Page 114 of The Worst Best Man

“I don’t know if I’m going to fit in on your side of the tracks.”

“If I tell you a secret, do you promise it goes no further than this apartment?”

“Don’t you dare call this sublime chunk of Manhattan real estate an apartment. And yes, I promise.”

“I don’t exactly fit in either.”

“I call bullshit. Your family basically built this side of the tracks.”

“Very true. My great-grandfather blackmailed and swindled his way into a bank presidency, and the Kilbourn story began there. His son, my grandfather, added to the family fortune by leaving his wife and two children for a very wealthy heiress whose father needed someone to step in and run his business. My father continued the great Kilbourn legacy by cheating his way to a business degree at Yale and then bribing admissions with a very hefty donation to accept his son with less than stellar grades and a few scrapes with his private school disciplinary committee.”

“You? A bad boy? We’re going to need to circle back to this.”

He smiled at her, shifting her in his lap. “I wouldn’t call the Kilbourns sociopaths. But I would say we prioritize business over all else. But in our case, family is inextricably tied to business. For my father, it was the amassing of trophies and successes. For me, it’s the hunt, the chase, the kill. Then there’s everyone else. I have friends, Chip included, who don’t actually work. Their money is managed for them, and they just live. They marry beautiful women and have beautiful families and extend the family line.”

“But you all have money,” she reminded him.

“Yes, but my point is, I feel like I don’t fit in. I don’t want to make small talk with someone over their new race horse or the Van Gogh they got at auction. I don’t want to compare portfolios or fuck a stable full of women. I don’t want to party like I’m a 20 year-old with my father’s black American Express card. I want to win.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I don’t know how to do anything else.”

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Chapter Forty-Four

“This is way tooPretty Woman,” Frankie complained inside Aiden’s closet.

“Are you calling yourself a prostitute?” he asked from the bedroom.

Frankie pulled the dress on and studied herself in the full-length mirror. She hadn’t had time to go shopping for a gala-worthy dress… or to even find out what gala-worthy dress code was. So, it had fallen on Aiden to find her the right dress.

It was midnight blue with elbow length lace sleeves and yards of skirt. And, of course, her size. “Am I going to freeze my ass off there tonight?” she asked.

Aiden poked his head in the doorway and stared appreciatively at her in the mirror. “Freeze your ass off?” he repeated.

“Yeah, like you know how some restaurants are drafty, so you dress warmer if you’re going there? Or certain offices have the heat blasting, so you make sure you can strip down and not sweat to death?”

He laughed. “Your practicality is refreshing. I once escorted a woman who chose a dress she couldn’t actually sit in. The ride to the event was quite memorable.” He leaned back against the shelving, keeping his body ramrod straight imitating the woman’s position.

“She did not!”

“I swear she did. Then she smiled for the cameras for twenty minutes and complained the entire rest of the evening and refused to eat.”

“Ugh. What’s the point of wearing something if you can’t sit down or, worse, eat in it?”

“I promise to always pick clothes for you that allow for both.”

“My hero. So, what do you think?” Frankie asked turning from side to side.

Aiden came up behind her and zipped her up in the back.

“Oh, that’s better.”