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“Leave Harley out of this,” I challenge as I stand.
He’s lost a few inches with age and gained fifty pounds from the stress, but I still look a lot like him when he was twenty-seven. We have the same green eyes and dark brown hair that most people mistake for black.
“What choice did you leave any of us?” His features soften into something that resembles sadness as his voice wavers. “You only think about yourself, and now everyone in this family will have to suffer because of it.”
“Harley isn’t family.”
“Yes, she damn well is. Jonathan is like a brother to me. Harley is my goddaughter. Unlike you, she will do the right thing.”
“I created most of our top-selling products, old man. I’ve done plenty of good things for this company. You seem to forget that.”
He whips his head in my direction and snarls. “Don’t you dare. Every time you screw up, you expect me to praise you for your accomplishments. How can anyone see the good you’ve done when it’s muddled with so much bad?”
“Sorry, we all can’t be perfect like Stefan, who, by the way, is fucking the woman you just threw out of my office.”
He shakes his head and sighs. “So much potential… and you let it all go to waste. For what?” My dad blows out a puff of air. “You’re getting married in thirty days.”
My jaw unhinges. Thirty days?
“We can pretend I’m getting married to give Voss a good show, but nothing about it will be real.”
“How do you think I smoothed things over with Carl? He can’t wait to attend your beach wedding. Nassau is beautiful this time of year.”
“I’ll find someone,” I promise. “Just leave Harley out of this.”
He grips the doorknob, his back to me. “You have twenty-four hours.”
Chapter Three
Harley
Willow strolls into my bedroom and announces herself by clearing her throat.
“Pick up your tiara, princess,” she says with a smile.
Shaking my head, I laugh at my roommate. “What are you talking about?”
She nods at the pile of clothes on my bed and sighs. “You’ve tried on every dress in your closet and half of mine. You’re never this indecisive.”
I lift a pale blue sweater dress from the bed.
She shakes her head. “Nope, not that one.” Willow points at the sleeves that have white paint stains on the fabric. “You need to be more careful when you’re painting, babe.”
I mostly use acrylic paint because it’s easier to clean, but I prefer the look of oil paint on canvas. Most of my clothes have either paint or charcoal on them from years of painting and drawing.
Willow takes the dress from my hand, and I give her a pouty look. She drops it onto the bed and throws her hands onto her narrow hips.
“What is it going to take to turn that frown upside down? Men sense fear and desperation faster than I can spot a last season Fendi bag.”
I snort at her comment. “I’m not afraid or desperate. I don’t even know what I feel right now. And it’s not like you can afford a Fendi bag to know the difference,” I say with laughter in my voice.
“I just borrow yours, living vicariously through your daddy’s bank account.” Willow chuckles. “At least he’s good for something.”
“Not for long,” I counter. “I have no idea where our company stands.”
Willow turns me by the shoulders to face the floor-length mirror. Then, she gathers my long blonde hair in her hands and runs her fingers through it. “You have to stop worrying about work. Nate is an asshole. It’s his problem to deal with, not yours.”
I suck in a deep breath and let it out, staring at Willow in the mirror. “Yeah, but it’s my family’s company, too. One-third of it will belong to me if there’s anything left of it.”
“You’ve been sulking about it all day. I’m sure your dad will figure something out. Don’t let Nate take this night away from you. You finally met a man you like. I never thought that would happen. I’m starting to wonder if you even have a type. You chase away some serious hotties.”
“Not everyone cares about looks,” I say with a wicked smirk.
She flips her black hair over her shoulder and smiles. “Fine, stick with the nerdy ones. You’re probably better off. At least they know how to make money. I could use a sugar daddy at the rate I’m going.”
“I don’t care about money,” I shoot back. “I want to be with someone who gets me.”
She sighs. “You’re such a romantic.”
“I’m still looking for my Mr. Darcy.”
She glances over at the beat-up copy of Pride and Prejudice on my nightstand. I cracked the spine in half, the hardbound book so bent out of shape it would make any book lover cringe. My favorite scenes and quotes are dog-eared, bookmarked, and highlighted. I fell in love with Jane Austen in high school, and ever since then, I have held out hope that the men she wrote about are real. There has to be a Mr. Darcy for every woman, or at least that’s what I tell myself.
