Page 6 of Arrogant Heir

My fingers caress the pale gold-embossed emblem on the notepaper, and I see it’s an image of Greystone and a regal R for Rochester.Very posh.

I can’t deny the family intrigues me and I’m keen to learn more about the other siblings. Just because Damian and I didn’t hit it off doesn’t mean the others won’t be nice. In my research, I discovered there are seven sibling grandchildren in the UK. Five guys and two girls, ranging in age from thirties to late teens. They all work in the business in some capacity.

After the week I’ve had, all I want is to hide out in this cosy cottage, streaming one of my fave shows on the fabulous big TV on the wall, while feasting on the hamper. I stare longingly at the flashing screen.

Pushing my rain-damp hair out of my eyes, I face the reality that staying in is not an option for me this evening. If I’m to salvage this assignment, I must put my game face on and get over to Greystone to charm the rest of the family. Maybe I can even smooth things over with Damian-the-devil.

Glancing at my watch, I realise there’s still plenty of time, so I pull a blanket over my lap and snuggle up on the sofa, holding my cup of tepid tea. Mum is right. The tea really helps, and I feel myself relaxing. I play some music on my phone and stay like that for a while, letting the tension drain out of me.

What should I wear to a billionaire family dinner? My thoughts swirl back to Simon. He would know. He’s used to schmoozing with the super-rich in his investment banking career and he regularly attends his fancy club to hang out with the London elite.

I don’t want to overdress, but underdressing could be even worse. I don’t have that much to choose from. I only packed one dress and a couple of smart outfits, not knowing what to expect, and my case is crammed with my signature day-to-day writers’ wear—jeans, cargo pants, shirts, cardigans, and hoodies.

Sitting at the computer writing for hours, I need to be comfortable, and usually only dress up to go out with Simon or to meet a client face-to-face, which is rare. I presumed I’d be holed up in a rambling cold manor house and as I’ve never stayed on site with clients before, official engagements and dinners didn’t cross my mind. The enormity of my miscalculation rolls over me. I’m out of my depth.

What the hell was I thinking coming to work with a bunch of billionaires?

It’s now creeping past 6.45 p.m., and I can’t delay any further. It’s time to get ready.

I place my cup in the immaculate Butler sink with ornate gold taps and pad barefoot into the bedroom in search of my bags. They are waiting for me there, piled up neatly next to the huge walk-in closet that even Carrie Bradshaw could only dream of. This place really is unbelievable, and I feel like I’ve hit the jackpot.

I hope I get to stay long enough to fully appreciate it…

CHAPTER5

Jamie

I keep checking the time as I fling one outfit after another onto the enormous bed. My phone blasts out my new playlist as I pull potential outfits out of my case, like a fashionista’s Aladdin’s Cave. It’s going to be a while until I can bear to listen to my favourite playlist again.

I try on the one dress I brought and think it looks cute, but then a wave of doubt rushes over me. Is it too fancy? Does it say,trying too hard? I hate looking as though I’m trying too hard, and I’m more nervous than usual at the thought of Damian assessing me.

Next is an expensive pair of tailored camel trousers which I adore, and a cream silk shirt. I pose in the mirror and although it’s one of my favourites, it looks a little too professional for a family dinner.

I continue like this as the clock ticks on and it’s almost time for me to leave and still I haven’t decided what to wear. My face is hot, and my cheeks rosy, which sends me into more of a flap because I want to arrive for dinner looking chic, cool, and collected. At this rate, I’ll be going naked. The thought of the disdain on Damian’s face makes me panic giggle.

I stare at the pile on the bed and finally scoop up the first piece I tried on—the original dress and climb into it again. It’s a classic little black dress, but nottoolittle, so I decide it’ll have to do. Can’t go far wrong with a black dress, can you?

If I don’t leave soon, I’m going to be late. And I’m never late. I detest being late.

Grabbing a damp cloth from the gleaming kitchen, I rub it over my elegant heels. These babies are going to dinner with me—like a comfort blanket. There’s one thing I realise I need after the run-in with Damian today, and that’s height. If this works out as it’s supposed to, I’m going to have to whiz into Winchester to invest in some more heels and learn to walk elegantly on gravel.

Shooting a last look in the mirror, I give myself a brief nod. The black dress reveals just enough of my legs without being too short. I top off the look with a funky necklace and swap the watch I use to religiously track my daily steps for a sleek diamond studded gold one Simon bought me for my birthday. As I admire the watch, I notice the faint white circle on the ring finger of my left hand.

I stare at it, remembering how I slid off my exquisite diamond engagement ring and returned it to its elegant box, in a fog of pain. I haven’t seen Simon since that awful day, so the ring is still at my flat, hidden away in my dresser drawer. It makes me feel sad, but I’m surprised to realise I’m not as heartsick as I thought I would be. Now I’m over the initial burn of rejection, and the reality of the situation has had a chance to settle in, I don’t feelthatbad. Don’t get me wrong. I feel bad. Just not as bad as I might feel, given the circumstances.

Haunting feelings of worthlessness consumed me the moment he called off the wedding. I was reeling. Because I grew up knowing my dad left us, understandably, I adopted the belief that men leave, and I developed serious trust issues. Simon ending it with no warning was my worst nightmare come true.

When I called my mum to tell her what happened, she rushed round to console me and after a few hours of intermittent hugs, cups of tea and handing me tissue after tissue, she said, ‘You know, my darling, maybe this is for the best. Maybe he isn’tthe onefor you after all.’

I raised my apoplectic teary eyes to her. ‘What do you mean? I thought you liked him.’

‘I did like him, but that doesn’t mean he’sthe one, does it?’

Speechless, I just stared at her. I was genuinely gob-smacked by her casual statement amid my sobs, and I couldn’t resist digging for more information, even though I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear it. I might have been slagging off Simon in my head, but I still felt curiously protective of him. No one wants to be wrong about who they choose to love.

Mum wouldn’t be drawn into saying much more on the subject, other than something slightly esoteric along the lines of when I meet the one, I’ll know it, and if Simon is the one, he’ll soon realise his mistake and come grovelling for me to take him back. I admit the thought of Simon grovelling cheered me up and may have even brought a smile to my pink face.

While she was handing out her mum-wisdom, she whizzed up a pan of her famous homemade soup. Yes, she picked up some vegetables at the market on the way over, ever-practical even when confronted by my massive phone meltdown. She’s that kind of mother—and before going home, she made me promise to eat a bowl of soup for dinner. Of course, she also offered to stay over, but by that time I just wanted to be alone again so I could sob in peace.

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