Page 32 of Beyond Question

Bronte is still talking, so I push images of Paige in leather restraints out of my mind and try to focus.

“We can work with that.”

Shit. I don’t know what she was just saying. “Work with…?”

Bronte sighs. “She obviously likes you, Travis; have you even been listening? We can work with that. It’s a start, anyway.”

“Okay, good. Good.”

We decide on a place to meet and Bronte talks me into bottomless brunch instead of coffee—which I agree to because I’d agree to just about anything at this point if it meant learning more about Paige—then we hang up and I find myself standing in the middle of my kitchen, staring at the window over the sink.

Shocked. Surprised. And excited, because there may be a chance for me after all.

But the plot has thickened and there’s no ignoring that.

I knew she had twenty years of secrets, and now I know those twenty years were followed by thirty years of not dating. Those two things can’t be a coincidence. They’re linked somehow, and I intend to find out.

But how much does Bronte know?

Sitting across from Bronte at brunch, I study her face, cataloging the similarities now that I know she’s Paige’s daughter. There are so many little traits they share. It’s not just the striking blue of their eyes, but their jawlines are similar in structure, their noses both have that little mole at the tip, and she laughs just like her mom. It’s hearty and confident and heads turn to admire her each time she lets it loose.

And as I look at Bronte, it’s so obvious to me why I was drawn to them both, but now I see that the woman before me, though beautiful in her own right, is a muted version of her mom.

Fuck, I’ve got it bad.

“So,” Bronte says after a long stretch of silence. She refills my mimosa glass, then her own, and slips her sunglasses up to the top of her head so she can level me with a knowing gaze so similar to her mom’s it's uncanny. “You like my mom and want me to help you win her over. Is that about the extent of it?”

I laugh, then take a long pull from my glass. “Pretty much.”

“Well, what’s the problem?”

I motion toward her.

“Well, aside from the fact that you’re fuck buddies with her daughter, of course.”

My gaze flicks around at the diners nearest our table, but only a few heads turn and only one woman clutches her pearls. Not literally, but the way her hand flies to her neck, it’s obvious that if she was wearing any, she’d be clutching them. “Jesus, Bron.”

She shrugs, then lifts her glass toward the woman in salute. When she turns back to me, she winks. “So, aside from that, what’s the issue?”

“Well, you said it yourself, she hates men.”

“She does.” Bronte grimaces. “Rich men, especially.”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know. But it’s been that way as long as I can remember. I was warned—and I meanwarnedto”—she leans forward and lowers her voice—“‘stay away from the wealthy ones, baby, they’ll only cause you pain.’ I heard that like a broken record, over and over again throughout my life.”

“It doesn’t make sense. I know we can be assholes, but—”

“No.” Bronte shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s that simple. It’s always struck me as deeper. It’s not about heartbreak or falling for the wrong guy. It’s not simple like staying away from bad boys. It felt like a warning, Travis, like a serious,life or deathwarning.”

I stare at her as I process the words, and the way she emphasizedwarning, as if it was, in fact, more than just a protective mother trying to steer her daughter down the right path, toward a nice man who would care for both herandher heart. I’m not a fool; I know the kind of man Paige thinks I am.

And I know what kind of man comes from the wealth I was born into.

I fucking despise most of those men, my father included. Hell, that man is at the front of the pack.

Cabot, of course, is the exception to the rule. And only then because he was insistent and made it a point to wear me down back in boarding school. Like I said, the man has never seen a game-—or challenge—he couldn’t win, and I was no exception.

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