Page 2 of Trip Me Up

“My date?”

“Yes, remember, I told you William Winford wanted to meet you.”

“You didn’t mention it was a date.”

Her blue eyes, paler than mine, shifted to my collar, which she straightened. “He’s very well respected. And brilliant. From what I hear, he’s tripled his trust fund.”

Don’t let her get started on trust funds.“What’s his line of business, drug kingpin? Weapons runner?”

Her mouth formed a shocked, redO.“Samantha Renée Jones, you know we don’t associate with people like that.”

“Mother, it was just a jo—”

“You can trust your family not to let you fall victim to people like that.”

My lips parted. She wouldn’t actually bring up my horrifying mistake here, would she? My heart raced.

“Samantha.” She laid a hand on my sleeve. “You need to trust the people who love you. We’ll help you find a partner who can support you.”

“I can support myself.” Maybe I made shitty decisions about men, but I didn’t need her to match me up with a partner. I had a plan for my life. I crossed my arms. “The last thing I need is a partner.”

“You need security. I’ve seen that hovel you live in. That’s not—”

“Mother.” My oldest brother’s big hand settled on the shoulder of her jacket.

“Ah. Jackson.” Her voice went all soft at my brother’s name, the way it never did when she said mine.

He bent to kiss her cheek, but his crooked smile was all for me. “I need Sam for a minute.”

“But I was going to introduce her to William Winford. You know, theinvestment banker.”She pursed her lips at me.

“She can meet your guy later. I have someone else in mind.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. My brother didn’t pimp me out or try to use me like some pawn in his business game. But he betrayed nothing under Mother’s gaze.

“All right. I’ll find you later, Samantha. With William.” She stalked off, her heels clacking on the wood floor.

“What the hell, Jacks—”

“You didn’t happen to bring that oversized rat you call a dog here, did you?” He flicked my tote bag.

I sucked in a breath. “Did you see him?”

“Over by the charcuterie table.”

“Oh, no.” With Jackson right behind, I scurried toward the table filled with platters of meats and cheeses. I squatted and pulled up the cloth draping it, but the space under the table was empty. “He’s not here.”

“Sam, why would you bring your dog to Mother’s party?”

I stood and patted my tote like Bilbo Baggins could’ve magically reappeared where he belonged. With my dog against my side, my hands had stopped trembling, and my heart rate had eased from hummingbird speed down to frightened rabbit. “I don’t know.” But I couldn’t help glancing at the giant banner of my larger-than-life dad’s face.

His smile drooped. “I hate it, too, Samwise. But people pay big bucks to come here and eat fancy cheese, and the money goes to a good cause.”

Dad’s favorite cause, he didn’t have to say.

“I know, but—” The Jones Foundation events were the worst. People wanted to talk about books, which I didn’t read anymore, or Dad, which made my heart ache like he’d been gone only a year and not more than half my life. “Why can’t they just write checks and leave me out of it?”

He shrugged. “Like it or not, you’re a Jones.”

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