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I nodded, even knowing it was an empty promise. With my dad, work always came first. But at least Nina and I had each other, and I could surely survive the next few hours without drowning myself in a punchbowl. “I know. Now stop hovering. I’ll be fine.”
Nina stepped back, and I watched her weave through the round tables marked by elegant numbered placards and adorned with extravagant pink and gold centerpieces. Hoping to avoid introducing myself to a bunch of strangers all at once, I turned back toward the entrance on the chance of linking up with a straggler instead.
The front door opened, a lone figure propelled forward on a burst of blinding sunlight. Once it receded, my gaze landed on a pair of calm gray eyes, half-hidden by a tuft of hair the color of the roan pony I’d ridden as a child, the ends curling over the collar of his navy blazer.
A frisson of recognition shot through me at the exact instant an unfamiliar ache warmed me to my bones. Remington Montgomery. He looked nothing like the boy I only vaguely remembered, but I knew it was him all the same.
One look cast an invisible tether between us, a lure that hooked over my collarbone with an almost audible clank and entirely eliminated my reluctance to be here. Needing to ease the sudden, sharp pain inside my chest, I instinctively took a few steps forward.
The door opened again. Another beam of sunlight streaked inside, this time revealing my father and his business partner, Remington’s father. Stepping into the lobby, they flanked him, both clapping opposite shoulders. Remington didn’t wince, his eyes widening just enough to convey his restraint at not shrugging them both off. “I see you’ve already found each other,” my dad said, looking between us as he commented on the obvious.
I nodded, not trusting my voice quite yet.
Remington answered with a curt but respectful, “Yes, sir.” Once our fathers had strolled off in search of a drink or a potential client, probably both, he finally addressed me. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve gotten—”
“Taller,” I interrupted, ducking my head.
He closed the remaining distance between us with a rolling stride, waiting until I’d raised my head again before correcting me. “Actually, I was going to say prettier.”
At six-three, or maybe six-four, Remington towered over me, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Long lashes cast shadows atop high cheekbones that slid sharply to his lips. Full and almost pretty, they were the perfect accent to soften his hard, patrician features.
A flush broke over my skin, a sudden warmth throbbing between my thighs. The first tender stirrings of lust swirling inside my otherwise empty stomach.
“Thanks, Remington,” I forced out through paralyzed vocal chords.
“My name’s kind of a mouthful. Just call me Tripp, everyone else does.”
Tripp. I hadn’t realized he went by a nickname, but it suited him. “I take it you’re a ‘third’?”
“Unfortunately for me, yes.” He pushed that same errant tuft of hair back again and glanced over my shoulder, his face showing a trace of resignation as he took in the crowd I’d retreated from just a few minutes before, forcing a sideways smile onto his lips. “Can I be honest with you?”
Uh oh. Nothing good starts with that question. I squared my shoulders, bracing myself. “Sure.”
“I wasn’t looking forward to this.”
That made two of us. “Ditto.”
He turned surprised eyes back to me. They were an interesting shade of gray, like the sliver of horizon suspended between the sea and sky on an overcast day. A place you could try swimming toward but never reach. “I thought all girls were into these kinds of things.”
A blush burned my cheeks, and I curled my fingers into my palms, indenting my flesh with the half-moon shape of my nails. “Not this girl.”
“How long do you think we have to stay?”
Except that suddenly I wasn’t very keen on leaving. “Um . . . I’m not sure. Maybe a couple of hours.”
Mischief turned his gray stare silver. “How about we give it our all for the next hour and then get out of here?”
“If you want to go, I’m sure it’s fine. I don’t want to keep you here or anything,” I stammered, fighting to keep the sharp sting of disappointment from my tone.
His brows, two shades darker than the hair on his head, pulled together. “You’re coming with me, of course.”
“Oh.” It was just a soft puff of air as Tripp pressed his hand against the flat of my back and led me into the main dining room.
You’re coming with me.
Did Tripp feel what I was feeling? Even one-tenth of what I was feeling? One-hundredth? The current that seemed to run between our bodies, energy sparking at the slightest touch, a magnetic pull tugging us together—he had to be feeling it, too. Right?
Of course.
Walking into the Bachelor Brunch—seriously, could there be a more ridiculous event?—I wasn’t exactly in a good mood. My father made it sound like Jolie couldn’t get a date on her own, and I’d agreed out of pity for the shy, awkward girl I remembered meeting a few years ago. But the real reason I didn’t put up a fight was because I knew one of the other debs, too, and had pla
Except that from the moment I set eyes on Jolie Chapman, this updated version of her that was somehow both regal and enchantingly unsure of herself, I lost interest in any of the other girls. In anyone else at all, actually.
Blonde hair that had been plaited into submission the last time we met now tumbled over her shoulders, an unbound river of gold and platinum. And although her eyes were still blinking rapidly against the sudden onslaught of bright sunshine in the dimly lit lobby, they were the fierce blue of a vivid sky on a su
Jolie’s body was different, too. Tall and lean, but hinting at curves in all the right places.
Intrigue was an unfamiliar emotion to me. It curled around my ribs, leaching into my veins. Every part of me responding in a way that was instinctive and primal. I wanted this girl. Wanted her to want me in return. Not just naked behind a locked door, or a drunken make-out session in the middle of a party—I wanted to know her. Jolie’s body and her mind. I wanted to hear her laugh and taste her lips. Hold her hand. I wanted it all.
What I didn’t want was to share Jolie with a room of debutants, their dates, and especially our parents.
We needed to ditch this brunch.
Keeping Jolie close, I launched the most effective charm offensive I’d ever waged. We worked the room like no one’s business, inserting ourselves in every grouping just long enough to make a good impression, before moving onto a new target.
An hour later, I pulled Jolie toward the door, pausing briefly to jot a quick note on the back of a card and hand it to a server, pointing toward my father.
Jolie giggled. “What did you write?”
“To stay away from the eggs, and that I was taking you home.”
“But I didn’t have any—”
“Exactly. Come on.” I pushed open the door. “Let’s go get some real food.” Outside, the city had warmed up. A rare post-Thanksgiving treat with temperatures edging toward seventy degrees. Once the sun went down it would feel like winter again, but for now, it could have been spring.