Stealing the Bride

by Lee, Nadia

  “Meeting?” I ask blankly.

  He laughs. “Check your email for your weekly agenda. It should hit your inbox every Monday morning at nine.”

  Argh! I haven’t checked anything since I grabbed Pete’s assignment. “Do I need to prep something?”

  “Nope. It’s your first day, so just introduce yourself and listen.” He stands. “You’ll do very well here.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Court

  Although I miss Skittles, I try not to text or call her. She’s busy, and this is her first day. I don’t want to get her into trouble by distracting her.

  I check my emails. To be honest, I don’t know why they’re called emails. More like electronic rabbits. I swear every night they fuck and dump ten million more babies in my inbox.

  Percy. Ugh. I forward it to my lawyer to deal with. Dad asking me when I’m going to be home. Of course, he didn’t write it. That’s not how he works. His assistant did, dutifully, just like every quarter. She follows up after exactly seven days if I don’t respond. A few emails from charitable foundations, most of which I’m not interested in because I don’t know or trust the people in charge. A lot of them are just in it to enrich the founders and administrative teams.

  But one from the Pryce Family Foundation catches my attention, and I read it with care. The Pryce Family Foundation is one of a few charities I know that spends most of its money on helping people. It probably doesn’t hurt that Elizabeth King, who is in charge, is an heiress who married well, and refuses to draw a salary or charge expenses. She’s one of the very few who genuinely wants to change the world for the better.

  The email is an invitation to be “sold” at a bachelor auction to raise money for a local pediatric oncology department. Some of the money is for research, but she wants to spend most of it on financial help for the families. The letter contains stories of the struggles the kids’ parents face, and how every little bit can help stoke the children’s determination and hope to get better. She also has some statistics, but it’s the kids that sell me. I won’t participate in the auction, since I’m already taken, but there’s no way I’m not going to help out financially.

  I start typing a response, then stop when the phone rings. My heart leaps.

  But it’s just Edgar. And I remember that it’s about that time for his obligatory call.

  “Hey, man,” I say.

  “Hello, Court. How are you?”

  “I’m good.” Huh. What’s up with his voice? “Is Dad there?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You sound like you’ve got a larger-than-usual stick up your ass.”

  “What, I can’t ask my younger brother how he’s doing?”

  I snort. “Not in that weirdly hushed, dignified tone. But since you’re asking and Dad isn’t around, yeah, I’m doing great. My girlfriend moved in with me.”

  “Congrats. Is this Ms. Fifty Dollars?”

  I swear. Fifty dollars of Skittles. My family and friends may never let it go. “Yes.”

  “Guess she decided you’re worth more than that.”

  “You know, fifty was all she had on her. She gave me her entire fortune at that moment.” It really is a good line.

  Edgar laughs. “If that’s how you want to explain it.”

  “You know it’s true because she moved in with me, even after meeting Mom.”

  “Hey now. You came to Tempérane and didn’t stop by to see me?” He sounds peeved.

  “No, no. She came here.”

  “What? When?”

  “Last week. It was fucking weird. It’s like she thinks I can stop the divorce. She must’ve been desperate because I wasn’t coming to Tempérane to play my part in her ‘hospitalization’ dramas.”

  Edgar curses. “I didn’t know she’d do that or I would’ve warned you. It had to be a last-ditch effort. I guess nobody told you, but the divorce was finalized today.”

  “Oh.” I don’t really know what to say or even think. It isn’t like I didn’t know it was coming. But it sure as hell feels different than I imagined it would.

  Before, I thought it was simply a case of just desserts—what Mom deserved for doing her best to ruin Tony and Ivy’s lives. She wasn’t even sorry about the whole thing. And I was too bitter and pissed off when she said that she never loved me, not really. But now, I’m just sad and disappointed, for her and for all of us. It didn’t have to be like this in my family. We could’ve been happy. Mom could’ve been gentler and nicer, and we could’ve been…a real family.

  Finally, I exhale shakily. “Did she get anything?” She’s always worried about that—getting what she “deserves.” Her social standing, her reputation and influence—they all matter to her a great deal.

  “The house in New Orleans. And her jewelry, except for the family heirloom pieces. But that’s it.”

  Damn. I doubt Mom’s lawyer is a dimwit, because she doesn’t like dimwits. “Dad got his money’s worth out of Percy.”

  “Yeah, the man’s a fantastic attack dog, if you need one.” Edgar pauses for a second. When I don’t say anything more about the divorce, he says, “So. You want to work to for Blackwood Energy?”

  Aaand there it is. “No. Tell Dad to stop making you ask.”

  “I did, but he won’t take no for an answer. But listen, even if you don’t want to work for Dad, you need to think about your future, especially if you’re getting into a serious relationship.”

  I sigh. “What is it you’re trying to say? Just spit it out.”

  “Nothing. Just that it sounds like you and Ms. Fifty Bucks are getting serious, and that means you need to get off your butt and start thinking about what you’re going to do with your life. Women don’t respect men who sit around and have no direction. They think men like that are wasting their lives away without accomplishing anything. Which, you know, they kind of are—”

  “How the hell would you know?” Edgar, despite being much older than me, hasn’t had a single serious relationship. “Besides, I don’t need to work to make a living. I’m already rich.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can find someone who’ll be happy with your money. But she still won’t respect you.”

  Acid floods my gut. There’s no love without respect. Is that why Skittles said that there’s no way whatever she’s feeling for me can be love? “Are you saying this to get me to join the company?” I say, hating the anxiety slowly rearing its head.

  “No. I accept your decision, even if Dad doesn’t. What I’m saying is, you should find a passion—one other than your new girl, I mean.” He sighs. “Everyone needs something that fulfills them, independent of their family or the people they love. Otherwise, you know, lives tend to start going off the rails.”

  I say nothing because I can’t refute his point. The acid in my belly lingers long after we hang up.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Court

  Skittles is glowing so brightly when she walks in that it’s almost like there’s a halo and rainbow over her head. She makes a couple of spins, then wraps her arms around me. “Honey, I’m home!”

  I kiss her. “Welcome home, happy girl.”

  “I am happy. The work was amazing. My new boss is great.”

  She gushes about this Pete guy while flipping through the takeout menus, stopping on Thai food. “Want to split some prawns in tamarind sauce? I’m starving.”

  “Sure, but if you’re hungry, you should get more than the prawns.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m also going to order green chicken curry and steamed rice.”

  “Didn’t your super-awesome boss feed you?”

  “Nope. Too busy working.”

  I place an order, grab a couple glasses of wine for us and listen to her chat about her new coworkers, her new office and the people she met today. Excitement bubbles within her, as bright and light as champagne fizzing. I could get drunk off it, I think, reaching over to take her hand in mine and trace the lines on her palm.

  When the food arrives, I
sign for it, then bring it to the dining table. She suddenly stops talking, flushing deeply. “I can’t believe I’ve been going on and on about my job.” She takes a chair. “Sorry. Tell me about your day.”

  “Nothing that exciting.” I divvy up our food on the disposable plates the Thai restaurant included. Then, very casually, I tell her about Edgar’s call—about Mom and Dad only.

  Skittles’ face softens, and she squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear about your parents. I read the articles, but I thought maybe they’d reconcile.”

  “Yeah, things are a little bit beyond that point now.” And saying it out loud lessens the sadness I felt earlier, as though it’s one of the steps in accepting the messiness of my family. I give her an extra prawn, since she said she was hungry.

  “You can have it,” she says.

  “You’ve been burning calories, working that cute little butt off.”

  “Ha. I was on my butt all day.”

  I steal a piece of chicken from her curry. Chicken for a prawn isn’t the best trade, but I’m a magnanimous guy. We eat in silence for a moment. Skittles must be really hungry, because she’s scarfing hers down with gusto. Didn’t they let her have lunch? Geez. Or maybe she has a great appetite since all her worries about her career are on hold now with the position at OWM.

  Then, since the second part of what Edgar said today has been lingering on my mind, I say, “Hey, what do you think I’m good at?”

  She licks the curry on her fork. “I dunno. Why?”

  “I’m looking for something to do, but I’m not sure what.” Tell me I’m good at everything. But not like in that annoying pat way people say, “You’re good at anything you put your mind to,” when they want to throw out a quick feel-good answer so they can stop thinking about your problem.

  Most importantly, I want to know what Skittles thinks about me. For the first time in forever, I want a girl I’m with not just to like me, but to respect me as well—my talent, my brain, my abilities.

  Skittles taps her plastic fork against the edge of her plate. “I think you’re good at a lot of things, but the one I like the most is that you’re really good at making people happy and comfortable.”

  I blink a couple of times. “That’s it?” I was hoping she’d say something…I don’t know…more interesting.

  “I’m not saying you can’t do other things. I honestly think it’s an amazing talent, because not everyone has it, you know? You’re really just...likable, and you care about people.”

  Yeah, that’s dubious as hell. Like the shit someone would say to appease a useless idiot.

  She apparently reads my thoughts, because she starts worrying her lip. “That’s what makes you such a great guy,” she says. “You remember that time in Maui when I told you my dad was going to poison you and asked for a waiver? It was a joke and all, but you wrote one and didn’t even have to think about picking the Make-A-Wish Foundation as the charity would get all your money. I thought it said a lot about you.”

  “Oh,” I say, slightly mollified. “Still, that doesn’t seem like much of a skill. ‘I’m a likable dude who can make people happy’ isn’t something you can feature prominently in a résumé or anything. Is it?”

  “It’s not like you need a job!” Then she pauses and leans closer. “Do you?”

  I stiffen, vaguely insulted. “Of course not. I’m not dumb enough to have blown my entire fortune already.”

  “You know that isn’t what I meant. The world needs more happiness, and you have the money and connections to make a difference. And unlike some people, you actually do care.” She lets out a short breath. “Not everyone needs a job. Some people should just go out and change the world. I have faith that you’ll find a perfect way to do that.”

  The sincerity in her tone touches the core of my heart. A tide of emotions floods me until I can’t find the words to get past it. Finally, I let out a shuddering breath. “It’s you who do that for me—make me happy and whole. I wouldn’t be the guy who makes people happy without you around.”

  Shaking her head, she reaches out and holds my hand. “You need to give yourself more credit. If you weren’t a good, decent guy deep inside, you would’ve stayed the not-good guy, no matter who you were with. People don’t change just because they’re around someone.”

  That’s incredibly sweet and loving of her, and I don’t correct her even though she isn’t entirely right. She makes me want to be better. She makes me want to change the world for her.

  “You don’t look convinced,” she says. “Let me give you an example that’s easier to understand. Let’s say I was frigid.”

  “Frigid?” I still have the indentations from her nails last night. And I need to see a doctor to check my ears, because boy does she scream. Not that I mind especially. “No pain, no gain” and all that.

  A well-manicured finger goes up to halt my less-than-cooperative thinking process. “It’s a hypothetical. Let’s just go with it, shall we?”

  “Okay. You’re more frigid than tits on a yeti. And?”

  “What I’m saying is, if I were a naturally frigid person, I’d stay frigid no matter who I was with.”

  “Whatever. I’d change you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have unless I were a sensual person deep inside. Contrary to male fantasy, no man has a magic penis that cures all female sexual dysfunctions.”

  “I never said all female sexual dysfunctions,” I say, although I did have this particular expectation at one point in my life. “Just yours.” I point my fork in her direction.

  She cocks an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” Her gaze drops below the tabletop to the V between my legs. “You’re the magic man, huh?”

  “You thought last night was pretty magical.” I smirk. “And not just down there. You said my tongue was magical too.”

  “Don’t recall that. I was distracted, thinking about my new job,” she says in a prim, teasing tone.

  “Then maybe I should prove it to you again when you aren’t distracted about your new job.”

  Her eyes are bright with humor. And a spark of excitement. “Maybe you should, although I don’t know how you can top your claimed super-ultra-magical effort last night.”

  “Leave that part to me, oh ye skeptic.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Court

  On Thursday, when Nate calls me to have lunch at Virgo—plus it being his treat—I know something’s up.

  Virgo is a luxurious new Spanish bistro Mark Pryce—the guy who owns both La Mer and Éternité—opened a few months ago. Virgo is supposedly less exclusive, but everyone who can’t get a table at La Mer or Éternité comes, so it’s crowded anyway.

  “What do you want?” I ask the moment I park my ass opposite Nate at a table.

  “Geez, man. I gotta want something to ask you to lunch?” he says.

  “Normally no, but you’re drinking.” Amber color. Must be scotch, his choice of poison when he’s happy or upset. “And you look grim.”

  His mouth forms a curve that could be called a smile if you’re stretching the definition the way high-priced lawyers twist the Constitution. “No I don’t.”

  “Yeah, you do. You’ve got these deep parentheses around your mouth.”

  Scowling, he checks his reflection in the faceted mirrored wall behind him. “I’ll have you know those are called nasolabial folds.”

  “You actually know what they’re called?”

  “How can I forget? Georgette accused me of dumping her for having them. Apparently they’re a sign of aging.” He rolls his eyes and sighs.

  I wince in sympathy. She’s a third-tier socialite psycho stalker who set her gold-digging sights on Nate. She decided she wanted to be Mrs. Sterling, no matter what it took. Not that I can blame the social-climbing, materialistic bitch. Nate’s family is one of the richest on the planet. Plus she wasn’t totally crazy, because she wisely understood that Nate would be easier to approach than his older brother, Justin. Unfortunately for Nate, he didn’t r
ealize what was going on and slept with her. Later he figured out she was nuts and tossed her away with the enthusiasm of an Olympic hammer thrower.

  When our server comes by, I ask for a mini paella and sparkling lemonade. The drink arrives almost instantly.

  “And she’s back,” Nate says.

  “Who?”

  “Georgette.”

  “I thought she was in rehab.”

  “Not anymore. She says she’s clean, and she wants me back.”

  I almost spew the lemonade. “Didn’t you break up, like”—I have to think—“a year ago? And wasn’t it pretty bad? She tried to brain you with a vase, right?”

  “She says she made herself over and is now clean and worthy of me.”

  My jaw slackens. “Did you see her?”

  A couple of jerky nods. “She barged into the medical center yesterday. It was the most awkward shit ever.”

  “Did she fix her crazy?”

  “No, but she did make herself over. I almost didn’t recognize her from all the plastic surgery.”

  Damn. “Bigger tits and ass?” She has a pretty face, but, as I recall, could use some help with her body.

  “No. I mean, yeah, that. But her face, too. Her nose and mouth and chin. Jaw line. Enough fillers and Botox to turn her facial muscles into plastic. It’s like she cut out the best features of my favorite actresses and glued them onto her face. They look hideous together.” Shuddering, Nate knocks back his scotch. “Fuckin’ Frankenstalker.”

  I shudder too. “I know it sucks, but just ignore her. She’ll go away.”

  “She won’t. Can you ask Pascal to bid on me at Elizabeth’s bachelor auction?”

  I stare at him like he’s lost his mind. He probably did after having seen Georgette. “Why bother with the auction? Just give Elizabeth money for the cause she’s trying to champion with this. Problem solved.”

  “Can’t. I owe her one. She wants a lot of publicity to raise as much as possible, and I already said yes.”

  “Then swap with her ‘assistant.’ You know, that Russian dude who looks like an ax murderer.” He probably is an ax murderer, not that I’d ever say that to anybody because that man is creepy. I met him once when I went to the Pryce Family Foundation office to see Ivy, and I don’t ever want to again, especially in a dark alley.