Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
I sidle up next to Dara, putting a hand on her lower back. “Ladies. Having a good time?”
“This fucking blows,” Genna says, drunk already, not that I can blame her. She’s losing one of her favorite clubs over nothing, at least from her perspective. She put in as much work as I did over the years, only to see it all evaporate. “But yeah, it’s fine. Open bar rules.”
“It’s always open for you,” I point out. “You own it.”
“It’s really nice in here,” Kathryn says before Genna can shoot back. “Thanks for letting me come.”
“We’re happy to have you anytime,” I say as I bend down to kiss Dara’s cheek.
She beams at me. “Genna’s going to stab you in the throat. She said so.”
“Five times,” Kathryn adds, looking a little nervous. “I kind of think she’s going to really try it.”
“I’m gonna stab you in the neck, you turkey-brained fuckface,” Genna slurs. “That’s six now. And you better believe I’ll do it.”
“Okay, you need to take it easy,” I say, removing the drink from her hand. “I assumed Robin’s dad would break a hip tonight, but it’s looking like it might be you getting injured instead.”
“Prick,” she mutters. “But yeah, you’re not wrong. I am really fucking drunk.” She jabs a finger in my face. “Keep me away from knives if you value your throat.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I murmur, patting her shoulder. She glares miserably at me, leaning forward to put her head in her hands.
Kathryn gets Genna some water as Dara takes my arm. I lead her into the crowd. “How many of these people do you know?” she asks.
“Most of them,” I admit, feeling guilty about Genna, but already thinking of ways I can make this up to her. “They’re the kind of people my father makes sure I’m at least aware of.”
“Must be hard.” She moves to bite her thumbnail, a nervous gesture, but stops herself. “Are you going to be okay? You know, the big hand-off?”
I glare off into the crowd. “I’ll survive. It’s ritual humiliation, but Robin promised to make it as painless as possible.”
“She’s a good one,” Dara says, nodding to herself.
“I take it you’ve come around.” I grin at her, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Left all that jealousy behind?”
“I never disliked her,” she protests. But she lets me kiss her again. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.”
“No, it doesn’t. Now, come on, let’s mingle and make some political contacts so I can at least say this night wasn’t a complete waste.”
“Lead on, boss.”
“Oh, I like that.” I pinch her ass and she laughs, swatting at my hand.
It feels good, showing Dara off. She looks incredible in a form-fitting dress that hugs her curves, chosen because she claims it’s one of the last times she’ll ever get to wear something like it. She’s wrong, but I know better than to argue. Dara’s going to look beautiful no matter what—six months pregnant, two hours post-baby, whatever, whenever, and I feel proud to introduce her to the Boston elite.
She does wonderfully, laughing at jokes, making graceful comments, greeting people with genuine warmth. It’s like she’d been trained for this from birth like half the women in here.
Dara thinks she doesn’t belong, but that’s only because she can’t see herself clearly.
From my perspective, she glows, she floats, like she’s drifting over clouds. Her voice sends tingles of excitement down my spine and the way she clutches my arm makes me stand up just a little bit straighter, makes it easier to meet the haughty, judgmental stares from all the elites assholes around us. She’s clever and she’s funny, and I find myself having a good time at a shitty rich-guy birthday party for the first time in my entire life, not because of the crowd, but because of her.
An hour of tooth-pulling small talk follows. Everyone wants to shake my hand and meet Dara. It’d be flattering if I didn’t know the gossip: a man like myself marrying a woman out of the blue after breaking an arrangement is almost unheard of. It must’ve shocked the chittering, pearl-clutching monied elite, the poor darlings.
At least I have my wife, hanging on my arm, smoothing things over.
Fuck. My wife. How bizarre.
I’m almost used to introducing her that way by the time Robin takes the stage.
We’re joined by Kathryn, but Genna’s nowhere to be seen. Kathryn assures me she got shoved into a cab by one of my guys and escorted back to her apartment. That’s for the best—I’m pretty sure Genna planned on making this hand-off harder than it needed to be.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” Robin says, tapping the microphone. A little feedback screeches out over the crowd. She grimaces, looking apologetic. “Ladies and gentleman, if I can have a moment? I’d like to wish my father a very special, very happy birthday. You know, the McLaren family has never been sentimental about things, but I can’t help but feel a sense of pride up here, pride at how my father’s grown the family business, pride at being a part of his empire, and pride at the generosity and kindness of everyone in this room.”