They think this pet food project is some stupid phase, a temporary bridge between their son’s first rave success and settling into the calm, moneymaking triumph of adulthood. Right at the head of Pruitt Ag.
Just like they think I’m destined to be hitched to Nancy Loomer.
Fucking shudder.
On paper, it’s good for our brand, and her parents were always close to mine.
In practice? The concept makes me want to climb out of my skin.
Fuck, I still don’t see how it means roses for our brand either. An arranged goddamned marriage?
Why can’t rich people just benormal? Why do we still have to marry for money when we’re already goddamned made of it?
Of course, if I did marry her, people would assume it’s purely political and all for the money. Anyone who knows this woman can instantly write off the personality factor.
Ridiculous.
Thanks to the dating app, even without my parents’ wealth, I have more than enough cash to power my life.
Nancy, on the other hand ...
She must realize our parents are setting us up. For all she pretends in public, I don’t think she’s wild about me either.
Not really.
She loves the Pruitt name. She likes what I represent. She doesn’t mind my looks, and she adores the thought of landing exclusive rights to a hot, eligible bachelor commodity, like a bee covets honey.
I’m sure she respects my fortune, too, though it’s not like she doesn’t have her own.
We were both born to big money most people would consider obscene.
For her, it comes down to status.
In Seattle, my last name means a lot.
I’m the ideal prop in Nancy’s world—rich husband from a good family who will look good on her arm.
Count me the hell out.
My mind flips back to Lena as I click on her picture. Big, soulful brown eyes, and mahogany hair falling in ripples around her face.
Vintage pretty. Not Instagram-famous good looks.
Lovely in a distinctly natural way.
Frosty. Feisty. Begging to be thawed.
I reach up and slap myself, clicking back to my email tab. Regardless of how pretty she may or may not be, this shit isn’t about attraction.
This is about practicality. Freedom from annoying fucking obligations to focus on what matters, even if it’s just a brief stretch of peace.
I only need time to get my dog food formulated and out the door.
Snarling, I push my laptop back and head into the kitchen for coffee. I’m pulling an espresso shot through the machine when my intercom pings with a visitor.
“Brady, it’s me. Let me up,” Nancy’s voice sings through the screen.
I groan, burying my face in my palm.
