The Inheritance Test, page 15
She reached for it automatically. It was a diamond ring, an absolutely beautiful ring. A gift and a promise. The kind of sparkle that all the best dreams had.
“Say yes?” her dream man asked, looking up at her.
Her mouth wanted to blurt out “yes” and get right on with the business of happily ever after, while her heart helpfully offered a list of all the reasons that was the best-ever plan. One: he was so strong and sure of himself. Two: he fought for what he believed in and she loved that that included her. Three: he kept his promises and he didn’t let go. Or was that four? And five... He was a charmer who had fought his way to the top and who now wanted to share his life with her. He gently rubbed her fingers, waiting patiently.
“Declan,” she whispered. A camera shutter clicked somewhere.
“I love you,” he said, his eyes serious. “Marry me. Yes?”
She nodded. He slid the ring on to her finger.
The crowd whooped and the band burst into a new song, an ad-hoc wedding march. She’d had no idea a brass band could do that.
Fireworks exploded overhead spelling out: SHE SAID... YES.
At least someone had added the ellipsis, as if there had been a chance she would say no. Would they have skywritten a refusal? She choked back a hysterical giggle, but Declan was on his feet, wrapping his arms around her and swinging her in a dizzying circle as he whooped. All he had time to do was plant a brief, hot kiss on her mouth before their audience moved in to congratulate them.
Later, after they’d spoken with what had to be almost every person on the island, she found herself face-to-face with J.J., Declan’s father. He fit easily into the Vineyard’s celebrity crowd with his expensive haircut and tailored pants, his white dress shirt rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. Money was just the polish, she realized, as he held out his hands to her. The man radiated power and authority, a confidence stemming from years as a Hollywood power player.
“Welcome to the family.” He pulled her in for a brief hug.
Charlotte wasn’t a fan of casual hugging with people she didn’t know well, but it was easier to embrace him quickly and then step back than to refuse. She’d have a lifetime to get to know him. Her heart started beating hard and fast again, pounding out an oh God, oh God, oh God rhythm with each frantic pulse.
“You’re absolutely perfect,” her future father-in-law announced. “I approve.” She didn’t think he was looking for her agreement, so she smiled and leaned into Declan, not sure what to think. Perfection wasn’t her strongest selling point.
“Well, thank God for your approval,” Declan said dryly.
“You chose the better prize,” his father continued. “Sure, you lost the boat race and we’ll get around to discussing that later, but this lady right here? She’s everything I’d expect from a Masterson bride-to-be.”
Charlotte had no idea what he was trying to convey to Declan. What, exactly, was she perfect for? She felt as if she’d stumbled into a conversation that had started long before she’d arrived. Maybe Declan’s dad was just weird or lived in the nineteenth century when parental approval was actually a thing. Maybe J.J. needed to feel like he was the center of attention. She didn’t need to have the conversation now, not when she was getting married—married—to the man she loved. Suddenly the whole evening was too overwhelming.
“Can we get out of here?” she asked Declan, leaning more heavily on him.
“Anything you want,” he said firmly, the smile fading from his face. “Always.”
Eighteen
The large, decadently chocolate muffin on Charlotte’s desk looked lonely. It needed a muffin best friend or two—or possibly a cast of friends like a TV sitcom, because she planned to eat her sorrows. She held her hand out. “Muffin me.”
A new muffin landed in her outstretched hand. Bran, from the grainy texture. “Are you kidding me?”
“Friends don’t let friends muffin alone,” Gitty said. “Plus, there’s only one chocolate muffin left and my day has sucked.”
Gitty gave her a small smile. Brown curls bobbing, gray eyes warm with sympathy, she waved a plastic knife at the chocolate muffin she held in her other hand. “But I’m willing to be convinced to go halfsies if it’s an emergency.”
Uh-oh. Sharing—the sad details of her day or the muffin—was not part of today’s plan.
“Waiting for a life update,” Gitty prompted.
Charlotte took a bite of muffin. Unfortunately, no amount of delicious sugar and chocolate chips could help her. “There are reporters outside. I’m never leaving the building again.”
“Like one of those medieval nuns who live in a cloister?”
Charlotte had no idea if it was a thing or not, but it sounded good to her. “I’m going to give it my best shot. I’m pretty sure you can get everything delivered these days.”
“You may need to dig a moat,” Gitty offered. “There are a lot of reporters. Also, they like muffins and I charged them double.”
Timma, the Martha’s Kids’ staffer who had volunteered to do reconnaissance behind enemy lines, popped her head in the door, knocking on the frame as she did so. “Six reporters out front.”
“Crap,” Charlotte said. “Okay. Company meeting in here, please.”
Three minutes later, she, Gitty and the three staff members were crammed into her tiny office.
“Why are there reporters out front?” Thea asked. Barely five feet tall, fifty-something Thea ran their office like a benevolent dictator. Not only was she a spreadsheet whiz, but she always crocheted something for each office birthday. She also had an uncanny knack for ferreting out secrets.
Charlotte looked at her.
“Okay, so we all know,” Thea admitted. “But we figured you’d rather tell us and we’d rather to hear the George details from you anyhow. Go straight to the source.”
Charlotte fiddled with her muffin and tried not to angry cry. Timma reached over and stole a bite of muffin.
“George didn’t quit,” she said. “He emptied my bank account, then he emptied Martha’s Kids’. Our summer camp budget is currently ten dollars. We’re broke because of the chief financial officer I hired. I’d hoped that the charity boat race would refill our coffers. I failed you all and I’m deeply sorry.” Hope is not a strategy, her father’s voice announced in her head. Thanks, Dad. I’m aware of that.
Timma choked on the muffin. Thea cursed. And Mimi just looked like she might be plotting murder. Charlotte had never loved them more.
Gitty raised her hand. “Do you think George came here deliberately to meet you?”
What did it say about her that that hadn’t occurred to her? She’d just assumed he’d romanced her to gain her trust after realizing she was the director. “So my entire relationship was a hunting expedition?”
“I think you should consider the possibility.” Gitty handed Charlotte another muffin. “Banana chocolate chip, so it counts as a serving of fruit.”
Gitty had a wide-eyed look of wholesomeness that was totally at odds with her lack of a filter and boisterous enthusiasm for life. Gitty didn’t stop at one muffin if she was still hungry and wanted a second, and during their middle school days she’d taught Charlotte how to drink out of a glass soda bottle without getting her tongue stuck, shared her hot pockets and called out the playground bully, who had decided Charlotte’s old-fashioned name begged for some ugly nicknames.
“So what happens now?” Thea asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” Charlotte said honestly. “But I’m on it. I’ll keep you all in the loop. I do know that the district attorney is filing charges and law enforcement is officially looking for George so they can arrest him.”
Timma frowned. “Will he have to give back the money?”
“If he still has it, yes.” Charlotte paused. “But I’m guessing he didn’t take it just to have it.”
That was the cue for everyone to start talking at once, discussing George’s potential shopping list. Thea voted for real estate because every evil villain needed a private, gated estate, while Timma wondered if he’d invested in cryptocurrency. Gitty was sure he must have a secret gambling problem.
Charlotte knew he had a character problem.
She, on the other hand, had a PR problem. After Charlotte’s team had left, with Charlotte’s repeated promises that she was doing everything she could to fix the problem and that their jobs were secure, she and Gitty scrolled through the social media postings. The big Hollywood gossip sites had run the story about how the famous movie star’s brand-new fiancée was facing a career-ending audit as to why and how her previous fiancé had run off with almost a million dollars. There were the not-unexpected speculations: that Charlotte was in on it and just waiting for her chance to relocate to Belize or Fiji; that a brokenhearted Declan had fled to his Hollywood mansion and the arms of not one but three of his former costars; that he’d broken it off between Charlotte and him because loving her plain-Jane self was a clever PR move to whitewash his dented reputation.
“So you broke up with George—and congratulations on that, by the way,” Gitty said. “And then you upgraded and dated a movie star.”
“George left me,” she pointed out.
“Details. You would have dumped him when you confirmed he was an ethics-less asshole. But since you didn’t tell your team here about George’s actions, I have to ask. Did you tell Declan? Or is he finding out right now?”
Charlotte looked out of the window to where Gitty was pointing and tried not to panic. Because she was right. Declan had just pulled up and the reporters were all over him—and no, she hadn’t told him. She’d wanted to fix her mess before confessing.
“I just found out two months ago and then I had a chance to make up the shortfall if I won the charity boat race and I took it.”
“So that’s a no on sharing with him.” Gitty patted her hand. “But honey, the thing is—people share with their friends. Their family. The ones they love. And if Declan is all of that for you, why couldn’t you tell him?”
Someone knocked on the door, saving her from yet another non-confession.
“I’d bet the last muffin that’s your Prince Charming rushing to the rescue,” Gitty said and nudged her. “I’d recommend letting him in.”
Since that seemed like as good a plan as any, Charlotte got up and went to the front door to let Declan in. He didn’t look happy.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked.
Charlotte had no idea where to start, but Gitty didn’t have that problem.
Staring intently at her phone, she said, “Because she was busy freaking out. And also, isn’t this at least fifty percent your fault?”
Charlotte had no idea what Gitty was talking about, but she appreciated the support. Mostly. She did not, however, want an audience for this conversation with Declan.
Ignoring Gitty, Declan met her gaze. “I’m not George Moore.”
“Neither is she,” Gitty said, undeterred.
Charlotte froze and tried to get her mouth to work. She had to say something because this was her conversation to have, her and Declan. It didn’t matter how much she hated confrontation or confession, particularly when she was the one in the wrong.
Gitty didn’t look up from her phone, but she didn’t hold back, either. “Uh-huh. You had to know this was coming. You let those people out here get their morning-after pictures. You let Charlotte walk into this. No one would be staking out the parking lot if you weren’t a freaking Hollywood star.”
“If I’d known that embezzlement charges were about to come out, I would have handled this differently.”
“Right,” said Gitty slowly. “But would you have skipped the proposal altogether?”
Declan and Charlotte both turned to stare at her. “What?”
Gitty held out her phone. Charlotte took it, heart sinking as she scrolled down the screen. Unflattering morning-after pictures of her post–boat wreck? Check. Additional morning-after picture of her not so sneakily leaving Declan’s place? Check. Pictures of him leaving her place? Yep. Worse than the speculation about their sex life, though, was the newest headline.
Hollywood Bad Boy Signs Good Guy Contract?
She had to read the story twice before the truth started to sink in. According to “reliable sources,” Declan had made a deal with J.J., a bargain where he traded his good behavior and rehabilitated public image for the family film company. The gossip site suggested that the well-timed, highly public proposal to a wholesome, plain-Jane local girl had been intended to seal that deal and paper over a night of debauched, post-wreck sex. You chose the better prize, J.J.’s voice echoed in her head. She’s everything I’d expect from a Masterson bride-to-be.
She put the phone down and looked at Declan, who said the three words that killed a relationship faster than anything.
“I can explain,” he said.
She really wished he would.
He’d said she was perfect, but maybe she should have asked him for a list of reasons why. Hurt twisted her stomach into a hard knot and slammed her stupid, hopeful heart into her ribs as tears smarted her eyes.
“These are angry tears,” she told him. “I cry when I’m mad.”
“Charlotte, look at me.”
She did, because apparently she could make a greater fool out of herself. He met her gaze, the expression on his face pitying.
“Oh my God,” she said. “It’s all true, isn’t it?”
“For fuck’s sake,” he growled. “You can’t think I proposed to get a film studio.”
“That would be a dowry first,” Gitty said. She stood up, grabbed her phone and headed toward the door. “Right. I’m leaving now.”
Charlotte waited until she was sure that Gitty had let herself out and the door had closed behind her. Given the way her life was going, she didn’t want to risk a reporter sneaking in and accidentally-on-purpose overhearing their conversation.
“Did you actually have a contract with your dad about inheriting Masterson Entertainment?” The media lied. Exaggerated. She knew that.
He scrubbed a hand over his head. “Yes, J.J. and I had a deal in place before I came to Martha’s Vineyard. You don’t have to worry about it. It’s over and done with and it was between him and me.”
“We did this too fast.” She felt numb, which was probably a good thing. “The engagement was a mistake.”
We were a mistake.
He wasn’t who he’d said he was. Or rather, his reasons for pursuing her weren’t what he’d claimed. She’d thought he wanted her for herself, but instead she’d been a means of sealing a deal with his father.
“Charlotte, please listen to me.”
“Maybe you should tell me what you were thinking. Why this made sense to you.”
She grabbed her tote bag and started shoving things into it. Her laptop. A random stack of papers from the desktop. The muffins.
“You were never window dressing, Charlotte.”
On that point, she agreed with him. “Well I don’t look like window dressing, now do I?”
Or wait, maybe she did? She scrolled through the article again. A good guy contract. J.J. had made it perfectly clear—in writing, no less—that Declan needed to rehabilitate his public image. And what better way to do that than by falling in love and serving up a fairy-tale wedding? She wasn’t going to do this a second time.
She yanked at his ring on her finger. “Take this back.”
“I can explain,” he said again.
Handsome, charming George hadn’t bothered with explanations. He had been, she’d realized too late, the center of his own world and she’d merely been a useful appliance, propping up his public image and making it easier for him to do whatever he wanted. And while Declan had only stolen her heart, she couldn’t do it again. She wouldn’t be the window dressing for someone else’s life so that that someone else could live his dream life.
She held out the ring. “I won’t live in a fishbowl and I won’t be a convenient choice.”
Declan locked eyes with her. “Believe me, there’s nothing convenient about you. Talk to me.”
That hurt. “I won’t be the cheat sheet on your inheritance test.”
“So that’s it? One piece of bad press and you’re done with us?”
“No,” she said. “One hard piece of truth and I’m done with us. It’s not what they wrote, although it hurt to read. It’s that it’s the truth, Declan. You made a deal with your dad and you never shared that with me. You had so many chances to say, ‘Hey, my old man will turn over the family company to me if I turn over a new leaf.’ You should have told me.”
“And you should have told me about George, about the problems at Martha’s Kids.”
She set the ring down on the desk. “I didn’t want you to think I was anything less than perfect.”
“Right,” he said. “How’s that working out for you? Ready to admit that you need help and to let someone get close to you?”
She looked at him. “If I am, that someone won’t be you.”
Then she turned and walked out of the room.
Nineteen
Don’t let someone who isn’t worth your love make you forget how much you’re worth.
If he can walk away from you, let him walk.
Forget what’s gone.
Or who.
Charlotte glared at her phone. She’d discovered in a late-night, ice-cream-fueled binge internet session that Declan was back in California and that people actually made breakup apps. Since anti-dating seemed like a smart plan, she’d downloaded one that flooded her screen with inspirational quotes at suspiciously opportune moments, as if it could telepathically sense her weakness, which would have been a neat trick for a bunch of bits and bytes or whatever it was software apps were made of.
