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If he had feelings for the woman, he should have spoken up earlier. When Arthur broached the topic of my marrying Priscilla, I wasn't interested. That is, until he dangled the role of the CEO of a Davenport Group company. The same one that Quentin opted out of when he got married. The same one my oldest half-brother Ed opted out of for the same reason.
Gramps made it a condition of our inheritance that we get married. Getting hitched is inevitable. Might as well be Priscilla. It makes no difference to me. If anything, this is better. Not only will there be no feelings involved, but the old man will owe me if I do this. He’ll be beholden to me for helping to bury the ol’ Davenport-Whittington hatchet. Something I can use to my advantage. So I said yes.
I raise my glass and glance around the table. "To my future wife.
To find out what happens next read Knox and June's story in The Unplanned Wedding HERE
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Read Summer & Sinclair Sterling’s story HERE in The Billionaire’s Fake Wife
Read an excerpt from Summer & Sinclair’s story
Summer
"Slap, slap, kiss, kiss."
"Huh?" I stare up at the bartender.
"Aka, there's a thin line between love and hate." He shakes out the crimson liquid into my glass.
"Nah." I snort. "Why would she allow him to control her, and after he insulted her?"
"It’s the chemistry between them." He lowers his head. "You have to admit that, when the man is arrogant and the woman resists, it’s a challenge to both of them, to see who blinks first, huh?"
"Why?" I wave my hand in the air. "Because they hate each other?"
"Because," he chuckles, "the girl in school whose braids I pulled and teased mercilessly, is the one who I?—"
"Proposed to?" I huff.
His face lights up. "You get it now?"
Yeah. No. A headache begins to pound at my temples. This crash course in pop psychology is not why I came to my favorite bar in Islington, to meet my best friend, who is—I glance at the face of my phone—thirty minutes late.
I inhale the drink, and his eyebrows rise.
"What?" I glower up at the bartender. "I can barely taste the alcohol. Besides, it’s free drinks at happy hour for women, right?"
"Which ends in precisely—" he holds up five fingers— "minutes."
"Oh! Yay!" I mock fist pump. "Time enough for one more, at least."
A hiccough swells my throat and I swallow it back, nod.
One has to do what one has to do… when everything else in the world is going to shit.
A hot sensation stabs behind my eyes; my chest tightens. Is this what people call growing up?
The bartender tips his mixing flask, strains out a fresh batch of the ruby red liquid onto the glass in front of me.
"Salut." I nod my thanks, then toss it back. It hits my stomach and tendrils of fire crawl up my spine, I cough.
My head spins. Warmth sears my chest, spreads to my extremities. I can’t feel my fingers or toes. Good. Almost there. "Top me up."
"You sure?"
"Yes." I square my shoulders and reach for the drink.
