“How’s business?”
Finally he glances at me. Probably because politeness dictates that he should and not because he wants to. “Business?” I prompt.
“It’s fine.”
Brilliant conversationalist tonight. “And the family?”
“Depends who you’re asking about. My brothers? They’re also fine.”
“Your son?” Only child, if I remember.
He swirls the remaining contents in his glass. “That asshole? Lucky I haven’t disinherited him.” His tone says he still might. “Well, from what’s left after his mother was through picking my carcass.”
Without being summoned, the bartender arrives. “Another Bonds, Mr. Cresthaven?”
He nods, and I said, “Same for me.”
We sit for a moment, both of us watching the amber swirl in our glasses.
Then Cullen mutters, almost to himself, “Kelsey didn’t deserve that.”
I glance sideways. “Your daughter-in-law?”
If I remember correctly, Cullen’s ex was named something else much colder. Sharper. A trophy with impeccable lineage, high cheekbones, and a prenup longer than some constitutions.
“Yeah. My daughter-in-law. Soon to be my former daughter-in-law,” he corrects himself. “He never deserved her.”
The union had been the wedding of the year—live-streamed, candlelit, nauseating. Everyone who mattered was there. Including me. Including half the front page of Scandalicious.
And even then, the signs were there.
Harrison Cresthaven, heir apparent and walking liability, had swayed like a drunk at the altar while Kelsey approached. Everyone pretended not to notice.
But his crash out where he was caught on a kiss cam with a woman who wasn’t his wife is still trending, months later.
“If her parents hadn’t forced her into it…” Cullen lets the sentence trail off.
Like so many things in life, filled with what-ifs.
I sip my whiskey, let the burn do its work.
Glancing at his watch, Cullen asks for his check. After signing his membership number, he excuses himself.
Since there’s still no sign of Walt, I figure I have time for a second drink.
And a few more bombs to drop.
Less than five minutes later, one does.
Uninvited and unwelcome, Lane Marchand slides into the seat Cresthaven just vacated. Smooth. Effortless. Like he owns the place. And if it were up to him, he probably would. He’s finding out some things are not for sale, and he doesn’t like it.
“To what do I owe this displeasure?” I signal for that second Bond, despite not having finished my first. I’m going to need it.
Marchand doesn’t flinch. He never does. He simply adjusts the cuffs of his tailored jacket, cool as ever, like he’s walked off the cover of a magazine and straight into my irritation.
The man’s charm is a currency all its own—Southern polish, European schooling, and a ruthlessness you don’t see coming until it’s already slit your throat.
Marchand wants to buy Lockhart every bit as much as I do. Trouble is, he’s a little overleveraged at this point, which is what happens when you try to buy half of Houston and start in on Dallas as well.
