“What I’d give for a mozzarella stick,” I say to another server who offers what could only be described as a small, shriveled golf ball on the end of a toothpick.
Mozzarella sticks were a rarity during my childhood, but a favorite. Pizza and pasta too—just not spaghetti with marinara sauce. It’s no surprise that I crave comfort foods when feeling out of my element.
There will be biscuits later!
Even though I’ve been attending these posh parties since I was old enough not to have a temper fit, I cannot get used to all the hobnobbing, as Phoebe said. I mean, what’s the point?
My parents insisted the Smythe soiree is a good networking opportunity—also known as a chance to meet my future husband.
“You were always a sucker for sauce,” says a voice that sounds as pleasant as a dentist’s drill—my jaw still tingles from my recent visit to Dr. Gundry’s office.
I startle and knock into a man carrying a tray of tall glasses filled with bubbly liquid. “Sorry. My apologies.”
I extend my hand to steady the tray, but I step on the hem of my gown and pitch forward into the server. Luckily, the wall behind him braces us both from falling backward, but it doesn’t prevent the liquid from spilling all over, you guessed it, me. For better or worse, it misses the top of my sequined bodice but makes a splash below the waist.
Mortification colors my cheeks red, because aside from the stir I cause, it looks like I wet myself.
And there to witness it all stands my high school mortal enemy. Dressed in deep purple velvet, Marlow lurches a low and mean laugh.
“Hello,” I say evenly as I fold my hands in front of the damp skirt of my gown. “What brings you to the Smythe’s this fine evening?”
I’m an etiquette teacher and practice what I preach, even though I’d rather say something snarky to the woman who’d been there for a particularly painful stretch of my weird luck during high school. Of course, she seizes the opportunity to remind me of the sauce incident.
It’s strikingly similar to the present situation with my gown. However, the sauce incident differed in that I somehow sat on a plate of spaghetti in the dining hall. The school uniform involved a khaki skirt, which made it look like I was woefully unprepared for my monthly cycle.
You’d better believe I addedLook before you leapandsitto my book of rules.
I’m pink-faced from knocking into the server. Meanwhile, Marlow’s angular features have an orange-ish hue, like she had aclose encounter with sunless tanner. “Have you been eating a lot of carrots? I hear that helps with Vitamin K deficiency.” I clear my throat, not sure where this lands among my guidelines for being polite. “Wouldn’t want to see you bruise easily, because of the deficiency.” I’m rambling and should stop now. I don’t mean to imply that I want to punch her. I’m not violent. Promise.
“Darling, is that you?” my mother’s voice tinkles, coming to my rescue.
Relief sweeps through me because my mother is an expert handler of spotlights. At the moment, this works to my benefit. Not so much when she’ll take to the stage as Lady Libby the Love Liasson later.
4
CHASE
The guys would crush me if I ever admitted this, but I lose sleep over what the press quickly dubbed moon-gate and tagged #BruiserButt online as the actual full moon hangs high in the sky over the city. The papers and gossip sites churn out headlines, images, and articles, which means I’ll be receiving a phone call from my parents sometime after sunup.
I go for a predawn run, trying to escape the growing nerves and the fact that I woke up craving pizza for breakfast—it’s really good the next day.
I’m a grown man and the quarterback for the greatest team in the pro league, so I should be able to deal with whatever life throws my way, including a newspaper headline that features the wrong side of four star players for that same team. I also ought to be able to have a more harmonious relationship with my father, with us on equal footing, but I fail on that account, too.
It’s complicated and likely about to become more so, what with his pressure to get married or he’ll reveal family secrets I’d rather keep from the public.
Sweaty, I jump in the shower where I do my best thinking. Poring over the situation with my grandfather, the inheritance, and my father’s ultimatum, I rehash the situation, if only to put off having to think about the one I’m likely to face in a matter of hours.
Cap Collins passed away, leaving me most of his fortune. This means he passed over his son, Rhett Collins—my father. But access to it comes with the stipulation that I get married. Not that I need the dough (I could still go for pizza, though). But I also want to honor his memory. My father doesn’t need the money either, but that doesn’t explain why he’s been pressuring me to get married, or else he’ll expose ancient history that ought to remain in the past.
I lean against the shower tile as a dark thought slithers down my spine. This is revenge. My father is punishing me for disobeying his wishes and going into football. And for being named the heir to Cap’s fortune.
Still, something doesn’t sit right. There’s more, but I haven’t figured out what.
To my surprise, before I get an angry earful from Rhett Collins, Coach Hammer orders us to meet in his office.
The shower didn’t quite help wash away my ever-present nerves. They accompany me when I meet Declan, Wolf, and Grey in the austere room with polished wood, shelves filled with books and awards lining one wall, and a blustering coach on a call who gives us the hairy eyeball along with the one-minute finger when we shuffle in.
It reminds me a lot of my father’s den.
