Page 11 of Free to Dream
I find myself staring briefly into a set of the most gorgeous, chocolate brown eyes I have ever seen, before they drift away, looking around the room.
My stomach turns. My skin tingles. My heart flips in my chest.
Holy Shit. Is this the groom?
Of course, it is.
Fate, throwing the first man at me that I find remotely desirable and absolutely can’t have.
4
Caleb
Istare at the ensemble, every one of them frozen in front of me. I decide if the Freemans entered a mannequin challenge, they would likely take first place. Not just for standing completely still, but for the shock and awe on all their faces. Internally smiling at the humor of catching the notorious family in one of their battles, I let my eyes roam around the room.
Since I’d done my homework on them—frankly, I’d read everything about them—before I walked into the door, I’m way more amused than shocked at the scene unfolding before me. While my original intent was to make sure my brother didn’t get swindled by these people to create his dream wedding, I was compelled to meet this family after what I read yesterday. I ran the background check for Ry, then carefully manipulated him and Jared into letting me handle the preliminary meeting today on their behalf. They’re convinced the Freemans will create the perfect wedding and reception based on recommendations from friends and colleagues.
I think I just saw the reason why.
It’s not the youngest, Corinna, whose cat eyes and curves likely have most men fainting before they ever took a bite of the cakes she baked. It’s not Allison, whose devastating blue eyes and severe mouth could slice you in half. It’s no surprise to me that she’s the corporate financial officer and attorney, and didn’t deal with the day-to-day wedding events.
Emily and Holly are both knockouts as well. Emily has her blonde hair pinned up, dark blue eyes flashing behind her dark glasses, and her red lips pursed, ready to spring to the family’s defense. Her sharp style matches her sharp gaze. I could easily see Emily dressing Ry and Jared in appropriate wedding attire and not taking any bullshit in the process. No one was going down the aisle in gold brocade if she has anything to say about it. Holly, well, she’s the dreamer. I nabbed her checking me out, as if she had her camera in her hand, trying to find the best angle to take one of her illuminating shots. I can practically see the wheels in her head spinning as she gnaws on her full lower lip.
Then there’s Phillip, the older brother. Jason Ross’ husband. The one who had fallen into Jason’s life, breaking up my brother’s sham of an engagement, the results of which left Ry reeling for a while. The Golden Boy, as Ry used to derisively describe him over Skype while I was overseas, and according to the file I read. He’s probably afraid I’m here to upset his happy world order and ready to beat the shit out of me if I do.
The man standing in front of me took in five girls when he was barely a teenager himself, none of whom were related to him, and helped raise them to be the highly successful women standing in front of me. Regardless of what had happened in his or my brother’s love lives, he has my respect for that alone.
I ignore the occupant of the room, the one I’m dying to look at, and reach my hand out to Phillip first. “Caleb Lockwood. A pleasure.”
“Phillip Freeman-Ross. I apologize for…”
Now I let the smile cross my face. “No need. You should have heard the battles that would happen in our house as kids. And there were far fewer of us.”
A bark of laughter leaves Phillip’s mouth. He glances over my shoulder like he’s been distracted by movement. I imagine daggers are shooting from the gem-colored eyes of the oldest Freeman sister. “As my sister stated appropriately, at Amaryllis Events, this isn’t the impression we like to provide to prospective clients. We like to save the crazy for meeting three, at least.”
“Phillip.” His name is said in a calm voice. She’s too calm if I go by the number of choked sounds, accompanied by phones and hands raised in front of the mouths of the four sisters to muffle their snickers.
“Right,” Phillip says. “I’ll be leaving now. Say, Caleb, can I grab you a cup of coffee before you meet with my sister?”
“Phillip,” the voice behind me says again. Calm. In control. “Get out. Now. If Mr. Lockwood would like coffee, I am more than capable of obtaining it for him. However, you may choke to death on yours and it will be the last extra skinny latte you ever taste. Now, do you want to press your luck and continue to speak in front of me another minute more?”
The sisters can’t control their laughter any longer. They all offer their welcome, quickly introduce themselves, and leave Cassidy’s office. Phillip doesn’t say anything else, but shakes my hand firmly, his eyes meeting mine directly. His expression clearly says, have an issue with me, fine. Don’t fuck with my family.
It’s an expression I’m familiar with, as I wear it often.
As the door closes softly behind him, I turn to face Cassidy Freeman, CEO, event planner and distraction extraordinaire. Fuck, if I don’t like what I see. I let out a soft breath. From the moment I walked in the room, I deliberately ignored her. I now get the full impact. From the top of her head to her booted feet, everything about her intrigues me.
Sweet Jesus, she’s a knockout.
Easily the shortest member of the Freeman family, Cassidy’s petite size doesn’t take away from her presence. Fuck no. A face that is bewitching more than classically beautiful, with long curly hair pulled back in a braid, and the brightest blue-green eyes framed by the longest lashes. Her lower lip, painted a deep burgundy, is thrust forward, and her hands are on her hips, stretching the fabric of her sweater dress across her breasts. Shit, she’s tiny. Even wearing boots with a three to four-inch heel, she only comes up to my chin.
During my discreet perusal of her, she takes a deep breath and turns her head toward the window, clearly regrouping. I glimpse the side of her neck where her amaryllis tattoo, the Freeman family logo, peeks out from beneath her heavy mane of hair. Damned if I needed yet another reason to be turned on by her.
She’s a brilliant, badass puzzle in a package built for every fantasy I’ve ever had about a woman.
I don’t know if I let an incontrollable sound escape, or if her self-preservation instinct kicked in, but suddenly her gem-colored eyes turn and lock on mine.
I’m standing at least four feet from her, and the delicate pulse in her neck is fluttering visibly. Mine starts to synchronize with hers—a little fast-paced and agitated. I’m not the only one affected, but I might be the only one who understands why.
