A Convenient Arrangement(37)

“Turned out okay. Ordered Chinese food, hung out, it was good. Very good.” Renley sniffed at a bush covered in snow.

“Gotcha. You’re welcome to bring her—I mean, we’d love to meet the woman who actually has you cooking a meal.”

“Right.” Leo shook his head. “Um, no. Too soon.” No way Gwen would arrive at Aubrey and Justin’s on his arm. Who knew where this thing between the two of them was headed, but he was pretty damned sure, based on everything she’d said, that she had no desire to out them to his family yet. “Not sure I want to overwhelm her with everything Travati.”

“Fair enough. You know where we are if you change your mind.”

They said their good-byes and Leo touched the red button on his phone. Renley waited before him patiently. “Cold, buddy? ready to head back?” Renley turned toward the high-rise and started to walk.

Taking Gwen to Aubrey and Justin’s as his date would change the dynamic just beginning to build between them. He knew this thing with Gwen wasn’t one of his disposable convenient arrangements, but what was it? He didn’t want to lead her on. Gwen meant too much not only to him, but also to his family, some very scary members of his family who would utterly kick his ass if he broke her heart. But he wasn’t like Anthony and Justin. Leo’d never pictured rounding out his life with a wife and children. Sure, he could maybe imagine himself in a committed relationship, but marriage? And kids? No way. Not a life he wanted. What about Gwen? What did she want? He and Renley jogged across the street toward his building. What the hell? Today was too soon to think about commitment and relationships and kids. He turned the corner and the doorman pulled open the front door.

Get through one date, one weekend, a couple of nights before worrying that they were on different pages as far as the future was concerned. He slid onto the elevator and pressed the button. That he even considered the word future where a woman was concerned was a pretty drastic change. Not his usual MO. He leaned forward and patted Renley’s head. No, the only thing he wanted to think about right now was getting Gwen, having lunch, and spending the rest of the day wrapped in her arms.





Chapter 11




“No, Mother, absolutely not! Cipriani won’t do. I must have the Grand Ballroom at The Plaza. Grandmother was married there, you were married there. How can you possibly think another venue would be adequate?” Milan crossed her bony arms and stomped her foot.

Gwen sat next to Mrs. Vanderpelk at the dining room table, its surface covered with look-books and samples all produced by Milan. Well, collected by Milan and produced by Ramona, the Vanderpelk’s housekeeper. Monday meetings with Milan and her mother weren’t fun. In fact, with Milan already stomping and whining more than a year in advance of the wedding, they were barely tolerable.

“You must get the Grand Ballroom for me.”

Must? A tall order, as the Grand Ballroom at The Plaza was often booked two years out. Some prestigious families booked the room twenty-four years in advance for their newborn daughters, simply assuming, or willing to take the chance, that the baby would be ready to wed by that date over two decades later.

Mrs. Vanderpelk took a soothing tone. “Darling, I can try, as can your aunt. But here’s the thing with a place like The Plaza—it’s simply not about the money. What about the weekend before or the weekend aft—”

“No!” Milan slammed her hand on the table and Mrs. Vanderpelk shuddered. “That doesn’t work for Jefferey or for me! The anniversary of when we met is that exact Saturday. It must be that Saturday and it must be at The Plaza.”

Must. Must. Must.

A weary look passed over Mrs. Vanderpelk’s face as she turned toward Gwen. “We will do everything in our power to make Milan’s desires for her wedding a reality. Can we move forward as though we have The Plaza? Continue the planning?”

“Absolutely.” Gwen nodded. Please let Milan’s mother be present at every consultation. Mrs. Vanderpelk was difficult in her own right, but the woman was much closer to sane and reasonable than her daughter. “Could we begin with the dress?” Gwen glanced at Milan, who still stood stiff and angry at the end of the table with her arms tightly recrossed, glaring at her mother.

“We could”—Milan narrowed her eyes at Mrs. Vanderpelk—“if mother hadn’t pissed off Karl.”

Mrs. Vanderpelk waved her hand dismissively and shook her head. “Darling, Karl hasn’t designed a wedding gown in years and he isn’t going to start now.”

“He would if you asked.”

“I did and he won’t .”