Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Do what you will in your spare time, but hear me, son––you have to sell it. All outward appearances must say you’re a happily married man. That means no skirt chasing and having the pictures end up on the cover of the New York Post.”
What the hell did that mean? That I’d have to keep all future hookups a secret? I knew for a fact that Sydney Evans would sooner see me dead than let me within arm’s reach of her, and celibacy for the next three years was out of the question. So where did that leave me?
Sitting on the window ledge, I considered begging. It’d be worth it if it meant I’d get to keep the millions of acres intact and myself free of this mess.
“Tell me this is another one of your pranks.”
“I can’t do that.”
Shutting my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose. An involuntary reaction. Much like the urge to get in my truck and make a run for the border at the mere thought of marriage. “Sydney hates me––”
“Good news, Sydney wants the job more than she hates you. Your part is to convince her you’ve changed. That you’re not the same degenerate fool you were when she met you. And fair warning, that may be an insurmountable task.”
Something didn’t feel right––apart from the fact that I was being blackmailed into marriage. A stretch of silence continued with no end in sight. With it, my unease grew. “Dad, you okay?”
“Hmm.”
The noncommittal answer did nothing to allay my suspicion. I pushed it aside and chose to focus on the disaster-in-the-making I had on my hands. The walls were closing in; I could feel them bearing down on me. “And if she decides against it?”
One could hope.
“I love the girl. I’m not about to willingly torture her to make a point. If she can’t tolerate you, give her a divorce.”
I hadn’t realized how deep my father’s affection for Sydney ran until this moment. Or how little faith he had in me, which, frankly, was a letdown. “What about the living arrangement? How’s she running the company from here?”
“She’ll do two weeks on and off for now. Unless you’d like to move back to New York and take the job yourself?”
A humorless bark of laughter rose up my throat, edged with scorn and sounding like defeat. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“I always do.”
“I stay here, or you can forget it.”
“Fine. She’s boarding the company jet as we speak.”
“For shit’s sake, don’t I get any time––”
“To do what?” my father cut in. “Change your mind? You should’ve thought of that when you didn’t return my calls. One more thing. Keep your hands to yourself, Scott. This isn’t one of your bimbos. Don’t fuck this up.”
The soft click of the call disconnecting might as well have been as loud as a shotgun blast. The quiet peaceful life I’d built was over.
Sydney
A four-hour plane ride wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to spend my Friday afternoon. It did, however, offer me the opportunity to hammer out all the issues with the Wilson & Bosch contract and more importantly thwart any plans Damon Hastings had to steal my thunder. Short of bringing him the heads of his competition, Hastings had been doing everything to get into Frank’s good graces, to replace me as Frank’s second-in-command. No bigs. Damon was just one more in a long line of testosterone-jacked bullies I’d dispatched over the years.
Frank had emailed me that the conversation with Scott had gone according to plan. It was anyone’s guess what that meant and calling Frank to clarify didn’t hold any appeal. I’d know soon enough anyway. Despite what Frank believed––that the marriage was a done deal––it wasn’t. I needed to gather intel on the enemy. To get a firsthand assessment of what I was dealing with. If Scott was still as horrible as I remembered, I’d be forced to decline. Nothing was worth my mental health. Not even the job opportunity of a thousand lifetimes.
By the time the Gulfstream touched down in Jackson Hole, I had a room booked at the Four Seasons. Clean sheets, a comfortable bed, a hot meal. These were the things that made me happy, gave me pleasure, and since I could afford it, I never went without. And going without was something I was intimately acquainted with. My grandparents had seen to that, the memories still as fresh as a third-degree burn.
The ranch where Scott lived was located half an hour out of town. That nugget of information was met with some serious freaking side-eye. Because…Scott? On a ranch? C’mon. This was the same Scott Blackstone who had beauticians from Frederic Fekkai come to his penthouse apartment to style his hair. The same Scott who didn’t launder his Tom Ford boxer briefs. He threw them out and wore new ones at seventy-five bucks a pop.