Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
I head back home to contemplate another dinner date I can’t get out of—wishing like hell I could.
Mom managed to guilt trip all three of her sons into dinner at her place. It’s been an irregular ritual for as long as I can remember.
None of us have the heart to turn her down, even if we’re hardly enthused with another dysfunctional family gathering.
It’s bad enough that I’m going. Worse that my mind stays glued to who’s not there tonight as I clean up and get ready.
Shit.
If Junie thought my house was a castle, she’d probably black out if she saw the house we grew up in.
Mansion is an understatement.
This house is old-world charm and old money down to its soul, all stunning brick and an airy porch that could rival most restaurant patios.
It’s been in the family longer than I’ve been alive, the only home generations of Rorys have known. My great granddad even knew Harry Truman back when he was a mover and shaker with the Kansas City political machine, and having friends in high places helped land what was then prime real estate in a time when houses were the biggest symbols of wealth.
Hell, we wound up with a place a president could only dream of, considering Truman left office damn near broke and mostly depended on help from old friends back home to have a decent living.
Old friends like my grandparents.
Mom has never dreamed of selling or turning it over to a historical society, even if the old place is an expensive drag on her finances.
She’s always been happy living in the shadow of the past.
Unlike the rest of us, she just slipped into being a Rory when she was young without ever questioning it. Without the long nights soul searching, bothered by that shadow of a greatness I never had a damned thing to do with.
Patton and Archer’s cars are already parked in the huge driveway. I pull in behind them once I’m through the gate.
I’m instantly annoyed that I’m arriving late.
Archer never misses a reason to rake me over the coals, and Patton will just be a smug little prick that he made it here before me.
And now I’ve got this fake date with Haute and Junie simmering in the back of my mind.
It’s just bad fucking timing, all the way around.
Patton and Archer wait for me in the drawing room like they always do—because of course this house has a drawing room.
Like always, Archer stands by the fireplace with a glass of whiskey in his hand like he’s just stepped out of some fucking Victorian drama. Patton slumps on the sofa, playing with the tassels on one of the ancient cushions.
Mom herself is MIA.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask, joining Patton on the sofa.
“You’re late,” Archer growls.
“Very observant.” I roll my eyes. “Too bad that doesn’t answer my question.”
Archer shrugs a shoulder. “Don’t know. She’s probably in the kitchen making sure the cook doesn’t mess up dinner.”
“You know Mom,” Patton huffs. “If she ever learns to sit down, we should worry.”
She’s not the only one in this family, but I’m not here to pick a fight, so I just listen to them talk about Colt’s latest woodwork creations.
If the dinner with Jo Winkley was a hurdle, then this would be a damn mountain to climb.
But I’m not bringing Junie here to fake out my family.
I also need to stop thinking about that kiss.
“How’d the meeting go?” Archer asks, turning his attention back to me.
“Jesus, dude. You ever heard of leaving work at the office?”
Patton leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Wait, you met with Haute? Did he finally hand over the paperwork?”
“Not yet. We just walked around the property and he promised we’d see it soon.” He also pinned me down for the dinner date from hell, but I leave that part out.
Archer frowns, tapping his finger against the mantel next to him. “I’m starting to doubt this whole thing…”
“Yeah! Because you hate taking risks,” Patton says, rolling his eyes. “This is our master key. A chance to make a real breakthrough.”
“Imagine what we’re risking if it goes bad,” Archer snarls. “The fact that he’s dragging his feet tells me there’s something we should wonder about.”
“While you’re busy wondering, Arch, I’ve been working on the hard details, lining up designers.” Patton stiffens, sliding to the edge of his seat. “The mock-ups are coming in next week and you guys will eat your fucking words.”
There they go again.
The same personality clash that’s soured half our meetings ever since we started dreaming of this place.
Archer’s too cautious.
Patton’s too impulsive.
Their approaches are night and day, and we can never agree on how to move forward—or even how to keep fucking moving when it’s a done deal in all but name only.
Though they’re both right about this one.
Forrest Haute is an oddball and there’s a decent chance there’s something else going on under the surface.