Page 16 of The Arrogant's Redemption

So what made me need this weekend away was me. I needed to reconsider what I want for my future.

I want to continue my bloodline, and time isn’t on my side, but at the same time, I’m beginning to realize that a casual arrangement—acquiring a wife by contract—won’t be as simple as I first imagined.

As soon as I dropped Jodie off at her place, I got calls from Seth and Morrison. My brother wanted to make sure I had actually ended the madness that was my almost-engagement. Morrison didn’t ask anything—he just knew it was over and offered me his place in Cape Cod, Massachusetts, for a few days.

Like the rest of our family, both he and I have homes in the Hamptons—but my cousin knows me well enough to know that would be the last place I’d want to go, because there is always a chance Jodie could show up there.

Sometimes we communicate by telepathy, and even though we’re not that far apart in age—he’s only eight years older—Morrison has always felt responsible for me.

He told me from the start that my relationship with Jodie wouldn’t work out. Though, he never explained why, other than saying her family was unbearable, which didn’t mean much to me, considering ours is a battalion of monsters.

Only when her mask slipped last night did I realize Morrison had always known she was pretending; he was just waiting for me to see it for myself.

And if I hadn’t? Would he have told me? I’m not sure. The members of our family seem to get a strange satisfaction out of watching other people’s lives collapse—my brothers and cousin included. As for me, I’m just indifferent. I don’t suffer with others, and I don’t celebrate their victories.

Life is a constant cycle of celebrations and crap. Handle both, and you keep breathing.

As I walk along the seaside streets of Provincetown, a town near Morrison’s property, I find myself thinking, probably for the last time, about the breakup with Jodie.

Not even for a second did I believe, despite the tears and supposed desperation, that she was in love with me. My cynical side says it was just her plans falling apart that set her off, but something nags at the back of my mind. Maybe it wasn’t just that. Even for a woman with a flair for drama—which she clearly has—her reaction was excessive.

I watched as her image crumbled, brick by brick, in front of me. And like I said before, what made me walk away wasn’t the fact that, deep down, she has a bad temper; it was that she’d pretended for months. I sure as hell don’t want my heir to come from a mother like that.

Changing direction, I head toward the sand, where several fishing boats are returning, probably from their daily run.

There’s a quiet camaraderie among the men unloading, something admirable. There’s also clear satisfaction on their faces after a productive early morning.

The salty air surrounds me, and I take a deep breath, letting it in. I’ve never liked sunbathing—I don’t have the patience to stay in one place that long—but I enjoy the feeling of seawater against my skin, or the lazy ache in my muscles after swimming.

I notice, among the boats, one with a girl sitting on it. Maybe a teenager?

What the hell is someone that young doing on a deserted beach, surrounded by men, this early in the day? She doesn’t look like she’s working. Even from a distance, I can tell she’s wearing athletic clothes—running shorts and a sports bra. Blonde hair tied up in a ponytail.

Ignoring the unpleasant feeling of sand in my loafers, I head straight toward her. There’s nothing I can do about it—it’s afamily trait, inherited from our ancestors: we’re protective of women.

Maybe I’m just being a controlling idiot, living in a world where a girl that young shouldn’t be alone at sunrise, surrounded by that many men. But I need to at least make sure she’s okay.

The closer I get, the more I realize her attention is also on me. She doesn’t move—as if frozen in place—and only when I’m about five meters away do I realize she’s not a teenager. She’s a young woman.

Early twenties, maybe?

Still, she shouldn’t be here at this hour.

“Are you the buyer I’m waiting for? Because if you are, you’re late,” she says, without even offering a hello—completely catching me off-guard.

“What?”

“Yours wasn’t the only offer I got. So if you’re thinking of playing hardball to get a discount, think again. I’m young, not stupid.”

Alexis

CHAPTER TEN

Introverts aregood at reading the body language of those around them.

As I mentioned before, I fake it well—giving off the impression that I’m the queen of the party when, in truth, I punctuate people’s comments with pre-programmed phrases just so I don’t seem weird.

"Wow, that’s amazing!"

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