Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I head into the cold air-conditioned interior and slip up the back staircase. Inside my room, I find the clutch from the night of Sara Lynn’s party, the one from the Oak Club. Inside is a small, white business card with only a name and a number.
Ford Arc.
Nobody ever looks at me like Ford did. Nobody ever talks to me like Ford did. He’s brash and assuming and aggressive, but he also thinks I’m worth something to him—even if that’s only for his own selfish reasons, at least I know where I stand.
And there’s that kiss. That knee-shaking kiss.
I don’t want this. I don’t want anything to do with Ford, but I also despise the thought of marrying Matthew Keyne and living a life of mediocrity serving a family of people that think I’m nothing but the pointless castoff of the despicable junkie black sheep daughter.
If I get engaged to Ford, they’ll have to pay attention to me.
Hell, they might even bleed.
I dial his number. My hands are shaking as I raise the phone to my ear. It rings and rings and finally clicks as he answers.
“Hello,” he says, and his voice is soft and low like a velvet rumble.
“You made me an offer,” I say and blurt out the words before I can stop them. “Do you still want to convince me that it’s a good idea?”
“You’re calling to negotiate?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
He laughs like it’s the end of my life. “How about I pick you up tonight and we discuss this at the Oak?”
“I’ll meet you there at eight,” I say and hang up.
I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I am not defective.
I am bigger and better than Grandfather thinks I am.
I hope.
Chapter 8
Kat
I’m trembling with nerves and sweating a bit as I step out of my family’s black Mercedes car. The driver rolls down the window and looks at me as the valet at the top of the steps opens the door to the Oak Club and waits patiently.
“Would you mind waiting?” I ask and lean toward the window. “At least a little bit.”
“Of course, miss. Anything else?”
“That’s all, thank you.” I hate ordering the family staff around and usually act like they don’t exist, which has actually gotten me in trouble more than a few times, especially when I try to cook my own meals and the chef has a heart attack at the idea of a family member in his kitchen, but sometimes it’s nice to be a Stockton. The driver nods, rolls the window up, and heads over toward a bay of other waiting cars with their idling and bored chauffeurs.
He doesn’t need to wait forever, just long enough for me to find out if Ford’s going to murder me tonight or if this marriage thing is for real.
I square my shoulders, tilt my chin up, and march up the steps. The doorman nods at me as I walk through and I halfway expect them to stop me but nobody bothers. The front desk, the tasteful security guards, each of them smiles and nods as I head deeper into the club. I’m technically not a member, although I’m allowed to enter with my uncles or cousins or grandparents who are members, and right now I feel strangely naked without a chaperone. Still, the club must know I’m here to meet with Ford, because nobody says a word as I make my way to the bar.
He’s sitting at a table in the far corner. A jazz trio plays standards on the stage. The piano’s a quiet lilting in the low light. I pause near the bar and think about turning around because it’s not too late, I can forget about this insanity, I can run away and save myself and stick to being a good girl like I promised Grandfather I would—
But he looks up and I know I’m staying.
It’s the glint in his eye. It’s only there for a moment, but I swear he’s excited to see me, and his gaze rakes down my dress and back up to my eyes before he quirks an eyebrow and gestures for me to head over. I walk with as much dignity as I can muster despite feeling like I’m about to vibrate myself to pieces.
“I almost didn’t think you’d show,” he says as he stands and greets me. He comes closer, touches my hip, and kisses my cheek. It’s all perfectly ordinary except for the way my body reacts like he’s whispering something filthy in my ear. He smells like musk and cinnamon and spice, and I feel like I’ve definitely lost my mind.
“I almost didn’t,” I admit and sit across from him. He gestures for the waiter and orders wine.
“Why not?” He tilts his head, still smiling slightly, that scar puckering his mouth. On a lot of people, it might be ugly—but on him it’s fascinating and I can’t stop staring at his lips. “You sounded… determined on the phone.”