Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Hey, Evangeline came to me. I didn’t go to her.”
“You’re serious?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Of course I’m serious. Didn’t she come to you, as well?”
I smooth my hair against the light salt-scented breeze. “Yes, she did. I just assumed—”
“You just assumed because I’m nearly as rich as these men that she wouldn’t bother with someone like me.”
“It’s not that. Not exactly, anyway. We’re all well off, it seems.”
“Not your little hillbilly friend.”
Misty’s not wrong, though she’s being a witch. Ariel’s a good kid. She’s the youngest of all of us, at a mere twenty-two years old. Most of the others are in their mid-twenties. The men are all the same age—thirty-five—and they grew up together. The oldest woman here just turned thirty, followed by me and the attorney candidate. We’re both twenty-nine.
“She’s not a hillbilly,” I say. “Why are you always putting her down?”
Misty shakes her head. “Come on. These men are catches. Not only gorgeous and smart but freaking billionaires? The best the market has to offer. She’s the type they sleep with once and then ghost. Not the type they’re actually looking to settle down with.”
While I don’t like what she says about Ariel, I’ve wondered myself why men like these need Evangeline to find wives for them. But getting into any kind of an actual conversation with Misty seems pointless, so I let the comment slide.
Misty steps away from me. “See you around,” she calls as she moves closer to the billionaire bachelors.
Misty’s beautiful, but her attitude is pure poison. I certainly wasn’t born with a bloody silver spoon up my arse. I worked hard to catch the eye of one of London’s top designers. Two years ago, I moved to New York to open our American office. Evangeline reached out to me after reading an article about my career in Vanity Fair.
“Good evening, Emily.”
The low timbre makes me tremble.
Sebastian Tate—the rock star—stands before me, holding two flutes of champagne. “Would you like a drink?”
I take the flute from him, willing my hands not to shake. “Lovely. Thank you.”
Sebastian clinks his glass against mine.
I raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to make a toast. Instead, he takes a sip.
Odd, but I’ve learned to go with the flow here. Americans have their own way of doing things.
I follow suit and take a sip of the bubbly. It’s a brut—dry, crisp, and delicious.
I wait for him to make conversation, but he doesn’t. This is a man who writes song lyrics that win major awards, and he appears to have nothing to say to me.
I take another sip. “So…may I ask a question, Mr. Tate?”
He smiles. I can’t help sucking in my breath. I’ve never been fond of long hair on a man, but… Wow. His is dark brown with a slight wave that’s apparent even pulled back in a ponytail. As magnificent as it is, his eyes are the color of an aged whisky, and they seem to penetrate my flesh as he stares at me. I may burst into flames at any moment.
“Sebastian,” he says.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“You called me Mr. Tate. My name is Sebastian. Or Seb if you prefer. And yes, you may ask me a question.”
I take another sip of champagne, the bubbles tickling my nose as I tamp down a wave of nerves that seems determined to land between my thighs.
“Go ahead,” he prompts.
I clear my throat. Why not be blunt? Evangeline told us to be ourselves, and Emily Kensington is as blunt as they come.
I flip my hair subtly—at least I hope it’s subtle. “Why are you doing this? None of you need a matchmaker. Women undoubtedly flock to you. You’re a celebrity, for goodness’ sake. And…well…just look at you.”
“I’d rather look at you.”
I do my best to ignore the heat that his words ignite in me because I do want an answer. I’m truly curious.
“Are you going to answer my question, Mister… Sorry. Sebastian?”
He takes a sip, meets my gaze, and I try not to become hypnotized by those blazing eyes.
“There’s no easy answer to that question, Emily.”
“I didn’t say I wanted an easy answer.”
The slight smile he gives me carries only a hint of the sensuality of his last album cover, and yet, this close to him, I feel like the only woman in a stadium of millions. “When we read your bios and looked at your photos, you were the first woman I wanted to meet when we got here.”
“Why?” I can’t help asking, even though I know damned well he didn’t answer my initial question. Already I’ve allowed myself to succumb to his flattery.
“Because I love a challenge.”
“And you find me challenging? Just from reading about me?”
“I find you beguiling.” Another sip. “And yes, challenging.”
“Beguiling is an interesting word,” I say. “Some would say it means charming or enchanting. Others would say a beguiling person has a deceptive quality. How do you mean it, Sebastian?”