She slows her pace. “I don’t buy it. You’ve probably dated a lot.”
“Not especially. I’ve been waiting.” I hope she picks up on my meaning.
She scoffs. “I find that hard to believe, given your track record. You’ve done plenty of publicity stunts, gotten in brawls, participated in pranks?—”
“I thought we’d moved past #BruiserButt.”
I catch her glance down as if checking out the goods.
She lets out a shaky breath. “I’m just saying, you’re an eligible bachelor and coming into plenty of money, so I have no doubt the women have formed a queue, waiting to say I do.”
Coming into plenty of money...I go as still as a stone—another one of my grandfather’s sayings.
She continues walking...away from me. Clouds of worry kick up like dust in a storm. She must know. How did she find out about the inheritance? And there I thought it had been kept quiet—you can pay big money to have things removed from the internet.
Across the street stands a beautiful cathedral. I say a prayer. I’m reminded that I’m not in control of the outcome, but can only do my best each day. I grasp at threads of peace as I catch up to Pippa in front of the restaurant.
The place is popular and bustling. Pippa’s posture stiffens as if bracing for a wreck as Mrs. Thompson waves us over. I repeatedly try to catch Pippa’s eye as we take our places. I want to make a joke about the last time we all ate together at the Smythe’s, but there’s a fuss about who’s sitting where. A seventh seat remains empty beside my father.
We place our orders and all the while, Mrs. Thompson bounces slightly like she’s going to burst from excitement. At last, she says, “Okay, I’ve been thinking, why not do the proposal here while you’re in London?”
Her excitement must be contagious because my pulse hammers inside me. Earlier, Pippa asked, am I ready? My heart says yes.
My father sits up straighter and casts a glare at everyone at the table. “No, actually, this match is off. It’s over. I’ve found someone more suitable for Chase to marry. She should be along at any moment.”
A wedge forms between my mother’s eyebrows. “Rhett, we already discussed this.”
My father ignores her.
Mr. Thompson coughs as if he’s about to blurt something, but has second thoughts.
Liquid pools in Mrs. Thompson’s eyes.
Pippa sits there, pink lips parted as though stunned, or maybe relieved.
“Is this about the inheritance, Rhett, because if so—” my mother asks so softly the Thompsons can’t hear.
“No,” my father barks, cutting her off. “This is about my son’s future.”
My fist comes down on the table, clattering the flatware. “What do you care about my future?”
“I want you to be set up with the best opportunities possible. No more of this moonshine, moon-gate, football nonsense. It’s time for you to grow up.” He tugs at the tie around his neck.
I get to my feet, ready to leave at the same time as a familiar woman with angular features strides toward the table.
“Oh, hello, Chase. Such a gentleman, getting up to pull out my chair.” She cuts Pippa a simpering smile. “You’re training him well, I see, Poo-pa.” She leans in to kiss me on each cheek.
I recoil while trying to maintain my composure.
“Meet Marlow Dwight. Her father is Warner Dwight, owner of Dwight Drilling out of Texas,” my father says. “Meet my wife, Ruth.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Marlow says, wearing a plastic smile meant to be charming. I can see right through her.
“You look familiar and you can call me Mrs. Collins.” Maybe Mom does too.
“I’ve been told I’m a true beauty, maybe that’s why,” Marlow says. “The perfect match for Chase.”
Forget a reality dating show. This has become a soap opera. A sour taste rises in my throat. I turn to Pippa, hoping to exchange a look of amusement, of something, anything to deny that this is happening.
