Page 10 of Dating His Brother

5

Dawson

Iwas working in my studio one afternoon, enjoying the bright sunlight bursting through the open windows—excellent light for painting. But I was interrupted by a knock on my door. I crept over to the door, trying to peek through the hole to see who it was—worried it might have been my landlord coming to berate me some more over the late rent.

“Open up, you old scoundrel,” my buddy called out from the hallway. “It’s just me.”

“Pete! This is a surprise.” I beamed, opening the door to usher him in. “What kind of fresh hell are you here to lure me into today? Must be something big from the looks of it.” I eyed him up and down, seeing he was dressed to the nines in his tux.

“Oh do I ever have a treat for you,” he winked. “Go shower and put on a nice suit. We’re going to a ball, my friend.”

“A ball?Psh.” I scoffed.

“No, really. It’s the social event of the year. I’m going and you’re going with me, whether you like it or not,” he argued.

“What’s the occasion for this ridiculous ball?”

“Some big dating app is touting a rich single chick as their big bachelorette,” he explained. “Every rich eligible bachelor in the city is going to try and win her over.”

“Sounds like a shit show to me,” I grumbled, wondering why the hell anyone would willingly participate in such a thing.

“It sounds like a big party, for free, with lots of good contacts and money all crammed into one room,” he retorted.

“I don’t know, Pete,” I winced, turning my attention back to my painting. “I’m in a good flow here and not really feeling social. Especially if it involves those kinds of people.”

“Listen, this chick is smokin’ hot and she’s desperate enough to find a man that she’s going along with this whole thing,” he told me. “If nothing else, it will be fun to see all of those drooling idiots lining up to fight over her. It’s like trash reality TV, but playing out right before our very eyes while we sip champagne.”

“I don’t watch trash reality TV, even if it is playing out in real life.”

“Dawson, you’re coming,” he insisted again. “Come on, man. Think about it. There will be other women there who will be awfully jealous and insecure that they’re not in the spotlight of all this fuss. They’ll be desperate for an ego boost and will be taking home random men left and right. Most importantly, everyone there will be filthy rich. We’ll snag some rich women to be our patrons and support our lazy, starving artist asses.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, a smile creeping across my face. “You may have a point there,” I admitted, coming around to the idea. “How are we going to get into this thing anyway?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out two invitations, waving them before my eyes. “Don’t ask me how I got them. Just take it from me when I say I had to pull some serious strings. Now go clean up and put on a tux or whatever you have. Cinderella and all of her rich friends are waiting for us at the ball.”

“Free drinks?” I asked, raising a brow.

“All the champagne and Cristal and expensive brandy you can stomach,” he winked.

“Well why didn’t you just say that from the beginning?” I teased, taking off for the shower.

An hour later, I was dressed in my only tux and heading to the ballroom of the big local museum with Pete. There was a line of limos out front with a red carpet stretched out between them and the big front doors. Photographers snapped photos of the more notable guests on their arrival. When Pete and I approached the carpet, they stopped and talked amongst themselves long enough to confirm that no one knew who we were. And if we were nobodies, there was no reason to take our pictures.

“Fine by me,” I shrugged, heading up the stairs.

The ballroom was exactly what I imagined. Immaculate, glossy marble floors spread out under my feet, and big chandeliers dangled overhead. Men in their tuxes milled around with women in evening gowns, draped in sparkling diamonds. It reeked of money and brought on a sick feeling in my stomach.

“I need a drink,” I grumbled, looking around for the nearest bar or waiter.

“There. That’s her,” Pete announced, pointing to a crowd on the other side of the room.

The hoard of people parted just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of the guest of honor. This desperate bachelorette everyone had come to see or try to date. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It washer.

“That woman right there? In the silver gown?” I asked.

“Yep. Isabella Landson,” Pete nodded. “Her family has more money than god. Or they did anyways, before her parents died. Now the whole fortune is hers, and word on the street is her brother is adding to it every day with his fat salary. It’s always the people who already have money who seem to come by it the easiest.”

“I can’t believe it,” I murmured, watching her from across the room.

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