Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 107710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“Natalie,” he growled, stomping after her. “Wait.”
“Can’t. I need fresh air. Your stupidity is obviously contagious.”
“I have your car keys.”
She halted with one hand on the doorknob, turned, and held out her hand. “Give them to me.”
He made no move to take them out of his pocket. Instead, he jerked his chin in the direction of the bathroom. “You were going to touch me in there.”
“As you pointed out, my life has been a series of bad decisions.” If that look on his face was regret, she didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to explore why he was regretful, because there was already a notch in her throat and pressure between her shoulder blades. “Look, I’ve had a pretty rough day, so if I was pondering a move on you, it would have been purely out of the need for a distraction.”
She expected him to pounce on that last part. To try and persuade her to spend the next few hours distracted in one of those back bedrooms. To her surprise, he didn’t. “Why did you have a rough day?”
“I’m not giving you that kind of ammunition.”
“What does it matter if I’m leaving?”
He had her there.
And damn, Natalie was suddenly desperate to get the weight off her chest. She refused to interrupt Julian and Hallie’s freakish happiness with her problems. All of her friends were in New York—mostly surface-level acquaintances who also worked in finance. To their credit, when she’d made the bad trade and the firm requested that she step down, they hadn’t abandoned her. But their emails and texts had thinned over the last few weeks, a gradual ghosting that left them with a clear conscience and her with no one to call.
Could she vent to August?
Despite the acerbic nature of their relationship, she couldn’t help but feel like . . . they knew each other. He was not a stranger.
She shook off the comfort it gave her to acknowledge that.
No. Whatever. She’d talk to him because it was a free chance to unload. He was leaving and wouldn’t be able to use any of the information to make fun of her.
“I, um . . .” She crossed her arms protectively over her middle, wondering why he watched the action so closely. “You’ll be gleeful to know that I humbled myself this morning by asking my mother for money. I asked her to release my trust fund and I was denied.”
His brows knit together as he processed that. “Trust fund. Shouldn’t that be released when you become a legal adult?”
“In most cases, yes, but my father made certain . . . requirements.”
“Such as?”
Was she really going to tell him this? Yeah. Why not? Nothing could make today any worse. Not even his ridicule. “Not only am I obligated to be gainfully employed, I am required to be married in order for the trustee to release the assets. Julian, too.”
A full five seconds ticked by. “You’re lying.”
It wasn’t an accusation. He was . . . satisfyingly shocked. “Nope,” she said slowly, hoping she was reading him right. “My father lives in Italy now. Basically, he’s inflicting his will on me all the way from the motherland and his rules are circa 1930 old-school. Both my mother and I would rather stick our feet in a lake full of piranhas than reach out and ask him for a favor after a four-year silence. Imagine if he said no and we sacrificed that final shred of pride for nothing?” She shrugged. “Also, I think there is a part of my mother that enjoys Napa being my only option for a while longer.”
“Your only option for what?” He reared back a little. “You’re not . . . broke.”
“Not broke broke. But not flush enough to . . .” She paused to wet her dry lips. “I’m starting my own hedge fund in New York along with a colleague of mine, and we need capital to appear appealing to investors.”
“That’s what you were doing before. Wall Street shit?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes. You know, the shit that powers the economy.”
He snorted, waved that off. “You’d rather be in an overcrowded city than your family’s vineyard in Napa?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Sounds like you’re complicated.”
“I’ll take complicated over simple.” She held her hands out for the keys, wiggling her fingers, but he ignored the gesture. “August.”
“One second.” He folded his arms over his powerful chest, cleared his throat. “You don’t have any marriage prospects, right? You wouldn’t marry just to get that money, would you?”
“I might,” she said, even though it wasn’t really an option she’d considered. Her prospects were nil. What was the point?
Was it her imagination or did lightning strike in the depths of his eyes? “I don’t like it.”
“I want the firm. I . . . need the firm. Otherwise I’m going to be known forever as a disappointment. A screw-up. A story they tell at cocktail hour.”