Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 128430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
The clack of their heels against the marble entry sounds alarms like sirens in the middle of the night. Unsettling. I find myself looking for the closest escape route.
“Cooper, look who stopped by.” My mom holds her expression—too smiley for the coincidence. It doesn’t suit her.
Too late.
My mom slides her hand gracefully along the side of her hair that’s perfectly pinned up without a hair out of place. She has a softer green than the harshness of my eyes and not a flaw on her, not even a freckle daring to mark her face. The black-and-white-houndstooth skirt and white blouse under a striking yellow sweater complete her Haywood look—country clubs, charity events, and society parties. She fits right in when we’re here. I prefer how she dresses—more black, sleeker styles, “casual” days as she calls them when she wears jeans with a designer jacket—in the city better.
“Camille,” I say. Even I can hear the boredom in my voice, and we haven’t even exchanged formal greetings. As for “stopping by,” that’s not Camille’s style. From her expensive clothes to the jewelry she wears, from dates to daily life, she never does anything unplanned. There’s not a wild bone in her body. It was one of our greatest conflicts, though our match didn’t rival it. It surpassed all other issues to become the barrier I relied on when I broke up with her last July.
She was never a girlfriend. She wasn’t even really a friend of mine. Camille Arden was brought in for damage control. I just wish I would have figured it out sooner.
The perfect agent to pull off the job, her hair was styled long with no curls, her eyes as blue as mine are green, startling if you’re not used to them. Taller than average, she’s done some modeling but prefers hosting conversational dinner parties for twelve instead. But that means landing a husband in Haywood or waiting for her wealthy parents to pass away.
Right before I broke it off, I found out that a deal was struck between our two families years prior to my high school graduation. My arrest for disorderly conduct that landed me in a drunk tank overnight made them skittish about the commitment.
I take a long pull from the glass before I—fuck it. I don’t have the energy to play these games.
My mom sidesteps while adjusting the sweater draped around her shoulders. “I’ll just leave you two lovebirds alone.”
I glare at her as she disappears down the corridor to my parents’ wing of the house before I can correct her. I’m sure that’s another piece of the plan.
Camille says, “You look good, really good, Coop. School’s going well?” She gets compliments on her blue eyes all the time, but she’s hollow inside with no soul to be found beyond the coloring. I’d almost forgotten.
And though it’s not fair to compare the two, Story’s eyes hold a world of depth. The thing is, I don’t hate Camille. She was another pawn in the game. She just hasn’t realized it yet, not like I have. “It’s going. How’s Huntley College?”
“It’s such a bore, and since the university is small, it doesn’t offer much either.” She comes over to me, takes the glass, and holds it under her nose. “Bourbon always made you do bad things if memory serves. Interesting you’re drinking again, or did you never give it up?”
“I was never an alcoholic, Camille. I was on a mission to destroy this town one bar brawl at a time.”
She pulls a bottle of Dom Pérignon and starts ripping the wrapping from around the cork. “I’ve traveled a lot, but not much compares to home. So, I never did understand why you hate this place so much.”
“Because the Haywoods are and were awful people.”
“You’re a Haywood, so what does that say about you?” she asks, handing me the bottle to open like our old routine is still in play.
“I was born with all their terrible deeds running through my veins.”
Popping the cork, I then set it on the counter, thinking this isn’t the war I’m waging with her. She gives me a look, and though she tries to hide it, I see the slight roll of her eyes as she starts filling the champagne flute. “Your history is wasted on you.”
“It’s not wasted. I’m the product of it.”
Pressing the 18k carat gold rim of the glass to her bottom lip, she stares at me over the crystal and the bubbly liquid inside. Camille always loved to pause for dramatic effect and the attention it allowed to flow in her direction. She sips, and then her gaze turns to linger over the furnishings. “Your mom’s redecorated. I like the beachy vibe.”
For her whole life, Camille has had dreams of a home full of valuable antiques and a baroque and depressing art collection. And she’s not shy about putting that out there to any suitor who shows interest. I witnessed it for years before I thought I’d try stepping in line to please my parents and get a trust fund owed to me from my grandparents back in my name.