Page 10 of Stick to the Deal (Friendship Springs Romance #3)

Pride and Appetites

T he amber liquor in my crystal glass sparkles in the low light as I hold back another sigh at the older man’s story.

Another dull evening with my parent’s circle.

A circle that feels increasingly like a noose.

Would this be less painful with my bride-to-be here?

The smokey liquid coats my tongue and my lips smirk against the rim as I think of Nic.

I’ve always found society a bit too much. Too loud, too tiring, and well, too people-y.

It’s all a big game. There are set rules and expectations. Standard moves and strategies for success. Everyone generally agrees on the end goal—money and power. But at what price?

What good is money and titles if you are trapped in a life you didn’t choose?

What if your definition of success doesn’t comply with standard conventions?

“I say, Ravenscourt. You are quite the spitting image of your grandfather.” Mr. Ashcroft would know, they grew up together.

I shake the reflections from my head and try to pick up the threads of the conversation. No sooner do I grasp what Mr. Ashcroft is saying than the trill of a smoky laugh distracts me, bringing my thoughts back to Nic.

There’s something effortless about her. As a rule, I don’t engage people, but on that plane I couldn’t help myself. After that first unexpected laugh she wrestled from me, I wanted more.

Making small talk, even with my family, has always been difficult for me.

My palms sweat, my heart beats a little too fast. With Nic though, the words come easy.

On the flight and over coffee, the conversation flowed effortlessly.

In the time since, I’ve even found myself texting with her, a meaningless stream of quips and observations.

I may have spoken with her more in the last few days than Daniel.

The butler calls us to the dining room to sit for our meal. Throwing back my scotch, I repress a sigh and follow behind the crowd into the antique room.

A table of dark wood the size of a small swimming pool dominates the room with six chairs on each side.

Candlelight flickers across the crystal and china.

Intricate white molding twines across powder blue walls and ceiling.

A massive modern painting hangs over a marble mantle, providing a much needed pop of this century in the room.

I take the spot with my name scrawled in elegant font and stare down at my setting.

Mentally amping up for the verbal dancing ahead.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I feel eyes on me.

From the corner of my eye, pink frothy skirts flutter as a woman takes a seat to my left.

No, she’s not it, the feeling is coming from further down the table.

I search and find sharp green eyes staring at me under even sharper brows.

The woman is a stranger to me, yet there is something familiar in the set of her mouth and angle of her jaw.

White hair is artfully curled to frame her face.

She must be near Mr. Ashcroft’s age, and although her face is lined, she is still quite beautiful.

Or she would be if she wasn’t sneering at me.

Well, as close to sneering as one gets at a social function.

What did I do to earn that sneer?

A huff draws my attention back and I happily shift my focus away from the dragon in silk. My neighbor struggles to control her voluminous skirts as she attempts to pull closer to the table. Decades of conditioning kick in. I rise to my feet and step behind her chair. “Allow me.”

She grabs the material and performs some complicated fold movement to shove them under her thighs as I push the chair in further. “Thanks.” The lady turns to me with a grateful smile before dropping her rich voice. “I thought this damn dress was going to swallow me whole there for a minute.”

Choking on a laugh, I take another look at her face, hazel eyes filled with mirth meet mine.

“Nic? What the hell are you wearing?” I try to keep my expression neutral as I scan her more closely.

Her striking hair has been pinned into some plaited twist deal.

The dress is layers and layers of pink tulle, from her shoulders to her ankles.

It’s frilly and poofy and completely hides her gorgeous figure.

Nothing like her usual style of bold colors and straight lines.

Ok, I may have Googled her.

What? If we’re going to sell this marriage, I need to be thorough.

Soft pink lips smile wider. God, even her makeup looks off. “It’s really that bad, isn’t it? Grandmama Dearest picked it out. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at cotton candy the same way.”

I chuckle as a server fills our wine glasses. “Not bad, just not you.” Her eyes widen and so does her smile. Leaning in, I continue, “I’ve never been happier to see someone at one of these things before.”

This time she chuckles. “Me, too. Further proof we made the right choice. It is odd that we haven’t run into each other before, though.”

“My parents usually attend dinner parties, or my brother.”

“So anyone but you.” There’s amusement in her voice, but it doesn’t feel like she’s laughing at me.

“Most people prefer it that way. You seem to be an exception.”

“Aren’t I always, though?” She wets her lips and I find myself staring.

“Nicolette.” We straighten with a start.

I hadn’t realized how close we’d drifted together.

It mustn’t have been too unseemly, because Mrs. Ashcroft continues, all smiles.

“So lovely to have you back, dear. You must join us for dinner soon. My grandson is an art collector, and I’m sure you’d hit it off. ”

A swift flare of jealousy lights through me. Which is completely ridiculous. True, she is my fiancée, but no one knows that yet. There’s no ring on her finger and it’s not a love match.

I can’t seem to help it. Even on the plane, when Nic had joked about picking another candidate, some residual Neanderthal DNA screamed mine and wanted to maim men she’d never met.

“Your dinners are always lovely, Mrs. Ashcroft.” Nic’s smile is polite and the older woman glows under the compliment. My damn male ego happily notes her reply wasn’t a yes.

“What a beautiful name,” a middle-aged woman across the table speaks up, “and what a beautiful dress.”

Nic stiffens slightly next to me, but her expression doesn’t change as she politely thanks the woman. Ever the hostess, Mrs. Ashcroft rushes to make introductions. “Oh, Laura, have you not been introduced? Nicolette is Vivienne’s granddaughter. She’s been abroad for a while, but is back to stay.”

“I do so love spending time abroad,” the other woman enthuses. “Were you in France? Italy?”

Servers set down the starters.

“America, mostly. Though I do travel much of the time.”

“Ah, I was wondering about your accent.”

“Nicolette grew up in America, until she came to live with Vivienne,” Mrs. Ashcroft explains.

Next to me, Nic’s already rigid posture radiates tension. The two matrons don’t notice as they continue this obviously sensitive conversation. Without thinking, I shift my hand under the table to grip Nic’s fisted hand. It trembles slightly in my grasp before turning to hold my own.

“I’m afraid what little accent I picked up has dulled. That’s the price for being a world traveler, I suppose.” Nic adopts an innocent expression and both women twitter as if she made a joke. She pats her lips with her napkin, though I haven’t seen her lift her fork.

Mrs. Ashcroft is the first to recover. “Nicolette takes the most darling pictures, Laura. You simply must see one.”

Laura nods sagely. “It is so important for one to have a hobby.”

“It’s much more than a hobby.” Heads turn towards me at my sharp tone.

I swallow and try again. “Nic is an extremely talented photographer. She recently spent a month in New York completing a piece for Time Magazine. Celebrities beg her to take their portraits.” Our end of the table is silent, not even a fork can be heard. Slim fingers squeeze my hand.

“Well,” Mrs. Ashcroft’s smile is a little strained, “it certainly sounds as if you have a fan. Laura, dear, how are the children doing?”

“Thank you,” Nic whispers towards me as she pushes the appetizer around her plate, “but you didn’t have to do that.”

I don’t bother to hide that I’m speaking to her, but match her volume. “It’s true. Diminishing your career is completely unacceptable. You are very talented, Nic.”

An inky brow lifts. “Where have you seen my work?”

“Your website, after we met.” And her entire Instagram account, not that I’ll admit to it. “What made you choose photography? ”

“My father was an artist, so I grew up surrounded by it. We explored every medium together.” Her throat flexes and her eyes dim, lost to memory. “When I went off to boarding school, there wasn’t much room for paints or easels, but I had a camera.”

“And how did you settle on magazine work?”

“There’s a truth in photography that other mediums are lacking. A subjectiveness to paint or clay the camera removes. Sure, you can still manipulate the image with software after the fact, but that original will always tell the truth.” She finally takes a bite of the appetizer.

“You don’t edit your photos?”

She shakes her head slightly as she sips her wine. “I’ll do some lighting tweaks. At most, I’ll remove something from the background, but my subject remains unaltered.”

Her words roll around my head as the starters are whisked away. Our main course arrives and Nic’s other dinner partner draws her into a discussion, leaving me to my thoughts.

The truth.

My life is filled with half-truths at best. Polite, meaningless conversations. Image over substance. Every move I make under a magnifying glass, so every move must be carefully made. So much so I must arrange a fake marriage.

The flaky fish turns to rubber in my mouth.

To my left, Nic’s smoky laugh sounds, and like a good scotch, it warms my gut.

No, not a fake marriage. Certainly not a love match, but a true partnership built on shared goals and ideals. That has to be a stronger foundation than the fleeting feelings of lust.

Although, I’d challenge you to find someone who didn’t desire Nic—even in that ghastly dress.

I breathe a sigh of relief as the final course is served. Having Nic by me has made the dinner infinitely easier, but I’m still looking forward to getting back to my flat. I manage to draw no more unwanted attention. Everyone happily ignores me until the party breaks up.

The guests stand to leave. I pull Nic’s chair back for her, then drop my hand to the small of her back.

She gives me a wide smile as her candy-colored dress puffs around her, free once more from it’s confines.

My pulse beats erratically. Unlike the polite expressions of earlier, this smile is real, and just for me.

I lead her to the entry for her coat, when Mr. Ashcroft stops us .

“Ravenscourt, my boy, I have some business I’d like to discuss over a scotch.”

When I finally arrive home, I’m struck by how silent it is.

Normally, the quiet is comforting, but tonight something is missing.

I roughly tug at my tie as I stare out the window at the city.

Like every night lately, my thoughts turn to Nic.

She didn’t eat much at dinner—probably too worried about the dress.

Without consciously thinking about it, I pull out my phone.

Me

Fancy a burger? I could go for some real food.

Nic

Yes! I know the perfect pub. I’ll drop a pin.

My lips curl into a smile as I pad into my closet to change.