Page 14 of Stick to the Deal
I may have been infamous at boarding school—missing curfew, photographed with French bad boys—but nothing about my life was dazzling. It was rather lonely. The truth is, I wasn’t close with any of the girls. Some, like Aubrey and Eloise, were friendly in passing, providing pleasant but superficial relationships. Most, though, were cruel. Refused to accept a sad girl who was too different. Too American. Too weird. Too scandalous.
“You can’t be traveling all the time. Where have you been hiding for your home base?” Eloise’s eyes are bright, her smile genuine.
“The states, mostly. New York and Florida.”
The prissy blond opens her mouth, but I’m saved by the committee chair calling for everyone to take their seats for the auction winners to be called. Serena glides off to a table with two middle-aged women seated with heads angled close, watching her approach. Aubrey and Eloise say their goodbyes with air kisses and promises of plans soon.
I glance down at the last item, a one-week stay in a private Swedish villa. The current high bid is none other than Miss Serena Wentworth for a thousand pounds. I quickly scrawl my name and double her price.
Am I that petty?
Fuck, yeah, I am.
Gliding back to my seat, the first genuine smile of the day stretch my cheeks. Not even Grandmama’s calculating gaze as they call the winners can dim it.
Chapter 9
Pride and Appetites
The amber liquor in my crystal glass sparkles in the low light as I hold back another sigh at the older man’s story. Another dull evening with my parent’s circle. A circle that feels increasingly like a noose. Would this be less painful with my bride-to-be here? The smokey liquid coats my tongue and my lips smirk against the rim as I think of Nic.
I’ve always found society a bit too much. Too loud, too tiring, and well, too people-y.
It’s all a big game. There are set rules and expectations. Standard moves and strategies for success. Everyone generally agrees on the end goal—money and power. But at what price?
What good is money and titles if you are trapped in a life you didn’t choose?
What if your definition of success doesn’t comply with standard conventions?
“I say, Ravenscourt. You are quite the spitting image of your grandfather.” Mr. Ashcroft would know, they grew up together.
I shake the reflections from my head and try to pick up the threads of the conversation. No sooner do I grasp what Mr. Ashcroft is saying than the trill of a smoky laugh distracts me, bringing my thoughts back to Nic.
There’s something effortless about her. As a rule, I don’t engage people, but on that plane I couldn’t help myself. After that first unexpected laugh she wrestled from me, Iwanted more.
Making small talk, even with my family, has always been difficult for me. My palms sweat, my heart beats a little too fast. With Nic though, the words come easy. On the flight and over coffee, the conversation flowed effortlessly. In the time since, I’ve even found myself texting with her, a meaningless stream of quips and observations.
I may have spoken with her more in the last few days than Daniel.
The butler calls us to the dining room to sit for our meal. Throwing back my scotch, I repress a sigh and follow behind the crowd into the antique room.
A table of dark wood the size of a small swimming pool dominates the room with six chairs on each side. Candlelight flickers across the crystal and china. Intricate white molding twines across powder blue walls and ceiling. A massive modern painting hangs over a marble mantle, providing a much needed pop of this century in the room.
I take the spot with my name scrawled in elegant font and stare down at my setting. Mentally amping up for the verbal dancing ahead. The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I feel eyes on me. From the corner of my eye, pink frothy skirts flutter as a woman takes a seat to my left. No, she’s not it, the feeling is coming from further down the table. I search and find sharp green eyes staring at me under even sharper brows.
The woman is a stranger to me, yet there is something familiar in the set of her mouth and angle of her jaw. White hair is artfully curled to frame her face. She must be near Mr. Ashcroft’s age, and although her face is lined, she is still quite beautiful. Or she would be if she wasn’t sneering at me. Well, as close to sneering as one gets at a social function.
What did I do to earn that sneer?
A huff draws my attention back and I happily shift my focus away from the dragon in silk. My neighbor struggles to control her voluminous skirts as she attempts to pull closer to the table. Decades of conditioning kick in. I rise to my feet and step behind her chair. “Allow me.”
She grabs the material and performs some complicated fold movement to shove them under her thighs as I push the chair in further. “Thanks.” The lady turns to me with a grateful smile before dropping her rich voice. “I thought this damn dress was going to swallow me whole there for a minute.”
Choking on a laugh, I take another look at her face, hazel eyes filled with mirth meet mine. “Nic? What the hell are you wearing?” I try to keep my expression neutral as I scan her more closely. Her striking hair has been pinned into someplaited twist deal. The dress is layers and layers of pink tulle, from her shoulders to her ankles. It’s frilly and poofy and completely hides her gorgeous figure. Nothing like her usual style of bold colors and straight lines.
Ok, I may have Googled her.
What? If we’re going to sell this marriage, I need to be thorough.
