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I turn on my heel, ready to leave, when he catches my wrist.
Goose bumps rise all over my body, and I instinctively yank my arm away as I turn back, my brows lifted. “Did you need something else?”
“Why don’t you sit? Take a break?” He gestures to the chair across from him. “We haven’t caught up in a while.”
“What’s there to catch up on?” I glance around at the other customers. “I have work to do.”
“You always have work.” He turns in his seat, draping one arm over the back of the chair. “Surely you can afford to take a break every so often.”
I stiffen at the criticism. “Not all of us have jobs handed to us by our parents.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps. “No, just stores bought by them.”
Anger shoots through me, but I can’t refute the statement. Not yet, anyway.
My pocket buzzes, saving me from saying something I’ll regret, and I stomp away from Roman without another word.
Once I officially own this place, the first thing I’ll do is ban Roman Markham from ever stepping foot in here again.
The man has a skill for burrowing beneath my skin, and I can’t wait until he’s out of my life for good.
2
Uneasiness rolls in my stomach as I follow the butler to the dining room.
Since I moved out to boarding school, then university, I hadn’t felt as comfortable in the family home. It has too much space, too much opulence, for four people and their staff. Two now, since dad skipped out and I decided to rent my own place after graduating. I mean, who needs two ballrooms in this day and age? Or a living room that can fit a two-story tall Christmas tree and a hundred guests comfortably? Half the mansion is closed off year-round, and more servants than family live here.
My shoes echo on new, white marble flooring with veins of gold running throughout. Mother had it installed when my father abandoned the family to run away with his secretary. Everyone had known of their affair for years now—my parent’s marriage had always been about business, not passion—but it came as a shock when he gave up the family fortune for love. I was the only one who didn’t resent him for choosing his heart over the cold sterility of this house. I just wished he’d call every so often.
The butler stops at the door to the dining room. “Master Warren has arrived, ma’am.”
“About time.” My mother sets down her wine glass to stand. “We were beginning to worry you weren’t coming.”
Considering I’m five minutes early, that’s a bit melodramatic. But my family always worked under the philosophy that punctuality equaled tardiness.
I walk past the butler and over to my mother, dropping a kiss to the air over her powdered cheek before I set a small gift bag on the table beside her chair. “Mother, you look stunning, as always.”
It’s not a lie, though I’d say it regardless. My mother has always taken pride in her appearance and it shows in her flawless complexion, which she highlights with a light dusting of makeup, and in her slender, athletic figure wrapped in a blue silk business suit that perfectly brings out the inky highlights in her raven dark hair. At nearing sixty, she outshines many of the debutants I’ve encountered over the years.
My sister mirrors her in every way, from her sleek black hair to her slightly more form-fitted suit. And if I looked in a mirror, I’d have to admit I’m a male version of her with shorter hair. Genetics runs strong in our family.
Circling the table, I drop a kiss near my sister’s cheek as well and deposit her gift on the table. “Good to see you, Katheryn.”
“I wish I could say the same.” She wrinkles her nose as she takes in my humble brown corduroys and the cream polo I wore to work today. “Have you forgotten how to dress for dinner?”
“Come now, dear, you know he’s diligent with his little hobby.” Mother plucks at the tissue paper that holds her gift. “What have you brought us today? Another sample from your shop?”
I fight down the irritation at my tea shop being downsized to a hobby. After five years and weeks of working without taking days off, I had hoped she’d finally realize I’m serious about what I do. But when you’re born into excess, I guess everything you do is a hobby. It’s not like I need the shop. I have a trust that matures when I turn thirty, only two years away, and all I’ve ever had to do is ask for something to have it be delivered.
That’s part of why I work so hard at the tea shop to make it a success. I want to know that what I have in life is mine and not an extension of my family.
I take my seat on my mother’s right as she pulls out a small bag of cinnamon and orange-infused black tea. It’s one I’ve been working on all summer and hope to launch it in time for Christmas.
She sniffs the bag delicately before holding it out to the butler. “Archibald, please make us a pot to try. My son’s teas are always a delight.”
“Right away, ma’am.” He takes the bag and strides for the doorway to the kitchen.
“You know his name is Stirling, right?” I say once he’s out of earshot.
