Page 3 of Stick to the Deal
Am I crazy? My brother certainly thinks so. Montague is more than happy to play polo and live off the family name. He’s told me more than once I should do the same. Hell, as the oldest, I have more reason to stay home.
I’m thirty-four years old, and I’ve never had a job. All of my money is from my maternal grandparents. I want something that’s mine. Something I built with my own two hands. Something... meaningful.
Twenty minutes later, we finally arrive at my hotel and I shuffle through the lobby, still deep in thought.
We’re in good shape. True, media, especially publications, is an incredibly competitive industry. Daniel and I have done our homework, though. We’ve identified a clear gap in the market and are working to fill it with an extremely conservative and risk-averse plan.
Feeling a little lighter, I hurry to run a bath to soak my aching feet while I consider room service. A crime in NYC I know, but there’s no way I’m heading back out for takeaway. Even if they’ll deliver to the lobby.
My cell blares from the desk. With a wistful glance back at the steaming water, I limp into the main room to answer.
“Reginald, you need to come home immediately. I’ve had Foster book you the first available flight, but it’s not until Monday.” Leave it to Edward Bancroft, Earl of Silverbrook, to jump straight to the punchline. No ‘hello, son. How is your trip going?’
“Whatever for, father? Is mother alright?”
“You’re getting married.”
I couldn’t have heard him correctly. “Pardon?”
“It’s time you do your duty by this family and marry. We’ll arrange it all when you arrive.”
Bloody hell, I did hear him correctly. My legs give out and I sit on the edge of the bed as my heart pounds in my temple. Through gritted teeth, I ask, “And to whom am I getting married? Have you already picked my bride?”
“Don’t be cheeky, boy. You can choose the young lady. As long as she’s rich.”
“Rich?” I snort. “Why the hell does she need to be rich? The Silverbrook holdings are vast. How much money does one family need?” The silence is loud. “What did you do, father?”
“Don’t take that tone with me. I’m still the bloody Earl of Silverbrook, and you will show me respect. Just a spell of bad luck,” as in bad luck at the gambling tables I’d wager, “but we can fix it with your marriage exactly as we’ve done for generations.”
My jaw aches from grinding my teeth to physically hold back words I long to say. Words a proper British son would not.
He must take my silence as obedience, because he continues on. “Luckily, there’s a top matchmaking firm with an office in New York. Foster has engaged them for a list of acceptable brides. They’ll send a dossier over to your hotel and you can review it. When you arrive at Silverbrook Hall, have your final candidates selected and we’ll take it from there. This is happening, Reginald, or sohelp me, I will disown you and ensure the title goes to your younger brother. Monty would be delighted, I’m sure.”
I hold the phone in my hand long after my father has disconnected. It’s not lost on me, I’m always Reginald where my brother isMonty. The sound of rushing water penetrates my mind and I rush to shut off the still running bath before it overflows. I’m certain my father would have something to say about those damages.
Rolling up my slacks, I hiss as my aching feet touch the steaming water. The edge of the tub is cool under my ass, but it does little to distract me from the cyclone of thoughts in my head.
Marriage.
It had to happen eventually. Raised the heir to an earl, I never had illusions of marrying for love. Even in this modern day. At least he’s letting me have a say in my potential bride rather than a blind arrangement. The timing is so bad. Daniel and I could actually make our idea work. I don’t need the distraction of courtship, negotiations, and wedding arrangements. I need to be focused on networking, staffing, and logistics.
By the time the water turns tepid, I’m no closer to solutions. There are still two days before my life sentence. That’s two days to focus on my fledgling business with Daniel. The dossier can wait for the flight home. What else am I going to do with seven hours?
Resigned to my fate, I decide to mourn my loss of freedom with a loaded pizza and scotch.
Chapter 3
Pastry in the Park
My sunglasses slip down my nose as I strut down the empty streets. Well, empty for New York City, anyway. Sunday mornings bring a strange mix of folks out. There are the brunch goers in a variety of fashions and social standings rushing to cafes to gossip over mimosas and Bloody Marys. The working class scrambling to open shops and stalls. Wide-eyed tourists, snapping photos and staring at the skyscrapers overhead rather than where they’re walking. And my favorite, the walk of shamers who own the raccoon eyes and rumpled clothes in hand. Chin high and strutting like they’re on some couture runway. You go, girl.
Even at ten a.m., the streets echo with the sounds of horns and trucks bouncing over construction plates. Every corner features a trendy restaurant, gallery, or boutique. It is a city of artists and my heart swells as I breathe in the talent. Ugh. And the constant smell of piss and garbage.
As Grandmama always reminds me, everything comes at a price.
My smile fades at the thought of my grandmother. Refusing to dim my last day in the city, I take a sip of my iced chai and take the final turn to Bryant Park. This is my favorite spot to eat alfresco in the city. I can read, work, or people-watch all while enjoying a delicious panini or giant croissant. Everything about this place feeds my soul. From the modern turquoise glass skyscrapers, to the ancientwhite marble of the New York Public Library. The hard bronze busts and the soft dripping periwinkle wisteria. It is an absolute delight to the senses.
So why does a photographer like me live in a small town in central Florida instead of this bustling hub? I come here for commissions and to refill my creative battery, but my heart lives in Friendship Springs with my family. Well, not technically family. My only blood relation lives in England. I’m talking about my two best friends, Brianna Chance-McLeary and Annabel Bennet. They are the sisters of my heart. Photography gigs keep me traveling a lot, but missing them always brings me home to Florida.
