Page 27 of One Wealthy Wedding

“Definitely not. I mean, maybe once, but I was too young to know what love was.” I shrug and dig my nail under the label of my beer. What I felt for Cat was lust. Longing for a girl I could never have and liked against my better judgment. “It’s in the past.”

“Oh no.” Miles is looking at me with those uncanny gray eyes. “You’re going to fall for her again, and this is going to blow up in your face.”

“No way.” I shake my head. “I know Lane likes Cat, but she’s a spoiled brat. I’ve known Cat for my entire life. I grew up living on her family’s estate. My mother was her housekeeper.” My voice is hoarse on the final word. I hate admitting to my roots. I don’t belong in this world of wealth and power. Someday, everyone will figure it out, and I’ll be back where I started.

“The way they treated her over the years—” My throat tightens. “Cat’s dad is a piece of shit.” I force the words out. “And Cat is no better. She used to demand my mom do things for her. Even at age twelve, she was very comfortable with having servants.” I pop the cap on my beer and gulp the cold liquid. I don’t even taste it. “She made my mom sleep in her room. Wash her sheets late at night. She was totally capricious and utterly oblivious to anyone else’s problems. You know we share the same birthday?” A bitter laugh forces its way out. “I celebrated with her every year. Against my will. My mom was obsessed with making her birthday perfect for her. Never mind the fact that her family monopolized our time. I barely saw my mother as a kid.” And even though I hated Cat for it, I still wanted her. Because I’m weak like that.

“That’s really shitty,” Miles murmurs.

“Exactly. So no, I’m not going to fall in love with her. We had a fling as teenagers, her dad warned me off, and I realized it was better to go.” The memory feels lodged in my chest, barbed and hateful. If I try to dislodge it, I’ll bleed out.

“Good.” Jonah claps me on the shoulder. “We need your head in the game. The expansion is a priority, but so is a marquee European investment, like you said.”

I sip my beer and frown. “I thought you bought that office building in Paris as part of the new portfolio.”

“Fell through.” Jonah shakes his head. Things falling through ranks somewhere below vacations in Jonah’s hierarchy of things he hates. He likes efficiency, long hours at the office, and needling his cofounders.

“You’re losing your mind over it, aren’t you?” I ask.

Miles guffaws. “He’s losing it,” he confirms.

“And you need me to come in and save the day.” I grin at Jonah, who looks like someone just stepped on his custom loafers.

“Kiss some babies or slap some backs. Parade your new wife around. Dote on her. Cozy up with one of the big European firms or their investors.” Jonah waves his hand in the air, and I know he means well, but hurt lances through me. I did this to myself, I suppose. This is my area of expertise.

I nod. “Leave it to me. I’ll get us a big European investment. We’ll make a splash.” I try for confidence, but doubt swirls.

“Thanks, man. Glad you’re back,” Miles says.

“Me too,” I say hoarsely. We tap our bottles and drain our drinks.

My business partners are relying on me. I owe them too much. I can’t let them down.

11

Theo

Iwake the next morning to a pounding on my door. Or is that my head? I shut my eyes. I’ve woken too many mornings like this, and if I turn the pillow at the correct angle and put the other over my head, I can pretend I’m not alive. For another hour at least. Because it’s Saturday, right? At least I think it is. But what if it’s not, and I have to be at the office? Nah, I don’t schedule early meetings. I shut my eyes. The pounding starts again. That is most definitely the door.

I stalk to it, wrench it open, and stare into my wife’s chocolate eyes.

Right. My wife. She lives here now. I found a pink lip balm on the kitchen counter last night.

“What?” I growl. I’m ready to deliver the tongue-lashing of a lifetime, and then I look at her. “What are you wearing?”

She looks down at her outfit. Her nipples poke at her silk camisole, and I drag my eyes up to her face. That’s safe. An eyebrow. Too close to her eyes, though. Maybe an ear is better?

“Pajamas?”

“Those are not pajamas. That’s lingerie. I know the difference.”

“I’m not surprised,” she says sweetly.

It is lingerie, and it’s the best damn lingerie I’ve ever seen. Black silk shorts and a matching tank top edged with white lace. Indecently short and leaving just enough to the imagination. Imagination is the best part, and mine is active. Too fucking active if the way my morning wood presses against my briefs is any indication.

“Why are you here?” I grit the words out. “Why are you even in this wing of the house?”

“I tried all the beds. Which you would know if you’d been here to help me settle in.”

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