Page 8 of Stick to the Deal
While flipping through profiles of old schoolmates and acquaintances, it hadn’t honestly occurred to me how barbaric this was. How cold. Sterile, even. Is this all I am?
The ding of the call button draws my attention. Bancroft, who is waving down the attendant, has turned a bit green. The perky blond arrives at his elbow in a moment, all teeth and eager eyes.
“Scotch.” Bancroft turns to me. “Another mimosa?” There’s no judgment in his eyes, if anything, he almost seems... supportive? Well, as supportive as a stranger can be.
“Better make it a vodka.” I’ll need something stronger to get over this twist.
“Double,” we say in unison.
The attendant’s eyes pinch in confusion as they dart between us briefly before she rushes back to the galley. We sit in charged stillness until she returns with our liquors, lingering at Bancroft’s elbow and staring at us. “Will there be anything else?” She’s probably wondering what our connection is.
I shake my head no. Normally I’d be worried about gossip getting back to Grandmama, but right now I have bigger issues. The silence is thick as we both nurse our drinks.
“So...” The man clears his throat, still looking lost as he stares into his drink.
“So, apparently we’re a match.” My sharp tone drips with sarcasm.
“Why do you need a matchmaker?” he asks baldly. I arch a brow at him and he has the grace to wince. “Apologies. That came out badly. You’re a beautifulwoman, seemingly from a good family. Why haven’t you found someone on your own?”
“As in, what’s wrong with me? I could ask you the same.” He grunts and takes another swig of his scotch. Sarcasm and dry wit won’t help me through this one. If he’s in that damned folder we’ll most likely be running in the same circles.
Taking a deep breath, I modulate my tone and try again. “My family has always been clear on their expectations of me and my future partner. I bought a decade of freedom with the promise to marry by thirty. I’ve been focused on my career instead of looking for a husband. A matchmaker seemed like the fastest solution.”
His brows pinch again. “Fastest? How long do you have?”
“November.” I toss back another gulp and wince as the vodka burns down my throat.
He whistles. “Nothing like leaving it to the last minute.” He plucks the paper from my numb fingers and scans the page. “What kind of photography?”
“Mostly portraits. I was in New York for a shoot for Time. Freelancing lets me pick and choose my assignments, but I travel up to fifty percent of the month.”
“The rest of the time you are in London?” His eyes are serious as they study me.
“Florida, actually. My grandmother has an estate in Surrey, but I spend as little time in England as I can manage.”
“Do you object to England in general, or Surrey in particular?” His lips purse, eyes still glued to my sheet.
The question catches me by surprise. I inspect the planes of his face, trying to read him, but for once my gift fails me. Rolling the dice, I go with honesty. “Surrey in particular, I suppose. It’s less about the geography and more about the company. I find society’s expectations stifling.”
“Hence the no-Suzy-homemaker requirement. You would prefer to keep working.”
Annoyed, my fingers snake out and grab his profile from in front of him. “What is this? The Spanish Inquisition? Two can play this game, Colombo.” As I scan his name, my lips quiver. “Reginald?”
His face is thunderous to match the stormy eyes. “Don’t start. It’s a family name, after my grandfather.”
“Ok, Reggie.” I’ve never understood the appeal of the broody hero type before, but his glares are definitely amusing. “No job, aristocrat hobbies... and a title. You’re a trust fund kid. So what? Looking for your future trophy countess to continue the line?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and I have the strangest urge to touch it. Seems I hit a nerve.
“Overseeing my family’s charitable contributions isn’t simply a hobby. Yes, I have an inheritance from my grandparents, but it’s not funding my lavish lifestyle, if that’s what you’re thinking.” A sardonic brow raises as he stares into the amber liquid. “Like you, marriage has been the farthest thing from my mind. My father has decided its time for me to marry.” As he salutes me with his drink, he mutters under his breath. It almost sounds like “and no one goes against the earl.”
I hum in condolence. “How long do you have?”
“He needs a name by the time I land.” Those gray eyes meet mine with a swirl of emotion.
The vodka I’d just sipped burns my throat and the back of my nose as I gasp, choking. A warm hand rubs my back as another shoves a water bottle into my hand. “Thank you.” I wheeze a few more times. “So, what are you looking for? Besides, not crazy, that is.”
Reginald sighs. “Preferably someone who isn’t high-maintenance or hunting for a title. Someone I could hold a conversation with over the dinner table. Contrary to what you think, I don’t particularly enjoy the high life. I suppose it’s too much to hope for a partner in all this.”
