CHAPTER 1
JESSE
Weddings have one pro against a hundred cons.
Girls.
Girls here, girls there, girls everywhere. And normally, I would be between someone’s thighs by this point of the evening. Not tonight.
How boring.
I was only at this stupid, drawn-out show of wealth because if I hadn’t come, my twin brother, Will, would’ve had to. Our cousin Sterling had insisted thatsomeonefrom the Chicago side of the Westwood family had to attend and be, in his words, “respectable.” So instead of forcing my twin to leave his wife and baby behind,Iwas standing in the back garden of Sterling’s fancy-ass castle in Scotland, assuming the role of respectable Chicago Westwood, instead of motorboating the maid of honor.
I still couldn’t believe my cousin had a castle in Scotland. Why didn’tIhave a castle?
I made a mental note to add it to my wish list as I leaned against a cocktail table bursting with white roses and flickering candles. I blew them out over my shoulder when nobody was looking, curious how long it would take one of the staff dressed in black to notice.
Seventy-six seconds.
Damn.These people didn’t mess around. But for all their efforts, this horse and pony show was all show and no horse… or pony. Luckily, the champagne was bottomless. Mediocre if anyone asked my opinion, which they hadn’t, but bottomless, and therefore my lifeline.
My tux was already half undone, my hair ruffled, and I’d been drinking the champagne like it was water, bored out of my mind while trying to figure out who this wedding was even for.
No one I’d spoken to so far had seemed particularly sure either. It felt like a design flaw, being invited when I didn’t know the couple simply because I was apparently related to one of them. Or both of them. Generational wealth like this had a kink for keeping the riches in the family, literally.
I plucked another glass of champagne off a passing tray, ignoring the faintly disapproving look the waiter gave me as I swapped my empty for a full.
Would it be in poor taste to get drunk at eleven in the morning?
I considered that for a beat, but in my defense, people on this side of the pond had weddings at the crack of dawn. I’d been awake for hours, already suffering through a string quartet and mountains of small talk. Right now, day-drinking felt less like poor taste and more like cultural assimilation.
I took a sip, letting the bubbles hit the back of my throat, and glanced around the pristine garden for what had to be the hundredth time. For the last two hours, I’d been out here waiting for something of substance to happen, but so far, it had been nothing but polite laughter and thick accents from places like here, England, and France.
Apparently, there were Westwoods in Spain too, which was news to me.Exactly how many of us are there and why are we all here?
I loosened my bow tie another fraction and shifted as a breeze rolled across the lawn, carrying with it the scent of cut grass and money.
“Are you having fun?” someone asked from close behind me.
I turned at the sound of the voice, already halfway to answering before I registered that it was Laney, Sterling’s wife and co-host of this shindig.
She appeared at my side, her presence immediately followed by the chaotic energy of three small children who orbited her like sticky satellites. Claire, the oldest at all of five years, clung to her hand, wide eyed and observant like her father, like she was taking everything in and silently judging it.
The middle one was four, if I remembered correctly, and she was hovering just behind her mother, looking like she was plotting something. The youngest, Harvey, was three and running in unpredictable circles around us like he was living his best life.
He might be onto something there, I thought as I glanced at him before looking back up at his mom, the champagne making me a touch too honest. “No, not really.”
She smiled. “That’s what I thought, but thanks for being here even though you probably had much more exciting events on your social calendar. Sterling appreciates the effort and so do I.”
“Yeah. Anytime.” I tipped my glass in her direction, pausing for a beat before I finally just asked. “Why do you do this, though?”
She arched an eyebrow at me. “Do what?”
“This,” I repeated, gesturing vaguely at the castle and the sea of well-dressed strangers speaking in languages I only half understood. “Host a bunch of people for a wedding you’re not in, all for a couple you don’t even know.”
Laney’s smirk deepened. “Sterling has taken it upon himself to connect the American Westwoods with their European rootsand relatives. I think it makes him feel better about having a five-hundred-year-old castle in his real estate portfolio.”
I laughed. “You can’t just have a historic castle. You have to justify it. Got it.”
