I hadn’t just liked Grace. I had been in love with her. Even though she was planning on taking my money, I still wanted her back in my life. Our relationship had felt so real. It had felt like she cared about me, not just in a superficial sense, but in the way that she wanted to dig in and make me a better man.
My mother was passed out on the sofa when I arrived home. I preheated the oven and popped the plastic container in to cook while I tried to figure out what I was going to do about Grace.
I liked who I was when I was with her—waking up early, taking my business more seriously, not going out partying every weekend. Being with her, having her not just in my bed and my home but in my life, had felt so right, like that was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Maybe I had jumped to conclusions. Maybe I had gotten it wrong. Was I really about to trust Addison over Grace? Maybe this was all a big misunderstanding. Grace had never lied to me before, after all. She had always been brutally honest.
I cracked open one of the beers and leaned against the kitchen counter. The kitchen was starting to smell delicious, like cheese and garlic. It smelled like that time Grace had made lasagna for me. All the work she had put in, hand-making the pasta. Would someone really go to all that trouble just to land a billionaire? It just didn’t make any sense. Grace didn’t seem to be the type.
“I need to write her an apology letter,” I decided. “And ask her if we can discuss this rationally.”
The timer beeped, and I slid the meal out of the oven.
I huffed out a laugh. This was probably the first thing I had cooked, well sort of cooked, since I had moved into this penthouse.
I didn’t bother with a plate, just dug out a steaming bite. I blew on it and shoved it in my mouth. It tasted amazing. It tasted like…
“This tastes like Grace’s lasagna.”
I took another swig of beer then another bite. It was her lasagna. I knew Italian food, and this tasted just like the dish Grace had made several weeks ago.
Maybe it was a sign that I needed to make up with her.
“Wait a minute. What the fuck am I saying?” I said, cold logic kicking in.
I grabbed the Stouffer’s box, the sick realization hitting me that Grace truly was a liar.
“She fed me frozen lasagna and pretended she had made it from scratch.”
It was the last straw.
I dumped the whole thing in the sink.
Screw what the Svenssons had said. I would not tolerate this.
* * *
Grace wasfive pieces deep in an extra-large pepperoni pizza when I stormed off the elevator at her office.
“Get out!” she screamed when she saw me. She picked up a packet of gummy bears and threw it at me.
“Ouch!” I yelled as the package hit me in the face. “Why do you throw so hard?”
“Because I haul around fifty pounds of camera equipment!” she shrieked at me. “Because I work for a living and don’t have free time to lounge around in my boxers and no shirt and spin up insane conspiracy theories about the people who care about me.”
“You don’t care about me,” I snarled. “You’re lying. You’ve always been lying from day one.”
“No!” she yelled, shoving the pizza box aside. “Youhave been lying! You lied about everything!”
“So you thought it was funny to write that article?” I yelled at her.
“It wasn’t funny, it was cathartic!” she screeched. “You drive me crazy!”
“Is that why you passed off frozen lasagna as your great-aunt whatever’s famous recipe?” I spat at her. “It was all part of your plot to get one over on me.”
“Grace,” Elsie said in disappointment. “I gave you a recipe.”
“It was too hard!” she wailed. “You had to hand-make the sausage, and Chris came home. He was hungry, and it was going to be another four hours, and I burnt the tomato sauce! I couldn’t serve him burnt lasagna!”
