Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Family events are always the hardest. It’s easy to ignore the way I don’t fit in back at the house where I have my own life and can escape any weird conversations or disapproving glares, but here I’m totally exposed, and everyone can see how I stand out amidst a sea of skinny blondes and brunettes. I’ve worked hard over the years to get myself in shape and I’m proud to say that I’m looking the best I ever have, but I’ll never be super skinny like the rest of them. Maybe it’s my father’s genes, I don’t know, but I’m a bigger girl with hips and boobs and thighs, and it took me a really, really long time to accept what I look like.
I’m not there completely, but I’m doing the work and feel okay about myself for the first time in a really long time—honestly, probably for the first time ever, since some of my earliest memories involve my cousins bullying me for not looking like them.
Now I’m expected to smile and laugh and mill about and act like everything is lovely and fine and like I don’t despise Sara Lynn for making my life a living hell growing up. None of my cousins were particularly nice to me, but Sara Lynn went out of her way to be nasty. I still don’t know why, maybe it’s something broken inside of her, or maybe it’s just that I’m so flawed that I drag everyone else down by association. Either way, family parties suck, and I get through them by staying out of the way, drinking a few glasses of wine, and leaving as soon as it’s appropriate.
Except tonight, I have a mission.
A man comes toward me from the crowd. I catch his eye and something in my belly twists. He’s barely an inch taller than me, extremely skinny, wearing a navy suit with thick glasses and a receding hairline. I’d guess mid-thirties, maybe even forties, but it’s hard to say in the low light. His name is Matthew Keyne, and he’s on Grandfather’s list.
“Hey, uh, Katherine, right?” Matthew grins at me over his drink. Beer, just like every other guy in here. I like that he’s pretending as though he wasn’t sent over here to talk to me by my grandfather. Like this is totally spontaneous.
It’s not. I can practically feel Grandfather staring at us.
“Nice to meet you,” I say and shake his hand even though we met a few years ago at a party just like this one, although I forget the cause now.
“Sara Lynn knows how to throw herself a birthday.” He grins awkwardly. “Do you, uh, have parties like this too?”
I keep my smile plastered on my face. I want to say, My family would rather sell my kidneys than spend a dime on a party for me but only politely shake my head instead. “I’m not the party type.”
“Oh, totally. I’m not either. Well, actually, this one time when I was with my brothers, you know, my fraternity brothers, we threw this wild rager…”
I stand there and listen to a wonderfully riveting tale about a big party this guy and his frat put on probably twenty years ago now, and I’m already searching for an excuse to run away. He’s not terrible, not at all, but he’s barely looking at me and his story is dragging on with absolutely no point. All I can think about is how he’s only standing here talking to me at all because Grandfather sent him over, and our family still holds a lot of influence in the world of the elite bluebloods. Except if this guy is here and single, and in this room, that means there’s something deeply wrong with him just like there’s something deeply wrong with me. By the time I’m able to pretend like I need another glass of wine and extract myself from the conversation, I’m busy analyzing just how bad this nightmare’s going to get.
At the bar, I order the same thing—white wine with ice—and I swear the bartender turns green and looks like he wants to throw up. He gets it and doesn’t complain, but boy, does he make me pay for it. I turn away, new drink secured, and start surveying the crowd—when another man appears at my elbow.
“Hey, you’re Katherine Stockton. I’m Jason Varley. Your grandfather said we should meet.” He grins at me, too-straight white teeth gleaming, his head like a perfect square, his chin like an eraser, his suit a size too small and clinging to his absurd muscles. I note that he’s easily an inch shorter than me, and I’m not tall.
“Nice to meet you,” I say and glimpse Grandfather staring at us from across the room.
My conversation with Jason lasts a little bit longer—he asks me questions this time and doesn’t brag about ancient frat keggers at least, but I come up with an excuse to get some air after ten minutes of small talk. That doesn’t last long—as soon as I’m alone, another potential suitor appears, and it becomes obvious that this party has an ulterior motive.