The Boyfriend Collector Page 3

  I step into my khaki pants and pull them up. “Well, if it’s really nothing, then you wouldn’t have that sad look on your face.”

  Milly bobs her head slowly. “Your mother was special. It’s not easy to talk about her.”

  Special? “Like…brain-damaged special or extraordinary-person special?” Because as much as I wish she were alive, I can’t understand her. Not even after reading all her books about people, relationships, and love. The most I got out of them was a confirmation that the worlds she fantasied about were nothing like reality. That isn’t to say that I don’t love reading them. Romance novels are my escape. They always have been. But in the real world, princes don’t pop out of trees, sweep you off your feet, and whisk you away to castles. For me, it’s the other way around. I have to hunt down the prince.

  “The best way to describe your mother is that she was like a rainbow”—Milly looks toward the ceiling—“from the most beautiful dream. She could walk into a room and make death smile. She…” Milly shakes her head slowly. “She had a spark about her. You have the same thing.”

  “Me? I don’t know about that. I’ve always felt invisible.” Of course, that was just part of the con. I’ve been fed so many lies that I’m not even sure who I really am. Loyal. Smart. Hardworking. Too trusting. Yes, all those things. But beyond that? Where do the lies end? Where do I begin?

  Milly’s eyes toggle from side to side as if checking for stray ears. “You are special, Rose. And I adored your mother. Which is why I’m going to tell you to be careful. Watch your back,” she whispers.

  Huh? “What do you know?”

  “I have to go.”

  Before I have a chance to beg or plead, Milly has my red dress and is halfway out the door. “I’ll have my assistant deliver it by noon on Friday.”

  A shiver spikes through my veins. What does she know?

  Maybe she’s heard the rumors about my grandparents’ greed. Because while my grandma would have me believe I will inherit the estate on my birthday, the truth is there in Paragraph 10: Before my twenty-first birthday, I must be married to a suitable man of “good standing, breeding, and character” whom my grandparents approve of. “Approve” defined as someone they introduce to me or who meets their standards. Not that they have standards. Or hearts. But it doesn’t take a law degree to interpret what’s right there in black and white. If I’m not married, the full estate transfers out of the trust—currently managed by some law firm—over to my grandparents until they feel I am “ready for such a great responsibility.” My annual allowance of one million dollars will continue to be used at their “discretion.”

  Meaning, like the past twenty years, I won’t see a dime.

  Not of the allowance they’ve been squandering away since my birth—at their “discretion.” Not of the hundreds of millions belonging to the estate, including my mother’s book assets or the house.

  I know that’s not what my mom intended, but that’s how the will reads. It left my allowance in the care of my guardians. It’s how my grandparents have been able to syphon off my money to pay for private cruises and champagne. The kicker is, through the trust they were given another million to live off of and manage the property—staff, utilities, and upkeep.

  So that leaves two questions:

  First, why did my mother trust them so much? The truth is, I don’t know. She was a hopeless romantic who wrote about deeply flawed characters who find redemption in love. But those were books. Fantasies. In real life, why entrust your child to such coldhearted, greedy people? Did she honestly believe there was any goodness to be found inside them? She had to know what they were like. They were her parents, for fuck’s sake.

  Maybe my mother really was crazy. It’s what everyone says about her when they think I’m not listening.

  The second big question is how I plan to take it all back. This is why I went to see Dr. Bexley Hughes. The will states I must marry a “suitable” man, defined as someone my grandparents choose or approve of, before my birthday. The will also states that they must invite “suitable” men to my party. Therefore, under the terms of the will, if I marry any one of the invitees, I win.

  If only I knew who these guys are. But that’s why the party is so crucial. It’ll give me the chance to scope out the candidates. Then I’ll make a list and do a little research on each guy. Hopefully, I’ll find a few prospects I can trust, because my grandparents don’t know I’ve read the will, nor do I want them to. I have to keep my plan a secret until the very last minute, or they’ll stop me.

  That’s where Dr. Hughes was supposed to help. I pay him for five evening or afternoon sessions a week, he takes the money and says I’ve been at his office—in case anyone asks. Meanwhile, I’m really out on dates during those four hours (a one-hour session plus an hour and a half walking each way). To save time, I’ll leave the estate on foot, catch a cab down the street, and meet up with my date. I’ll do back-to-backs if I have to. If I’m lucky, my grandparents won’t know a thing until my twenty-first birthday, when I appear before the estate executor and show him or her my marriage certificate.

  I’m not going to lie; I know this is a long shot. The chance of finding a man I want to spend the rest of my life with this quickly is slim to none. But not impossible. People fall in love and marry all the time. And while love at first sight is rare, it does happen. So yeah, maybe I am asking for a miracle, but after everything I’ve been through, aren’t I due for one?

  Sadly, though, even if I succeed, it won’t answer my biggest nagging question: Why did my mother do this? Why the hell would she put me in the care of such sadistic assholes and then hinge my inheritance on getting married?

  Hell, she never married. How’s that for ironic?

  The more and more I think about this entire mess, the less it makes sense. And why do I feel like my nightmare is about to turn into something much worse?

  I pivot toward the full-length mirror in the corner of the pink room and see my cartoon self staring back.

  What the hell are you doing? she says to me. She knows I can’t win this. I know it, too. Still, she doesn’t want me to quit. She wants to be real.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning, I’m shivering from the frosty four-mile walk from my house when I decide to stop at that hipster café on the first floor of Dr. Hughes’s building. It’s actually a quaint little neighborhood—tree-lined sidewalks, twinkling lights in all the boutique windows, and people out walking their dogs. It’s the sort of neighborhood where I’d live if I get the choice. I could see myself being happy in a place like this.

  But today, I’m feeling raw and drained. Especially after that hour and a half walk. A small cup of hot coffee will, at the very least, get me through the morning. I can’t speak for what will get me through the afternoon when I get home and have to explain to my grandma why I changed my mind about coming back here so soon. I’ll figure something out. I have to.

  I step to the back of the line, and it’s a complete surprise when I find Bexley Hughes at the front, ordering coffee.

  “And how’s your morning going, Bex?” the girl behind the counter asks, fluttering her long lashes up at him.

  Curious, I watch his every move—posture, hands, the side of his face—to see just what sort of man he is. After yesterday’s yo-yo act of him kicking me out and then showing up to my house, I’m not sure. But I do know one thing: He’s married. Will he act like it? Is he a trustworthy, loyal person, or does he belong in the swamp with my grandmother and her avocado tracksuit?

  “Doing fine, thanks.” He hands a bill to the hot, young cashier. “Keep the change.”

  I closely watch one side of his lips. Will he show her a friendly smile, the kind a person might give a stranger as they board an elevator? Or will his eyes linger on hers for just a few seconds too long while his mouth tells her what he’s really thinking? Because a smile can mean hundreds, maybe thousands, of different things. A smile can be cruel if it’s in response to seeing s
omeone trip and fall. Smile at another woman while at dinner with your girlfriend and a smile can be betrayal. Smile across a crowded room at a stranger who catches your eye, it can be an invitation for sex. I’ve learned a lot about smiles from years of watching the staff and especially my grandparents. Their smiles mean be quiet, get back to work, don’t disappoint me.

  “Thanks, Bex,” the barista chirps, smiling.

  “Don’t thank me,” he says, “just keep studying.” He turns away from her and occupies himself on his phone.

  There’s a brief moment, before she greets the next customer, where her smile becomes stiff, revealing her disappointment. As for Bexley Hughes, I’m feeling encouraged. He completely ignored that girl’s come-on.

  “There’s hope for you yet,” I mutter to myself.

  “Rose?” Dr. Hughes’s blue eyes find me at the end of the line behind sleepy people on their way to work.

  Shit. Did I say that too loud? “Dr. Hughes, didn’t see you there.” My voice comes out higher and happier than normal.

  “I’m glad you made it.” He almost smiles at me. Almost.

  “Yep. I just stopped here for a…” I reach into my jeans pocket. Yes, the same jeans I wore yesterday. Same red sweater, too. Only, now my red heels are in my backpack, and I’m wearing my beat-up tennis shoes. And I’ve left my money in my sock drawer. This is so damned embarrassing. “I…uh…I’ll see you upstairs.”

  I walk outside, enter the small lobby just a few doors down, and hike the stairs to the second floor, where I wait. A few minutes later, Dr. Hughes appears with two cups in his hands.

  Oh, the shame. He has no clue how much I hate charity. It’s not because kindness is evil, but because my grandparents have taught me that nothing is free. Everything comes with strings attached.

  “No, thanks. I have a stomachache,” I lie.

  He holds out both cups. “I need two hands to open the door. The other coffee is for my assistant.”

  “Oh.” I take the piping hot cups while he digs out a key and pushes it into the dead bolt.

  We enter the small waiting area that has a few chairs and a coffee table covered with magazines—Atlanta Magazine, National Geographic, and something with a big golden retriever on it. There’s nothing notable or fancy about this room, same as his office.

  He closes the door behind me. “Of course, if you change your mind, Hailey will be happy to drink her usual Earl Grey.” His eyes flash over to a table in the corner, loaded up with paper cups, tea bags, and one of those electric carafes for heating water. “She’s not much for lattes given her latest dairy-free diet.”

  So the second coffee is for me. It’s kind of him, but I still hate charity. I hand him his cup and set the other on the narrow counter just outside the little receptionist window.

  “Rose, come on. She’s just going to throw it out.” His lips curl up at the edges. His smile says: You’re being rude.

  I sigh. “Fine. I left my money at home, so thanks.”

  “You’re very welcome. Would you like sugar? We have packets around here somewhere.”

  “No, thank you. I’m not much for sweet stuff.” I’ve become accustomed to a no-frills way of life, all part of my “thou shalt not ask for anything you don’t absolutely need” upbringing.

  He pushes open the frosted-glass door to his office, but I don’t move. Instead, we exchange glances for a long moment. Truth be told, I don’t want to go in there and face all of his questions, but I made a deal with him yesterday, and I am a woman of my word.

  “Ready to get started?” he asks, his voice even.

  I swallow hard, step past him, and go straight to the white sofa. He grabs his supplies from a cabinet in the corner while I sip away. It’s strong coffee, but I can’t remember the last time I had a cup that wasn’t cold, bitter, and from the bottom of the pot.

  “Mmm…” I exhale, savoring the nutty flavor in my mouth.

  “Good stuff, right?”

  I nod with my eyes closed. When I open them again, he’s seated in his black leather armchair. The firm gaze of his blue eyes puts me on edge.

  “Rose, I’m sure you know I have a lot of questions about what I saw yesterday, but before we dive in, I want to lay down a few rules. I think it’s important my patients know what to expect from me—should you decide you want to keep coming here.”

  “Okay.” I shift on the sofa. The anxiousness in my stomach isn’t mixing well with the coffee.

  “First, you need to know that you can trust me. I’m here for you and you alone.”

  Bullshit.

  “Second,” he says, “I demand complete honesty. If a patient isn’t game, then I’m not the therapist for them. That’s not to say if they’re uncomfortable about a topic that they have to answer my questions, but they do need to communicate. They need to tell me how they feel so I can dog-ear the topic for another time.”

  I bob my head. “So they can refuse to answer just as long as they tell you they feel uncomfortable.”

  “Yes.”

  Doesn’t sound so bad if I were seeking therapy. Which I’m not. “Anything else?”

  “My methods can be challenging for some, which is why I ask for obedience to the process, a leap of blind faith, based on trust and—”

  “That would be a deal breaker for me.” I don’t do blind faith, obedience, or anything in between. Not anymore.

  “How so?”

  “I don’t feel comfortable talking about it,” I retort to test his reaction. “You just have to accept that it’s off the menu.”

  He leans back in his chair. “Rose, I never ask for anything outside of what’s customary in a doctor-patient relationship. But if a person wants to get the most out of my sessions, they have to be committed to the process.” He leans forward, a stern look in his eyes. “I’m not here to nag patients to work hard and do the exercises, and I’m not here to sell anyone on my methodology. They’re either in or they’re out. Nothing in the middle.”

  I’m beginning to wonder why he’s making such a big deal. What is this process of his? I’ll admit it’s got me curious, but I have my own agenda, and it doesn’t involve therapy. I need his help to take back the life that’s been stolen from me.

  First things first, though; I have to be sure I can trust him. His father was the only person I’ve ever spoken to about my situation, but at the time, I hadn’t read the will. Now that I know everything, I keep kicking myself. Why didn’t I see the truth? Because it was sitting there, staring me right in the face all along.

  I guess the simple answer is that I never could’ve imagined what my family was hiding. Mostly how my grandparents funded their extravagant lifestyle—Rolls-Royces, a vacation home in the Bahamas, shopping for designer clothes in Paris—with money meant to feed me, clothe me, send me to a good school.

  All the while I went without. No friends. No semblance of love or real family. When other kids were out enjoying childhoods filled with memories of summer vacations at the beach or hot cocoa by the Christmas tree, I was with nannies and tutors. Sometimes I’d go months without seeing my grandparents, and now I know it’s because they were busy spending my inheritance.

  As soon as I was old enough, they started giving me chores around the property. That’s when the big lies started. I was Lana Hale’s daughter. On my twenty-first birthday, I was to inherit everything. Every dream I’d ever had would come true. But first, I had to learn to live without, as my mother had growing up. “Your mother felt it was important you know her roots, where she came from. She wanted you to understand our struggle before you inherit the great responsibility of her empire,” my grandparents always said. They once owned a small chain of grocery stores throughout the South and ended up going bankrupt when my mother was little. They lost everything and were even homeless at one point. But with determination, my mother climbed her way out of the mud and gave her parents a life they’d never dreamed of.

  I have to wonder if that’s the reason they don’t want to let go of
my money. If their lives were truly once as destitute as they claim, I’m betting they wouldn’t want to go back to it. But they wouldn’t have. That’s what kills me. My mother left them a hefty sum, more than enough for a comfortable retirement.

  But no, they want it all and are willing to lie to get it.

  The sad part is, I can’t ever get back what they really took from me: a childhood filled with love, compassion, and trust. Ironically, these are the things I am now in search of. Does such a man exist? I plan to find out just as soon as I get Dr. Hughes on board. Just as soon as I know I can trust him.

  “Why did you come to my house yesterday?” I ask.

  Dr. Hughes runs a large hand through his dark hair, which is kind of long on the top and curls up a little at the nape. It actually looks good on him—goes with his short, well-groomed stubble. Casual meets classic.

  I suddenly wonder what his wife is like. Is she his opposite—power suits and immaculate ponytails—or is she more of the Whole Foods, five-hundred-dollar-orthopedic-sandals type?

  And why is he just sitting there instead of answering my question? “You said complete honesty is one of your rules, right? I assume it’s a two-way street,” I say, pushing.

  He nods hesitantly. “Within the customary patient-doctor boundaries.”

  I’m guessing he means that parts of his personal life are off-limits—sexual escapades, details about his marriage, or his porn preferences. Every man has one, so I’ve read in Cosmo, which the cook always leaves around.