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“What about you?” she asked. “You haven’t mentioned if you’re seeing anyone.”
“No, I’m not.” I shuddered. The last boy I’d dated at the behest of my parents had been a monster. Not on Nate Bergen’s level. Then again, not many were.
“Well, I was talking to my friend, Daphne Clymer, at the Heart and Art Banquet and—”
I knew what was coming. What always came when my mother talked to a friend at a banquet or an acquaintance at tennis. Eligible sons, who’d love to wine and dine a girl like me, were often thrust at my mother. A sacrifice, to earn her friendship, or my father’s favor in business. Because everyone wanted to be friends with Diedre Sanderson or do business with Gil Sanderson. That’s just how it was.
By the end of the call, I’d agreed to giving my phone number to the son of a friend of a friend. My mother had sounded so excited about the potential match, I couldn’t have possibly said no and listened to that excitement slip away.
To my parents, I was the perfect daughter. Their angel. To Lachlan Kelly, I was a girl who’d kick a man when he was down. A monster.
The truth was somewhere in between.
