Page 8 of My Real Love Affair

“By giving you structure you’ve never had.” He stepped closer, and for a moment, he looked less like the heir apparent and more like the brother who used to sneak me cookies before dinner when our nannies weren’t looking. “You’re thirty years old, Austin. It’s time to get it together.”

The conversation was over. I could see it in his face, hear it in his voice. This wasn’t a negotiation or a discussion. It was an ultimatum wrapped in the pretense of family concern.

“Fine,” I said finally. “I’ll play your game.”

“Good.” Cash straightened his tie again. “The wedding is Saturday at two.”

We headed back into the study, where my father and Summer were making polite conversation about the weather. Both looked up as we entered.

“We’re all set,” Cash announced. “Austin understands the arrangement.”

Summer stood and extended her hand to me with that same pleasant, empty smile. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Austin.”

I shook her hand. “Likewise.”

“Don’t disappoint me again, son.”

The words followed me as I left the study, walked through the grand foyer, and pushed through the front doors. As I drove away from the estate, I noticed Summer’s car following at a discreet distance.

“Seriously?” I muttered.

She was going to follow me around.

Fuck my life.

CHAPTER 4

MELODY

Icurled deeper into the plush cushions of my window seat. The silk robe, courtesy of a luxury loungewear brand that had courted me for months, wrapped around me. I sipped my mint tea and tried to relax.

My phone sat face-up on my thigh, the screen brightness turned down low. Any minute now. Any second.

Across the room, my dress for tomorrow’s wedding hung on the back of my door. I’d spent three hours styling it with the perfect accessories yesterday. Delicate gold jewelry, a clutch that complemented without competing, and a delicate pair of heels that were new and promised to kill my feet.

I liked heels. Well,likedwas a strong word. I appreciated that they made my legs look longer and lifted my butt. But my feet did not enjoy them. I usually wore sneakers. It was my thing. I probably had over a hundred pairs. Most of them were sent to me because I was an influencer.

I loved my career. I built it brick by brick and was very proud of it.

I refreshed my Instagram feed for the hundredth time, then immediately felt silly for it. The Femme Curve launch wasscheduled for nine p.m. I still had a few minutes. I needed to be patient, but patience had never been my strong suit.

This partnership had been six months in the making. Countless emails, contract negotiations, photoshoots that lasted ten hours. But it was worth it. Femme Curve was a plus-size brand using luxury fabrics and impeccable designs that didn’t treat curves like something to hide. When they’d approached me about being the face of their spring campaign, I had actually cried.

I took a sip of tea and let my thumb wander, scrolling aimlessly through my feed. A food blogger I followed had posted brioche French toast that looked delicious. I was randomly swiping when Austin Bancroft’s face filled my screen.

I had stumbled onto one of those gossip pages that tracked wealthy bachelors. The photo was recent. Austin at some charity gala, looking like sin in a tuxedo. Dark hair perfectly tousled, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and those eyes. Even through a screen, they held a dangerous sort of mischief.

Before I could stop myself, I tapped through to his profile.

“Stupid,” I muttered, but I didn’t stop scrolling.

Photo after photo of the quintessential playboy lifestyle. Austin on a yacht in the Mediterranean, shirtless and laughing. Austin at a club, a leggy brunette tucked under his arm. Austin stepping out of a sports car looking very sexy.

And the women? Wow.

They were beautiful, of course, but it was more than that. They were a type. Slender limbs that seemed to go on forever. Tiny waists I could probably circle with my hands. Perky breasts and round bottoms that seemed to defy gravity. They wore bandage dresses and sky-high heels. They looked like they had never struggled to find jeans that fit or worried about their arms in a sleeveless top.

“Don’t do this,” I said out loud to my empty bedroom. “You know better.”