The Grand Pact (The Grand Men #1)(41)

I step toward the bed, where a large, rounded box is sat in the middle of the duvet with a smaller parcel gift wrapped beside it. I lift the lid of the bigger box and gasp.

It’s filled with roses—red roses, just like the one I was given at reception.

I slip the card from the inside of the lid and tear it open.

Not a thing, Princess.

Happy first day of living your dream.

I’m so proud of you.

Elliot xx





My eyes burn, and I cast my gaze to the ceiling to try and cut it out.

I read it again.

Not a thing.

He wouldn’t have stopped it either. That’s what he’s telling me.

What does that mean?

I place the card on the bed and sit down to open the smaller box.

Removing the lid, I try to control my laugh as it mixes with my surprise. Wrapped up in silk are two shiny silver balls, a remote control nestled between them.

“That motherfucker sent me balls.” I laugh, feeling crazy as I look around at the flowers which clutter the room, the box clutched in my hand.

I’m not sure I can even make it to the bathroom if I tried.

What am I going to do with them all?

I want to call him, but it’s gone seven here, and I don’t want to wake him if he is already in bed.

Princess: Are you up?

Princess: Thank you for the flowers

Princess: I love them

I don’t get a response.

With time to kill before I can get to bed, I start to arrange the flowers so that I can move around my room. When that doesn’t work, and I conclude that I have far too many—no matter how beautiful they are—I should spread some love.

I grasp up two bouquets—because it’s as much as I can manage—and head out of my room and into the city.

People stare at me as I struggle through the street with the ostentatious arrangements, and I smile the whole time, knowing that they’d be mortified if they saw my hotel room.

This isn’t the half of it.

I still have no idea what I’ll do with all the flowers, but the fact Elliot sent them makes my stomach do crazy things.

I find a busy corner and don’t overthink it. Placing the flowers at my feet, I look around and try to figure out who needs a little pick-me-up.

I sure as hell needed one after my first day.

For a good five minutes, no one makes eye contact with me. In fact, they go out of their way to avoid me.

I contemplate what the hell I’m doing.

Maybe I’m high on plant fumes.

I just want to make someone smile today—just like Elliot has done for me.

“Excuse me,” someone says, huffing as they scuff their leg against one of the boxes. The woman trips but carries on.

I mutter a sorry and cringe as I pull the box back an inch, feeling like I’m in the way.

I lift my eyes to see the woman stalk off down the street.

Everyone is in such a rush.

I pull a rose from the box and run after her. “Excuse me.”

She doesn’t turn. No one does. But I can’t stop now; that would be even more mortifying than this shit show I’m currently living at my own hands.

“Excuse me,” I say again, close enough to touch her arm.

She spins and removes her earphone, frowning down at me in annoyance.

“I’m so sorry I tripped you with my box. Here.” I hold out the rose to her, feeling unbelievably silly and small as she casts her eyes over it.

“I don’t want that.”

“Oh.”

“Why would you presume I did?” she asks, her feet settling on the pavement as she gives me her full attention. “You’re British?”

I smile. “I am. And I had some flowers delivered for my first day at my new job and thought I’d give some away.”

She looks over my shoulder and then down at me, scrutinising me with her hardened gaze. “You’ll never make it in this city.”

And then she turns and walks away.

My heart jolts at her hurtful words, and although I know better than to listen to someone who doesn’t know me, I can’t help but feel a pang of insecurity over hers.

Today was hard, but nothing I didn’t expect. I want to do well. I know I can do well. But am I naive to think I can do it in a city I don’t know?

New York City.

I head back to the boxes of flowers. People look down at them as they skirt around them, probably wondering why they are left in such an awkward spot.

I start to pick them up.

This was a stupid idea.

I should’ve stayed in my room and not bothered with bringing them out here.

The flowers seem heavier as I walk back through downtown Manhattan, and I consider ditching them when my feet remind me of the day they’ve had. Of course, I don’t, and when I spot a sign for a chapel on the next street, I put them through a little more work.

“Never heard of a dead person saying no to flowers.” I smile as I turn on the balls of my feet and head in the opposite direction of my hotel.





St Paul’s Chapel sits on a small imprint just a short walk from my hotel. I spotted the building when I was out with Maxwell on Sunday, but we were on our way back from a day-long tour, and neither one of us was feeling up to stopping.

It seems almost deserted at this time of evening, and I slip through the open gates and make my way around the path of the small graveyard.