Page 25

Beau

I can’t stand to hear another word. I have to get out of here. Fighting my best to ignore the tightness in my chest, I walk away from her sad blue eyes brimming with tears. I can’t deal with tears.

Especially hers.

And I definitely can’t stand to see the redness blossomed on her skin and know that I put that there. Because seeing it just reminds me that I don’t belong in her bed.

My frustration boils over thinking about Lucy’s revelation, combined with the memory of our passionate encounter. My jaw hurts from clenching it.

I can’t shake the feeling of being played, and it grates on my nerves.

I need a fucking drink.

I stride purposefully toward the hotel bar, my steps heavy with pent-up anger. “Four Roses Small Batch bourbon, neat,” I order, my voice clipped. The bartender raises an eyebrow but pours the drink without comment when I flatten a hundred-dollar bill on the bar.

As the amber liquid fills the glass, my hands tremble. I snatch up the drink, not bothering to savor the aroma.

With a swift motion, I down the bourbon in one gulp, the spicy liquid burning a path down my throat. The alcohol provides a fleeting sense of numbness, but it’s not enough to drown out the turmoil swirling within me. I know I need to call my grandfather, but what am I supposed to say?

“Oh, hi! Yeah, it’s me, your favorite fuckup. Yep, that one. Anyway, it appears there won’t be an article. Because the bride, yeah, she’s a liar, and there is no groom. The closest thing to a wedding was the honeymoon suite that I screwed her in last night. No, you didn’t hear me wrong. Yes, I screwed the client. But technically, she screwed us both, so….” I mumble under my breath, earning me more odd looks from the bartender. “Another, please.” I remember my manners this time.

I wash down my anger with more bourbon and pull out my phone to call my grandfather. With each ring, my heart pounds louder in my chest, a mix of dread and determination. I take a steadying breath, preparing myself for the conversation ahead. He can do whatever he wants with me, but I won’t let him get rid of Blissful Bride.

My uncle Edward picks up. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite nephew.”

Just when I thought this day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite bastard,” I throw back at him.

“Is that any way to speak to your elders?” He scoffs. Is he for real right now?

“I’m seven years older than you, dipshit.”

“At least I have the Holden last name.” Edward never misses an opportunity to remind me. But the funny thing is, I couldn’t care less. I’m not after the whole company like him. I’m just protecting my mom’s magazine.

“Is he there or not?” I’m not in the mood for his games today.

“Oh, he’s here. Anxiously awaiting to see how bad you screwed up today.”

“You would love that, wouldn’t you?”

“Not gonna lie, bro. I really would. It’s about time we bury the ghost of Rose Holden—oops, Montgomery—around here. The magazine is dead weight. It needs to go.”

I. See. Red.

“Listen here, you little motherfucker, I’m not your bro. And you keep her name out of your mouth, or I’ll—”

“Here he is,” he cuts me off.

“I assume you’re calling to tell me everything went well.” My grandfather’s gruff voice echoes through the phone like he didn’t just hear his asshole offspring talking shit about his deceased daughter.

“Are you really going to let him talk about her like that?” My voice seethes with anger.

His heavy sigh fills the line. Yeah he is, because he always does.

“He didn’t mean anything by it, Beau. Let it go. We both know the magazine isn’t what it used to be. I’ve held on as long as I can, but after the thirtieth-anniversary issue—”

He doesn’t have to finish that sentence because I already know. And he’s not wrong. It’s bleeding money. Not just for Blissful Bride but Holden Media. It’s costing more than it’s making, and I hate myself for not saving it sooner. That I was too caught up in my own issues.