look in my eye that I don't remember ever seeing this woman in my entire life.

“I haven't seen your mother in years,” Mrs. Laporte says. “How is she doing, darling?”

“She's great,” I respond.

“Is she still teaching?”

The look on her face and the tone in her voice when she says it – with an empathetic, pitying attitude, almost peels the smile right off my face.

“She is,” I say, standing tall – if only for Sarah's sake. “Actually, she's taking a position as head of the English department at Thornhill this coming fall.”

“Oh, that's great. You know, I always did worry about her teaching at those other schools.”

Sarah looks at me, but makes sure to look away so only I can see the way her lips purse and her eyes almost roll. My family never did fit into this crowd, and both of us knew it. Even though my father is one of the best lawyers in the entire state, my mom was always “just” a teacher. Instead of working in a private school sector, she always chose to dedicate her time where it was needed more, at less privileged schools...the other schools.

Instead of letting it get to me, I smile and scrunch my nose.

“Tell me about it,” I say with a modicum of sarcasm. “I mean – the Bronx.”

I hear Sarah cough, but when I turn to check on her I suspect from the smile on her face it was only to carefully disguise a laugh.

“Your parents must be thrilled to hear about your marriage,” Mrs. Laporte says.

We launch into the act we've been feigning all night. Sarah turns back toward Mrs. Laporte with a big smile on her face; I grab her hand and give it a squeeze, making sure to modestly show off the big diamond ring for effect; and we briefly look at each other like we're the happiest couple in the world.

“We're all just...very happy,” Sarah says with that smile.

We could have been actors – we're just that good at this.

“Congratulations, to both of you,” Mrs. Laporte says.

After a few moments of, as Sarah has put it, hobnobbing with Mrs. Laporte, she looks away and looks back quickly and gives us a gracious exit when she sees her brothers with each other. After politely saying goodbye, she nearly drags me over to the side of the ballroom where they're standing.

“I thought you'd never get away from that pretentious old bag of stuffing,” Jude says when we're within earshot.

“This is the worst party that Dad has ever had,” Sarah says, finally having a chance to drop her society girl act. “My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. If I have to tell the story of how he proposed to one more person...”

“If I have to hear the story from one more person,” Calvin says, lowering his voice as people walk by. Then he looks at me. “No offense man, it's a wonderful story, but come on.”

“Are you kidding?” I ask. “If I have to hear her tell it one more time I might walk out. I don't know how you guys do this all the time.”

“Don't you think you guys are laying it on a little thick with the honey, sweetie, darling act?” Jude asks. “You aren't afraid that someone will see through it?”

“Oh please, these people are buying right into it,” Calvin cuts in. “All I've heard all night is 'Oh look at James and Sarah, look how happy they are, aren't they great together'.”

“Speaking of – where's Jackson?” Sarah asks, looking at Jude.

Jude looks away when she brings up the subject of his boyfriend for the last three years.

“Dad didn't invite him,” Calvin says quietly.

“What?” she asks.

“Not only did he not invite him, he told us that if Jackson showed up anywhere within the general vicinity he'd have security take him away,” Calvin says, nodding his head toward the area where Sheldon's hired hands would be guarding the doors.

“Why?”

“Apparently, we have a former Republican senator as a guest tonight,” Calvin says, not bothering to hide his distaste. “Very conservative, very old-fashioned...very homophobic.”

I feel Sarah's hand tighten around mine. Looking over at her, I see her cheeks reddening, even under her makeup.

“It's alright,” Jude finally says. “I have to be here because I'm family. It's par for the course. If Jackson were here, he'd be miserable. Maybe it's better that he's not.”

“You might be right,” Calvin responds. “Whatever Jackson is doing right now, it has to be better than this. If there's any cosmic balance, he's probably the happiest of all of us.”

Even though her brothers try to pass it off – and they're probably all too right that Jackson is better off sitting at home than being here, having to put up with her father and his friends – I can tell that Sarah is angry. She may be the baby of the siblings, but she's always been very protective of her brothers – especially Jude. Even from afar I've seen that she's had to put up with her father's mistreatment of Jude for the past five years.

“Hey, why don't you go take a break?” I ask, turning toward her slightly. “I'll hold down the fort.”

“I can't,” she says.

“Sure you can.” I pull her away, even though I know we have no secrets in front of her brothers. “Sneak out the back and sit in the car and take a breather. I know you need it.”

She visibly relaxes. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “Don't worry, I'll babysit your misfit brothers and make sure they don't get into any trouble.”

I pull the keys out of my tuxedo jacket pocket and hand them to her so she can unlock the door.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

“You're welcome.”

“I guess I should give you a goodbye kiss, so we look good, huh?” she asks, smiling.

“A big one,” I respond. “Knock the pants off these uppity assholes. In fact, where's that senator...”

I jokingly start to look around, but she reaches up and pulls me toward her by the neck. When she presses her lips to mine, I'm surprised by the affection she actually puts into the kiss. Her lips part slowly for a moment, but she breaks the kiss and looks into my eyes.

“I'm so glad you're here tonight,” she whispers. “I love you.”

I'm surprised when the words slip out of her mouth; that's the first time I can ever recall hearing her say 'I love you' to me.

“I love you too, Sarah,” I whisper back.

She smiles at me and brandishing my car keys, she walks away.

I take a moment to catch my breath before I take a few steps back over to her brothers, who are staring at me, not trying to hide their amusement.

“Who are you trying to impress again?” Jude asks me, lowering his voice. “Because you could have won an Academy for that one.”

“All for show, man,” I tell him. “All for show.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sarah

Lance was right – I did need a breather. I'm not sure it's actually doing me any good though.

I knew when I didn't see Jackson with my brother that something was up. They're almost always together. I had hoped that Jude had decided to spare him the torture of a Kennedy family party, but I should have known better. When something in this family is not the way it should be, it usually has something to do with Dad.

It always comes down to Dad.

Lance was right about that too. The moment we walked into the party and met up with my family, my father gave him the look. Even to me it showed that he'd rather wipe him off the face of the Earth than acknowledge his presence.

My mother, on the other hand, was a level beyond thrilled that I couldn't put it into words. She smiled the moment she saw him, and scooped him up into a hug that would welcome anyone into the family. Of course, my brothers were also thrilled to see him, since the three of them have been friends longer than him and I have.

But as always, my Dad is a different story. There is something there that I don't know; some secret between Lance and my father that no one has told me. It has to be bigger than a simple rivalry or a few unkind words that were exchanged. But I'm sure I'll never know. That's how it works in this family.

I'm startled out of my thoughts when I hear the car door open.

“Hey, you've been out here a while,” Lance says, peeking in on me. “Everything okay?”

I turn the accessory of the car over with the keys and when the dashboard clock lights up, I see that I've been sitting here for forty-five minutes.

“Sorry,” I say to him as he climbs in the driver's side and closes the door. “I've been thinking. Have you been talking to Jude?”

“Jude and your mother,” he says. “Since they'll soon be my in-laws and all.”

I elbow him, and he just laughs.

“Do you think everyone is buying it?” I ask.

“That we're madly in love and getting married?” he asks. “I don't know about your dad, but your mom seems to be. I think when we come clean we may have to get married anyway, so we don't break her heart.”

“Well, that'll kill Daddy for sure,” I respond.

“You know, if that doesn't do the trick, I can always drive you to Vegas to elope in my Ferrari,” he says.

I look at him and smile. “Oh my God, please don't tell me you still have that thing.”

He laughs. “Baby, you never get rid of a Ferrari. It's a Ferrari.”

“A shitty 1993 Ferrari with the ugliest paint job known to man.”

“That hurts,” he says, putting his hand to his heart.

“When I'm your wife, that's the first thing I'm going to do – make you get rid of that thing.”

I smile at him, but he looks away from me. I expected him to laugh at the joke, but his smile fades.

“Hey, what's wrong?” I ask.

“I just can't do it anymore, Sarah,” he says, his voice lowering. “I can't lie to you anymore. It's killing me.”

“Lie...to me?” I ask.

“When I was eighteen, I only loved two things,” he says. “That stupid Ferrari...and you.”

He pauses a moment before he looks at me.

“But you were only sixteen,” he says. “You didn't need to be sixteen and tied down to a boy, while I went away to law school and left you here all alone. You needed to be sixteen – date boys, make me jealous, break their hearts, get your heart broken while Calvin and I sat back and plotted where to bury the bodies.”

“What are you telling me, Lance?” I ask.

“I thought I'd come back after a summer or two, after you had graduated, and if you hadn't started dating anybody else, I'd tell you how I felt,” he says.

“You never did.”

“Your father is to blame for that.”

I narrow my eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“You remember the night of your sweet sixteen party?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You remember what happened that night?”

It's been sixteen years, but I can scarcely forget.

“I was wearing that horrible ballgown.”

“You were beautiful,” he says.

“I came down the stairs and there you were, waiting for me,” I say.

“I couldn't keep my eyes off you.”

I can't help but smile. “Later that night, we danced.”

“'I Swear', by All-4-One.”

“You've had all of that on your mind for the past sixteen years?” I ask.

“Sarah, you never forget the night you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with your best friend.”

I can hear myself suck in a breath of air.

“Your Dad must have sensed the air change or something,” he says. “He pulled me aside after that and told me if I ever touched you, you'd be the last girl I ever touched. That's the only reason I ever pushed you away. That's the only reason I never came back for you.”

“Why didn't you ever tell me any of this?” I ask, feeling angry.

“Because you didn't need this,” he says. “You didn't need to know that your father was doing things like that. You had enough problems with him as it was – you and your brothers all did. You didn't need me adding to it.”

I can't help myself. When I feel the anger rise inside my chest, it completely envelopes me. I barely hear Lance calling my name out while I'm opening the car door, closing it with a slam as I storm back into the dance hall.

I see him there, across the hall, chumming it up with a couple of other business men. I no longer care if it's uncouth or impolite, or if I'm going to cause a scene in front of all of New York society, my entire family, and all their pompous friends.

Betrayed doesn't even begin to describe the way I feel.

When I push him and he falls to the dance floor on his back, even I'm shocked at my strength.

“I don't believe you!” I scream. “You had my life planned out from the day I was born, and you've never passed up an opportunity to completely fuck it up!”

“Just what is the meaning of this, young lady?” he asks me.

His tone – God, it's like being put in front of a ruthless dictator. He just booms over you. His voice alone frightens you into doing whatever he wants.

But I'm done letting him rule over me.

“I could have had an amazing life,” I say. “I was in love. But it didn't fit into your perfect damn picture, so you used your power to ruin it all for me.”

I've earned a crowd, all of New York's highest class gathered around to watch the scorned Kennedy heiress assaulting her own father so they can gossip about it over tea tomorrow morning. My mother has taken to my father's side, helping him up from the floor, and I feel a pair of arms pulling on me.

“Sar, come on now,” Jude says.

“No, Jude,” I say, ripping my arm away from him. “I'm tired of it. I'm tired of living under his thumb. I'm tired of living under his rule, and I'm tired of him thinking he can dictate my whole life!”

I hear my voice reverberate through the entire domed hall and bounce off the walls. I'm screaming. And then Lance comes to stand in front of me, grabbing my arms.

“Stop, Sar,” he says. “It's fine. Just stop.”

“It's not fine!” If it weren't his arms around me, I'd push them away. “It's not fine at all! We loved each other. We were happy with each other. He ruined it! He ruins everything. He puts himself in the middle and he always ruins everything!”

Jude, Calvin, and Lance are all surrounding me, holding me back from my father even as I fight them. I don't even stop fighting or back away as my father starts approaching me.

“This behavior,” he says to me, his voice a low, angry growl. “It is not acceptable.”

“Your behavior is unacceptable,” I hiss at him, unable to control myself. “Treating me and Jude like dirt. Making our choices for us. Threatening the only guy I've ever loved. Setting me up to marry someone who only sees my worth in dollar signs because he's who you want me to be with.”

His eyes widen and he glances around at the crowd of his guests before he looks back at me.

“You haven't told the inner circle about that one, I guess,” I say. “You'd rather they believe that I'm the shame of the family. You'd rather them believe that than look down on you for the shame you bring to this family.”

“Leave,” my father says to me. “Now.”

“Gladly.”

My brothers throw their hands up in the air when I push all of them away from me, but Lance doesn't step away. He wraps his arm around my waist as I turn to leave.

“Get me out of here,” I tell him even as he's ushering me away. “As fast as you possibly can.”