Page 11 of One Wealthy Wedding

“Or do they?” Cole’s eyes are alight.

“No.” I push off the boards. “Whatever that look is for, I don’t like it.”

“You know an heiress, Theo.” Cole grins at me.

“An heiress—oh no. Cat. No. I’m not interested in Cat. Honestly, I’d pick anyone but Cat.”

“Why?” He crosses his heavy arms over his chest.

Acid spills into my chest. “You don’t know what it was like growing up on that estate,” I say quietly. Cole looks like he’s about to speak, but I need him to hear me out. “I know you saw bits and pieces when you were back from boarding school, but Cat’s parents were utterly cold. Mom never complained about how they treated her. She happily took Cat’s stepmother’s old clothes and she turned the other cheek when they yelled at her.” I blow out an unsteady breath. Cole looks anguished.

I might not be that teenager anymore, but I’ll never forget the way I felt seeing my mom scrub toilets and make dinner for another family. “We were friends when we were kids, but that was before I saw the truth of Mom’s situation. Cat’s a spoiled brat. She was awful to Mom for years. I want nothing to do with her.”

Cole’s face twists at the words. He wasn’t there to see most of my childhood, and I avoid talking about it most of the time. I can tell from his face that it still kills him that he didn’t know how bad things were for Mom.

It still fucking kills me too.

Which is why when I said anyone but Cat, I meant it.

And when I go back to that bar tomorrow night, it will be to satisfy my curiosity, nothing more. I’m going to figure out Cat’s secrets, and then I’m never going to think about her again.

4

Cat

I’m home studying when Blair calls me to cover for her that Sunday. Blair got me the job at Sylvia’s when I first fled my parents’ house at Rockwood six months ago. Sylvia, the grizzled owner of the bar, doesn’t care who’s working, as long someone’s on shift, so I cover Blair’s night shifts when she’s at practice or performances, and she covers me when I’m in class.

“You want to work?” Blair asks. “Bar will be dead because there’s no game, so you can study once we get the prep work done. Tips will be shit, though.”

“How can I resist?”

I could use the distraction of work from the slow-motion train wreck of my life, and I’m way too desperate right now to turn down any amount in tips.

Blair puffs a breath into the phone. “Wear something cute. Maybe you’ll make a little more.”

“Yuck. Yeah, I’ll do it. Thanks, B.”

“See you soon. And hurry up. We need to cut like seven hundred fucking limes before Monday.”

I hustle down to the bar on 33rd Street and push open the door into the beer-scented dark.

Blair’s head jerks up. “Thank fuck,” she mutters. “I thought you were a customer. I was going to scream.”

I flip the lock on the front door and shuck my coat as I make my way to the back of the bar. It’s long, about twenty seats, and there are numerous high-top tables scattered throughout the space, meaning one person can’t handle it on a busy day. And as the number-one Royals hockey bar in Manhattan, game days, like Friday night, are brutal. But non-game days are basically dead.

I stow my purse in the cubby where Blair puts her bag. Close enough to grab the illegal taser she keeps in there for late nights and my phone, if by some miracle, I get an internship offer. Blair is looking at me with a question on her face, even as her hands move through the motions of decanting vodka from one nearly empty bottle into another.

“It’s a no.” I shake my head. “Still no husband. Still no internship.”

“Fuck.” Blair’s curse is blistering. “What are you going to do?”

“No idea. I’ll talk to my professor next week. Maybe he’ll cut me some slack.”

“I meant with your whole marriage thing.”

“Don’t remind me. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for the past fifty-one weeks.” My head is halfway inside the fridge where we keep the produce. Limes, oranges, lemons, some mint, though no one in their right mind would order a mojito in this bar. I don’t even know how to make one. I stand with the bucket of limes and thump it down on the bar. I look at my best friend, who is biting her lip. Her dark eyes are uncertain.

“I’ll figure it out, B,” I reassure her. “Look at you. You never thought you’d make any money, and now you’re following your dreams. You’re killing it.” I grab the paring knife from the drawer.

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