The Grand Pact (The Grand Men #1)(131)

I need to tell him about what happened at the house, and the longer I don’t, the more uneasy I feel about it all.

“Lucy, did you need anything on the order? Chelsea is sending it out in the next five.”

I turn to find Tanner standing at my back. “Yeah, I put the Post-it on her desk yesterday.”

“You did?”

I frown, thinking back. “Yep.”

“Huh.” He goes back to their office but reappears at my door after a couple of minutes, his face screwed up in the signature bitch squad way. “They won’t have these fabrics.” He holds up the Post-it. “Chelsea doesn’t appreciate you wasting our time when you know what’s available to us already. You’re not new anymore.” He sticks the note to the door and stalks out of my office.

I close my eyes and count to ten in my head, not wanting to snap.

I’ve always kept my cool in these situations—the need to be professional far more important than stooping to their level.

I know it’s what they want.

Rolling back my chair, I stand and untack the Post-it from the glass. Then, I walk across the hall and into their office.

“Knock knock.”

The three of them give me a bored look.

When I realise I won’t be greeted with anything more, I walk forward and place the order in front of Chelsea. “I phoned ahead and had the fabrics preapproved. I’ve been watching the supplier for a while to secure them. They’re actually for the Pernel designs.”

She looks up at me when she realises the fabrics will end up back in her hands.

Her project.

“I’d love to see the campaign work out for you, Chelsea. I thought these would really give it an edge.” I tap the top of the note and then walk from the office.

Internally, I’m giving them all a massive middle finger.





I slide into Scott’s car at the end of the day, feeling defeated. My feet ache, I miss home, and I’m so hungry I feel sick.

“Rough day?”

I think about my problems.

“Just a long one,” I reply, keeping my positive head firm.

Every day I cross out another number that sees me one step closer to being home. I need to get the next 206 days done, and then I can start my life in London again.

“Have you eaten?”

“If you offer me food right now, Scott, I might cry. I think I’m a little hormonal.”

“Montgomery told me you have a love-love relationship with food,” he remarks, tapping a finger on the steering wheel.

“He knows me too well.” I smile. “Years of coming home from nights out and making him cook for me, I guess.”

“Do you want me to stop somewhere?”

He looks over at me, and I nod appreciatively.

206 days.





Three weeks later


Snow started to fall in New York City this morning, making me smile my first real smile in days. I’m walking back from lunch, my hands bundled in my coat pockets and my face half-submerged in my scarf, when I spot Scott’s BMW parked and empty across the road.

I pull my scarf from my neck and dig in my bag, looking for my phone to text him.

“Lucy.”

I lift my head, finding him walking out the doors from Almendo.

“Hey! Is everything okay?” I ask, wrapping my arms tight across my chest to keep warm.

He nods, but it’s not in answer, and his eyes are full of something I can’t place.

“Luce—”

I hate that feeling. When you know the person in front of you is about to tell you something that will tear a little piece of you away forever.

I swallow and glance around the street as my heart starts to strike my chest. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

He drops his head, and I stare transfixed, waiting. “I ended up going out to Ralph Mendes home when you said you couldn’t get a hold of him.”

I shake my head as my face screws up.

“Lucy, I’m so sorry.”

“Oh.” Sadness floors me, and I fight hard to stay on my feet.

“This was found at his home.” He hands me an envelope. “I jumped through hoops to get this in your hands.”

“It’s open.” I frown, trying to control my emotions.

“I don’t think it was ever sealed.”

I blow out a shaky breath, and as I look up, I see a client walking toward the office doors.

“Shit, I need to clean myself up. I’m going to go speak to Monica, see if I can leave early.”

“Of course. I’ll be right out here.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, walking backwards quickly into the reception and towards the bathrooms.

I slip inside and pluck three tissues from the counter.

The door to one of the cubicles opens, and Chelsea steps out. The second she sees my tear-stained face, she tuts.

I blink twice as she pumps the hand wash, her eyes flicking up at me.

I’m still in shock.

“Seriously, we’ve tried speaking to Monica about it, but clearly no one is going to say anything, and I’m just about done with the waterworks. You can’t walk around with your tail between your legs every day, expecting people to feel sorry for you, Lucy. And honestly, after your absence last month, I don’t understand why you’re here.”