Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
I don’t mention that’s because Giselle was a chronic alcoholic and a danger.
“You think I’m full of horseshit, fine, but let me tell you this,” she says sharply, wagging a finger at my face. “Beatrice Brandt wants to be the only woman in any Brandt boy’s life. If you get under her thumb, God have mercy.” She scans me up and down. “You’re not his usual type, but you look like a nice girl. I’m sure you’ll make Ward very happy—assuming you’re real.”
Assuming we’re real?
So, our farce isn’t even believable to this wretched woman?
Panic time.
“What do you mean, Giselle? Why wouldn’t we be 'real?'” I throw back my most dismissive eye roll, making finger quotes on that last word in the air.
With a dead look, she puts out the cigarette on the bottom of her pump and tosses the butt in the trash can at the end of the couch.
“I’ve heard a lot of things lately. Like Ross Winthrope becoming awfully interested in using Brandt Ideas for a new hotel development.” She pauses long enough for the air to solidify in my lungs. “Look, I’m sorry the old crone had a heart attack, and I hope her ticket isn’t due to be punched anytime soon. Still, I wonder...what extremes would Beatrice use to get her way if she’s had a brush with the undertaker? The grand hotel was on her bucket list forever. Would she get her sons to lie for her? Would she recruit a sweet little slice of arm candy to keep Ward company for an engagement based on less noble things than love?”
Holy crap.
I don’t say anything, flattening my face like a stone. It doesn’t really matter if it was Beatrice’s idea or not. It is a scam to close the hotel.
And if I give Giselle the tiniest hint she’s clearly fishing for that she’s right...who knows what this strange, scary woman might do?
I wrinkle my nose and try to stare her down.
“Look, lady, if you’re here to insult me—”
“It’s not you I’m insulting. The fairy god-bitch was always a schemer—she had to be to get as far as she did—and she’s always had Nick and Ward twisted around her finger. They’ll do anything she says.” She shrugs with a sad sigh. “For Ward’s sake, I hope this time around it’s less damaging, anyway.”
Damaging? What?
Ward said she has drinking problems. Maybe she’s drunk or high off her butt right now because she’s making no sense.
“What damage do you mean?” I ask, hating that I’m too curious not to.
“Oh, you know, his last engagement...it was over in the blink of an eye. I don’t remember how long they were together, but he clearly loved her.”
Loved her? My world is spinning.
Ward made it sound like he didn’t talk to his mom. And flipping engaged? Before me? Not that we’re really—
No. No, she’s not getting in my head, and I’m letting her.
She’s got to be wrong. Ward would’ve mentioned a past engagement, I think.
“Get help,” I bite off, standing, inviting her to get the hell away from me.
“I see I’ve upset you. How unfortunate. This time will probably be different,” she says flatly, without budging from the sofa. “But if you guys have kids, they can’t call me grandma.”
Who would want to? I think with a sickly twist of my stomach.
“They’ll have to call me Gigi or something like that. I’m too young to be a grandma.” She winks, and I can’t tell if it’s a real attempt at a joke or a torture tactic.
I’d never allow kids around this odd cataclysm of a woman.
Or maybe I just want there to be something wrong with her because she’s telling me things I don’t want to hear. The worst part is, I can’t dismiss everything as pure insanity. Or deliberate sabotage.
Ward never mentioned being engaged, and Beatrice did give this sham engagement her stamp of approval...
I frown, hating the Googling I’ll have to do later to prove this lady crazy. She could be lying or embellishing a lot.
“Well, I have a conference to get back to. It wasn’t nice meeting you,” I quip, not bothering to look back as I gather up my things and slip away.
Once I’m back in the conference room, I cringe while my fingers punch “Ward Brandt engagement” into my search bar.
A few links pop up but they go to 404 error pages or old blog posts long since deleted. There’s just a single remaining piece from the local gossip mill, The Chicago Tea.
And holy monkey balls.
Ward was engaged to a supermodel distantly tied to the Spanish monarchy.
Maria Duchessny.
Figures.
So bad mom wasn’t lying. Why did he hide it, though?
I can’t be mad. It’s none of my business who he dated before I even knew him.
Besides, this is a contract. An arrangement with mind-blowing sex. I shouldn’t care.
Still, I blink back poison tears that shouldn’t be there as my heart starts pounding. There’s no picture in the article, but I imagine she’s gorgeous and refined and exactly right for Ward’s bulging, ink-covered arm.