The Billionaire's Christmas Bride Read online

  “Hopefully I’m at least ice cream,” Grace sighed, winking at her. She was far too exhausted to argue.

  She tapped back into her office, wobbling slightly on her heels, and pushed the door closed with her back, easing down to sit on the floor. She still felt the hollowness from his refusal to go to the Nutcracker with her. Despite it being an off-the-cuff idea, it stung that he’d dismissed it so quickly, so nonchalantly. Would he ever want to spend real, quality time with her? Or would this marriage always be one of convenience?

  It would be a hard road, regardless.

  After several minutes of focusing on her breathing, recognizing the negative impact that this engagement was already having on her, Grace returned to her chair and finished purchasing the final few items for the wedding, without caring, really, if they suited her “style.” She needed to get this out of her mind. She needed all the particulars to be over.

  She sent Michael a brief text, telling him she’d finished the wedding planning.

  He responded with a smiley emoji, nothing more, and Grace flung her phone across the room, watching as it bounced against a couch seat and fell to the ground.

  She inhaled gruffly. Christina had said he looked at her differently than he had Helen. But in the small, selfish world he’d built himself, she was probably one of the furthest things from his mind. He had tunnel vision, focused only on profit, with no room for her.

  Could she really get married to someone like that? Was there any chance at all that he might change?

  TWELVE

  The wedding dress designer was named Claire Roux. Born in Paris, in the 14th arrondissement, she constantly bounced between French and English. She had such charm and other-worldliness that Grace could hardly look away; the older woman towered over her, with thick greying hair wrapped in an elegant up-do, an expensive-looking, plum-colored dress, and a remarkably thin waist, tied with a belt.

  She looked Grace up and down, considering her. “So. You’re marrying Michael?”

  “I am,” Grace answered tentatively.

  Claire sniffed. “He’s a fine man, for an American. He will take care of you.”

  “I suppose that’s all a girl can hope for,” Grace replied, holding her sarcasm deep within her. She almost choked on it.

  Claire whipped a drape from one side of her spotless studio to the other, revealing a large room of white wedding gowns of various designs and shades. She smacked her hands together, her eyes far away. “Allez…” she announced, her French accent strong.

  She bounded toward the dresses, pulling some of them from their hangers and tossing them toward Grace. She lifted each of them, shocked at the weight. Her upper arms ached as she set each one down. Was this some kind of metaphor?

  “Get undressed. Try this one on,” Claire said, snapping her fingers toward an off-white, almost taupe dress, with intricate beading and flower work on the bodice.

  Grace didn’t hesitate. Claire dealt in the business of women’s bodies. Perhaps, this time, Grace was actually a “piece of meat,” as Christina had said.

  She slipped her thighs from her jeans, feeling the coldness of the studio air, then stepping into the bodice and tugging it up, over her breasts.

  Grace caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection, then, and Claire hummed and hawed, pushing her first finger deep into her wrinkled cheek. “I’m just not sure,” she said. “I’ll be right back. Take a moment with yourself. I’m going to smoke.” She bounded toward the door, which brought a great gust of New York winter wind, causing cold chills to form over Grace’s slender shoulders.

  But she couldn’t take her eyes from her reflection. She twirled, feeling the fine fabric tickle the sides of her feet. She imagined walking down the aisle, tears streaming down her face. She imagined Michael seeing her and realizing, finally, that his passion for her was deep, and genuine. He’d tell her that, in actuality, this wasn’t a story of money. It was a story of love, and of fate. They were back together for a reason.

  As she stood, gazing at herself, Grace felt a sharp pang of regret in her stomach. She remembered speaking to her mother, nearly ten years ago, about what it would be like to go wedding dress shopping together. They’d imagined trying on dress after dress, running from the little dress shop in their tiny Maine town to the bigger mall in Bangor, where many girls bought their dresses before their big day.

  Back then, Grace and her mother, Cara, hadn’t imagined a world in which Grace would live all the way in New York. Grace hadn’t imagined she would spend nearly a year apart from all of them: from her father, Edward, and her three brothers. She was the “big city lawyer,” and the others—well. She’d left them behind. She hated thinking of it that way. But it was true. Terribly so. She shoved the emotions deep within her brain, so as not to linger. It was too upsetting.

  Of course, Grace hadn’t informed her mother about her wedding to Michael. She’d been spinning with such doubt, unsure if she was making the proper choice, unable to face her mom. Cara would feel unbridled happiness for her. Finally! A wedding!

  But then, almost immediately, she would feel sadness. After all, the wedding was taking place on Christmas Eve, which meant Grace wouldn’t make it home to hang out with her siblings, nieces and nephews, hug her parents, and bake Christmas cookies and watch cheesy movies deep into the night.

  Grace faced herself in the mirror, making soul-searching eye contact with herself. She was going to miss Christmas with her family, and all because she was embroiled in a sham marriage to a billionaire. She didn’t like Christmas all that much, sure. But this seemed like a step too far.

  She lifted her skirts and reached for her phone in her purse, almost falling to her knees with the weight of the dress around her. She dialed the familiar number, imagining her mother seated near the television, reading one of her books. Her heart brimmed with happiness, just hearing the warmth of the ringing phone. She felt like she was casting a line towards a ray of hope, of sunshine.

  But the phone kept ringing. And finally, after ten rings, Grace folded into the realization that her mother wasn’t going to answer. No one was home. Perhaps she’d headed to the store and gotten hung up with the cashier, gossiping. Perhaps she and Grace’s father had gone for a walk with the dogs, or agreed to babysit Edgar’s twins. At only 24, he was far ahead of Grace in starting and nurturing a beautiful family, and he wasn’t slowing down, with another baby due in April.

  Grace stared at her phone, her heart heavy. She considered dialing Marie’s number, now regretting that she hadn’t told her friend about the fitting. Marie had been distant ever since Grace had told her about the engagement, and her disapproval made Grace incredibly disheartened. And because she’d decided to go through with it, full steam ahead, she didn’t really want to listen to all the reasons why she shouldn’t.

  But God, she really wished she had a friend there. She felt so alone, wrapped in white fabric, chilled by the winter air.

  Claire hadn’t yet returned from her cigarette break, so Grace slipped from the first dress and donned another: one with a long, sleek, ivory-colored skirt, with lace that wrapped all the way up from her bust to her neck. This dress showed off Grace’s small waist and sculpted arms, and in the privacy of the fitting room, she posed like a model to admire it, sucking in her cheeks to lend herself some momentary cheekbones.

  A voice boomed from behind her, startling her.

  “Well, well. I have to say. You really do look the part,” Michael said.

  Grace whizzed around, her hair flying out behind her in a dark wave. She brought her hands to her cheeks, mortified that he, of all people, had caught her striking such a silly pose.

  Her words came out unevenly, with none of her usual, professional disposition. “Michael! Oh my— What are you doing here?” She reached for her coat and flung it around her shoulders, shivering with panic.

  “What do you mean?” Michael said, taking a step toward her. He was as devastatingly attractive as ever, with snow flecks upon his ch
eeks and lips. “I knew when the appointment was. I made it, remember?”

  “You aren’t supposed to see a bride in her wedding dress before—before the big day. Before I walk down the aisle,” Grace whispered, feeling foolish. That thought was for superstitious mothers, surely. Yet she felt strangely naked, standing before him in a dress she might well promise to love and cherish him in, for better or for worse; for richer, for poorer.

  “Relax, Grace,” Michael said, collapsing into a low chair near the window. “It’s hardly a proper wedding, right? Why should it matter if I see you in your dress or not? You look beautiful, by the way.”

  Grace turned red. She sighed, allowing her arms to collapse at her sides. Her coat fell all the way to the lacy finish at the hem of the dress. She felt like an American Girl doll, all dressed up with nowhere to go.

  “You don’t think it’s a proper wedding?” she asked, her voice hesitant.

  “We both know what this is, Grace,” Michael said. He slipped his hands into his pockets and drew out a small package of almonds. He dropped a handful into his mouth, clacking his teeth against them. His movements were callous, without regard for her emotion. “It’s a marriage of convenience. With time, we’ll hopefully become better and better friends. I was thinking we could take a trip to Greece this year, actually. Rent a boat, glide out to sea. What do you say?”

  Grace couldn’t speak. Her tongue felt glued to the top of her mouth. She sighed evenly, allowing herself a moment to daydream about a holiday in the Greek islands. She’d always wanted to see the sunshine dancing atop those white houses, stretched out over the rocky ridge of Santorini. But was it worth it, to marry into this sham?

  “Doesn’t that sound great?” he asked again, slipping the wrapping of his almonds back into his pocket. The sound crinkled in Grace’s ears.

  Grace bent at the waist, then. She began to breathe rapidly, hardly able to catch enough oxygen to stay upright. She felt tears race down her cheeks, slipping down her chin and her neck. She let out a single sob, the sound echoing through the studio.

  Michael hurried toward her and wrapped his arms around her, almost on instinct. Grace lifted her head and nestled it between his shoulder and his chin, shaking with sadness. She heard Michael’s voice as if it came from far away, as if she was having a terrible nightmare and he was trying to wake her.

  “Darling. What’s wrong?” The words sounded easy in her ears, but they caused her to cry even harder.

  Grace was inconsolable for a full five minutes. During that time, Claire entered the studio once more but immediately walked out again, slamming the door closed for another cigarette as she yelled a reminder not to ruin the dress. She wasn’t going to deal with that mess.

  Finally, Grace found words. “I just don’t know what we’re doing here,” she whispered between gasps. “I think I could really like you, if we tried to make this work. But a marriage just for money, just for convenience? That sounds horrible, Michael. It makes me feel like I don’t even recognize myself in the mirror.”

  Michael wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, making her feel secure, safe in his embrace. She swept tears from her cheeks, careful not to get any makeup on the designer dress, and she blinked several times, watching as her words registered in his brain.

  “I see,” he finally spoke. Grace could almost see the mechanics behind his eyes, calculating some kind of fix for this problem. “Well, I have an idea.”

  Grace wanted to protest. How could he possibly fix this, when at its core it seemed like a problem of his being unable or unwilling to love her?

  “Just hear me out,” Michael said quietly.

  He brought her at an arm’s length, gazing into her eyes. His were the same dark eyes from their youth, the ones Grace had fallen for, all those years before. She nodded, almost imperceptibly. She would listen.

  “What if we went away to Vermont this weekend?” he asked. “We could go back to that café. We could walk the streets where we first met. We both know they’re using the same Christmas decorations this year as they did then. It probably looks just like our memory of it.”

  “I can’t believe they keep it up, every single year,” Grace sniffed, feeling a grin form between her cheeks. “It’s what they live for.”

  “I suppose it is the last month of winter that they can even see each other. After that, Vermont is buried in snow. People can’t leave their houses.”

  Grace couldn’t help but laugh. “You wouldn’t have liked Maine,” she said. She wiped the last of her tears from her cheeks, scarcely able to believe her luck. Her heart swelled, almost too big in her chest.

  “Clearly, we were both meant to be here, in New York, so our paths could cross again,” he told her. He lifted his lips to her forehead, then, and gave her a soft kiss.

  Grace didn’t know how to feel about it, but the warmth of the kiss descended through her veins, down her chest, through to the tips of her feet. She heard herself agreeing to go with him that weekend, absolutely: if only because the city was obviously making her crazy.

  “Just look at these tears,” she sighed, chuckling at herself.

  “It’s a date,” Michael said. “Now, I think it’s time I gave you and Claire some space. She gets angry if she isn’t allowed enough time with her clients. And you don’t want to make Claire angry.”

  He gave her a wink, then, and bounded from the room. Grace was left alone once more, but her mood had shifted. She was filled with something she hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

  THIRTEEN

  That Friday, Grace stepped into Marie’s office, bidding her partner goodbye before she headed to Vermont. She was surprised when Marie peered at her with interested eyes, not dismissing the talk of Michael, as she normally did.

  She dropped her papers on her desk and stood, hesitating, before speaking. “He wouldn’t take you on this type of trip if he didn’t feel something for you.”

  Grace hadn’t quite allowed herself to follow any hopeful thoughts to this big, exciting conclusion. She’d felt Michael’s kiss upon her forehead at the studio, and she’d been flooded with reckless emotions, so similar to her eighteen-year-old self. But she knew hope was dangerous, that it would ultimately cause heartache.

  But here, she had a confirmation, from her best friend. Maybe it was really happening.

  “I don’t know,” Grace shrugged, minimizing. “He wants to go to the same café we went to when we first met. It all sounds a little too romantic to be true, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s a cliché upon a cliché, sure,” Marie laughed. “But it’s oddly beautiful. I think you should go with it. You never know, maybe you two did everything backwards: first engagement, then real love. I’ve definitely heard stranger stories in Manhattan. It’s a terrible place to find love, by all accounts.

  Grace bowed her head, her friend’s words tingling in her ears. Before she could answer, her phone buzzed in her suit jacket. She lifted it, noting that it was nearly time to leave; Michael was sending a car to pick her up and deliver her to the airport.

  “Is that him?” Marie asked, tapping the end of her pencil upon a stack of papers. The eraser bounced high with each impact.

  “Yep,” Grace sighed. “I guess I better be off. You have everything wrapped up here?”

  “I’ll call if the building burns down. But only then.” Marie winked, sliding back into her leather chair. “Run off now. Fall in love if you have to. The city will go on without you.”

  Grace grabbed her overnight bag from her office and sped down the elevator, her every cell sizzling with anticipation. She spotted the limousine immediately, beneath the grey sky and falling snow, and she slid into the back, holding her hands out to the heating vents and piping a brief. “Hello there! I’m Grace,” to the driver.

  The driver didn’t respond, only nodded briefly.

  They sped away, through the Manhattan traffic and out to Newark airport, where, she’d been told, Michael awaited her. As they drove, Grace wrapped her f
ingers around her knees. Her eyes darted out the window, catching every stunning Christmas display window in the homes they passed, with their trees, their tinsel, and their hope for a better, brand new year.

  The limousine dropped her off at the terminal, and the driver, still unnamed, waved goodbye before speeding off toward the highway. As she watched him go, Grace heard her name called from the doorway.

  She turned daintily upon her heels, feeling like a ballerina, and found herself staring into the dark, blissful eyes of Michael. Her gut began to flutter with desire.

  Grinning broadly, Michael slung Grace’s bag over his shoulder and offered her his arm. “Hello, darling,” he said.

  “How do you do?” she said, biting her lip.

  “Are you ready for the trip of a lifetime?”

  “You sound like my dad, when he was trying to get us to go on this trip to begin with,” Grace laughed. “He had no idea what he was getting himself into. An entire weekend with two hyperactive twins and one sulky teenager, in the one of the coldest states in the union.”