Page 121 of Eight Count Heat
"Welcome to Lockwood Manor," Gray says dryly. "Try not to be too impressed."
But I am impressed, despite myself. The house that emerges from the trees is stunning—a massive stone and timber structure that manages to be both imposing and elegant. Warm light spills from dozens of windows, and the circular drive is lined with expensive cars.
"Other guests?" I ask, noting a silver Mercedes and what looks like a Bentley.
"The Kincaids, plus probably my aunt and uncle. My parents like an audience for their matchmaking attempts."
As Gray parks, I take a steadying breath. The heat is building again, a familiar warmth spreading through my system. I can manage it for a few hours. I have to.
"Ready?" Gray asks, though he makes no move to get out of the car.
"Are you?"
He looks at the house, then at me. "With you? I think I can handle anything they throw at us."
The confidence in his voice steadies something inside me. I reach for the door handle, then pause.
"Gray? What happens after tonight? Between us, I mean."
He's quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands on the steering wheel. "I don't know," he says finally. "But I know I want to find out."
It's not a declaration or a promise, but it's honest. More honest than I expected from someone as controlled as Gray Lockwood.
"Then let's go charm your parents," I say.
"Let's go give them hell," he corrects, and this time his smile is sharp enough to cut glass.
As we walk toward the imposing front door, I realize that whatever happens tonight, whatever this thing between us becomes, I'm not facing it alone. And for the first time in years, that doesn't terrify me.
It excites me.
chapter THIRTY-FOUR
Reese
Gray's family diningroom is a monument to old money—mahogany table that could seat twenty, crystal chandeliers, oil paintings of dead Lockwoods watching from gilded frames. Tonight eight of us gather around it: Gray's parents, his aunt and uncle, Katherine and her mother, plus Gray and me. The kind of room designed to intimidate anyone who doesn't belong.
Too bad for them I grew up in rooms just like this.
Atlanta's elite taught me the rules of engagement early. Every word calculated, every gesture observed, every social misstep filed away for future ammunition. I spent two years trying to escape this world, but sitting here now, I remember why I was good at it.
There's something thrilling about going to war with people who think their money makes them untouchable.
"So, Reese," Harrison Lockwood says, cutting his filet with surgical precision. "Gray mentioned you're from Atlanta. Which part?"
The opening salvo. Geographic positioning to determine my place in the social hierarchy.
"Buckhead," I reply smoothly, taking a sip of wine. "My family has been there for three generations."
Gray's mother, Helena, perks up with genuine interest. "How lovely. Which neighborhood specifically?"
"Tuxedo Park area," I answer, watching as both parents immediately recalculate my worth. Tuxedo Park means old money, established families, the kind of connections that matter in their world.
Across the table, Katherine Kincaid's perfectly manicured fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around her wine glass. She's beautiful in an untouchable way, blonde hair swept back in sleek waves that frame her face like a magazine cover.
"Reese," she says, her smile as sharp as her voice is sweet. "Such an unusual name. Is it a family name?"
"My grandmother's maiden name," I reply easily. "My father is James Callahan. Perhaps you know him from the legal circles?"
