Page 15 of My Horrible Arranged Marriage (Bancroft Billionaire Brothers #20)

MINA

I was up to my eyeballs in tablecloth samples and color-coded event schedules. Why the hell was party planning so complicated? I was dangerously close to flipping over the entire table of swatches just to feel stop the torture.

Satin or taffeta? Peach or pearl? Forks with scalloped edges or the ones that looked like they belonged in a medieval torture chamber? Who the hell cared?

Certainly not me.

Planning a massive summer party at the Duvall estate was supposed to be glamorous—or at least that was what people imagined when they heard the words “exclusive” and “ballroom.” But I was here alone, drowning in linen samples and floral arrangement mockups and silverware and plates and lighting schemes.

My father was conveniently away on business and Tori was buried under managing the house staff, hiring a new landscaping crew, and designing weekly meal plans so none of us starved or accidentally poisoned a diplomat. Never again would I let them sucker me into organizing an event like this.

I groaned and dropped my head onto the table. I didn’t even like this kind of thing. I wasn’t a party planner. I was a party attendee. There was a difference—and it was vast.

I wouldn’t mind showing up to a party with decent apps and lots of liquor. Maybe some decent music. I never paid attention to what color the tablecloths were or how big the napkins were.

I flipped through the heavy glossy pages of the Bloomfield’s catalog, each turn revealing yet another absurdly overpriced centerpiece option. Crystal swans? Hand-painted porcelain vases imported from some remote village in France? Who was I trying to impress?

Everyone, according to my father. The Duvall Summer Soiree was apparently going to be the social event of the season. Never mind that I couldn’t care less about impressing Manhattan’s elite with our ability to spend obscene amounts of money on things that would be discarded by morning.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered to myself, tossing the catalog aside and reaching for my phone.

No messages from Isaac. I’d been checking far too frequently since last night. Since the pool. Since his hands on my waist and his mouth on my neck and?—

“Focus, Mina,” I scolded myself, grabbing another catalog with golden-edged pages.

The Hartwell Collection. Specialty linens and tableware. I thumbed through it halfheartedly until a notification lit up my phone screen.

It was a text from Isaac. I smiled when I read it. Fifteen minutes.

Warmth filled my chest. I was looking forward to seeing him. My fingers tapped restlessly against the polished mahogany table where I’d spread out all the party planning materials. I stood and stretched, abandoning the catalogs.

I knew my dad was trying to give me a project to keep my mind off things, but putting Sampson on the invitation list was not helping. That felt like a cruel joke.

The doorbell rang, and my heart did a ridiculous little skip. I smoothed down my loose cotton dress and ran a hand through my hair before reminding myself that I shouldn’t care this much. It was just Isaac. Just the man who’d had me practically begging in his pool last night.

When I opened the door, he was leaning against the frame, sunglasses pushed up into his dark hair, looking unfairly good in jeans and a simple white T-shirt that did nothing to hide the definition in his arms. He held up a paper bag.

“I brought sustenance,” he said, grinning. “Figured you might need it.”

I stepped aside to let him in, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach when his arm brushed mine. “My hero. Please tell me there’s coffee in that bag.”

“Coffee, croissants, and those little chocolate things you were eyeing at the wedding.” He followed me into the foyer, his eyes taking in the high ceilings and marble floors of the Duvall mansion with a low whistle. “Damn. And I thought my dad’s estate was fancy.”

“It’s excessive,” I said, leading him toward the dining room where my party planning disaster was spread out. “My dad believes bigger is always better.”

“Ah, the motto of insecure men everywhere,” Isaac quipped, setting the bag down on a clear spot among the chaos.

I laughed despite myself. “You’re not wrong.”

He surveyed the explosion of fabric swatches, floral arrangements, and menu options with raised eyebrows. “What happened here? Did Martha Stewart have a nervous breakdown?”

“Very funny.” I pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. “Even Martha Stewart couldn’t sort through this maze of choices.”

He looked at the spread of catalogs and my scribbles on a notebook. “This looks chaotic. I say we set it all on fire and just have the party at Chuck E. Cheese.”

I laughed so hard I snorted. “My father would lose his mind.”

“We’ll get him some tokens for Skee-Ball . He’ll love it.”

“All his friends would literally die of shock,” I said, giggling at the image. “They would send in an army maids and butlers to disinfect the place first. It would be a whole thing.”

“Well, fine, maybe we just stick to the original plan. So you’re throwing the party here?” Isaac asked before taking a sip of coffee.

“Yes. I’ll show you.” I got up and grabbed his hand. “Come with me.”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Hush,” I told him.

I brought him to the ballroom. It was a massive open space with soaring arched windows and marble floors that gleamed like water.

The crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting rainbows over the grand piano in the corner and the sweeping staircase that curved down into the room like something out of Beauty and the Beast .

That was how I had always thought of it as a kid.

He let out a low whistle. “Damn. This place could host royalty.”

“It has,” I sighed.

“Do you guys throw a lot of parties here?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know if I would say a lot. But my dad does like to show off. This ballroom is one of his favorite rooms.”

“It’s fancy,” he said. “And that’s coming from a Bancroft.”

“It’s wasted on me. I’d host the party in the backyard if it wouldn’t give my father an aneurysm.”

Isaac sauntered over to the bar and hoisted himself up, sitting on the edge like he owned the place. He leaned over to inspect the shelves behind it and made a face. “Empty?”

I smirked. “Booze comes for the party. Not before.”

“That’s a flaw in your hospitality.”

I grinned. “Take it up with management.”

He kicked his feet like a kid on a swing. “So, what’s the plan, Party Planner Extraordinaire?”

“The plan was to pull something sophisticated and classy out of thin air and somehow avoid disappointing my father.”

Isaac gave me a look, then leaned forward. “Or—hear me out—we sabotage it.”

I blinked. “Sabotage it?”

He shrugged. “Come on. You clearly hate planning this. In the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you this miserable. And I have no emotional stake in it. What if we plan the worst Duvall summer party of all time? Your father will never ask you to plan another party. Game, set, and match.”

The laugh that escaped me was shocked and giddy. “You’re not serious.”

“Deadly serious. Let’s pick the most atrocious linens you can find. Hire a band that plays nothing but yacht rock. Find a caterer who specializes in—what’s the opposite of gourmet? Whatever that is.”

I pressed my hand to my mouth, but it didn’t help. I was already laughing.

“Oh my God,” I gasped. “My father would die. ”

“Exactly.” His eyes sparkled. “But think of the stories. People will talk about this party for years. It’ll become legendary.”

“And my dad will be so mad at me he’ll never want me involved again,” I said.

The idea was taking hold. My father was all about telling me what to do and when to do it. I didn’t need much convincing.

Isaac was looking at me, waiting for my answer. I grinned. “I’ve always thought orange and blue was a beautiful combination.”

“Then we better get started,” Isaac said.

We walked back to the dining room. Two hours later, we had settled on the ugliest combination of coral and chartreuse linens, a local band called The Screaming Squeeze that specialized in Celtic punk and sea shanties, and a bizarre food truck vendor that boasted they served jellied meat, whatever that was.

“We are going to Hell,” I told Isaac.

“If so, at least we’ll go together,” he said, reaching over to squeeze my hand.

My heart did a little flip at that.

Eventually, we made our way to the kitchen, where Tori was sitting at the long butcher-block table with two of the house staff, eating sandwiches and flipping through her notebook. She looked up when we walked in, arching an eyebrow.

“All done?” she asked.

I plopped down across from her. “Yep.”

“Are you guys hungry?” Tori asked.

“Starved,” Isaac said.

Tori got up and went to the fridge. She pulled out a tray and put it on the counter and then reached for a couple loaves of bread. “Turkey, ham, some kind of mystery cheese. Build your own.”

I watched him from my seat, the way he easily made himself at home in a kitchen he’d never been in before.

“So,” Tori said, sliding back into her seat across from me. “You must be Isaac.”

“The one and only,” he replied, piling turkey onto his bread with shameless enthusiasm. “And you’re Tori. Mina’s told me about you.”

“All terrible things, I hope,” Tori quipped, her green eyes flicking to me with a hint of mischief.

I rolled my eyes. “Only the worst.”

“So. Spill. What’s the plan for this nightmare party?” Tori looked from me to Isaac.

Isaac grinned. “You’re going to love it.”

We told her everything. The linens. The band. The caterer. The horrifying centerpiece concept involving flamingos and gold glitter. By the time we finished, Tori had gone from intrigued to scandalized.

“It sounds kind of… mean,” she said, frowning slightly.

Isaac shrugged. “It’s a party. It doesn’t have to be so serious. Besides, there’s nobody worth impressing on the guest list.”

My stomach fluttered. I knew exactly what he meant.

Sampson.

The venom in his voice made me feel good. I liked knowing he was my friend. Finally, I had someone in my corner. Yes, Tori was on my side, but it felt like everyone else wanted me to sit down and shut up. Get over it. I felt like I didn’t have a right to be pissed or hurt.

Tori glanced between us and said nothing, but her smirk said everything. She suddenly had things to do and left us alone.

“Do you think we’ll actually go through with it?” I asked.

He looked over at me, all mischief and heat. “That depends. How badly do you want to see your father’s face when he walks into a room that looks like Mardi Gras threw up on it?”

I snorted. “Pretty badly.”

“Then we’re doing it.”

“You’re kind of a bad influence,” I told him.

“I get that a lot.”

He looked far too proud of himself. When he caught me watching him, his expression softened into something that made my stomach flip over.

“You know, I’ve never had this much fun planning anything in my life.”

“That’s because you’re not actually planning,” I replied. “You’re causing chaos.”

He grinned. “Semantics.”