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“Say something, Samuel. You’re scaring me,” Camille says, planting her ass on the edge of my desk in front of me.
“I’m not exactly sure how this happened, Camille.”
She laughs, and it’s so fake and irritating it grates on my nerves.
Shaking my head, I hand her back the sonogram picture. “That’s not what I meant. I know how it happened, obviously. I just don’t understand. We’ve been using two forms of contraception.”
“Neither of which are one hundred percent guaranteed to work. I think this is a sign that we’re supposed to be together, Samuel. You, me, and this baby.” She rests a hand over her still-flat stomach, a single tear spilling onto her cheek. “We’re going to be a family. The wedding will have to be soon, though. I don’t want to be showing in the pictures.”
I stare at her like she’s lost her damn mind. Because clearly, she has, if she thinks I’m going to marry her when we’ve only been seeing each other for five months.
She doesn’t seem to notice the expression on my face as she reaches out a hand and cups my cheek. “You’ve made me the happiest woman in the world, Samuel. I will be the best wife and mother you could ever dream of.”
Okay, no. “Listen. . .” I take her hand from my cheek and hold it between my own. “I will be there for you every step of the way. All the ultrasounds and doctors’ appointments. I’ll even be at every recital or football game without fail. But what I will not be doing is marrying you.”
Camille yanks her hand out of my grip, rears it back, and slaps me across the face. “I am carrying your child! Of course we need to get married. How could you disrespect me like this, Samuel?”
I close my eyes and rub the bridge of my nose. “I’m not disrespecting you. I just told you I’ll take care of you and the child. But we don’t even know each other that well. And I’m sorry to say this—especially right now—but I had planned on ending things between us.”
Her eyes flare. “I know you were, you moron!” she seethes and pushes to her feet. Stalking around the desk, she lets out what can only be called a screech as she slams her palms on the marble surface. “I went to all the trouble of getting that damn sonogram picture and you still won’t commit. You have a problem, Samuel English.”
My head kicks to the side. “What did you just say?”
Camille straightens, seemingly having realized what she’s let slip.
“You’re not pregnant, are you? You thought you’d come in here, tell me we’re having a baby, and I’d drop to one knee and propose. If you knew me at all, you’d know there’s no way I would do that.” I shake my head. “And for your information, a child doesn’t need their parents to be married—it needs their parents to be happy. And nothing would make me more miserable than sharing the rest of my life with a conniving bitch like you. Now get out.”
* * *
It has been a long-ass day,and I’m done with it. I’m kicking back with my feet on my desk, sipping a whiskey, when my cousin Tom wanders in and drops into the seat across from me.
“Whiskey in the office? Did I miss something? I thought the merger with Svendenson was going well?” he says, watching me cautiously.
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I groan then lean forward before dropping my feet to the floor and bracing my forearms on my desk. “Camille faked a pregnancy.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
I take a deep breath as my fingertips strum over the cool marble beneath them. “She came in to see me at lunch today. Figured I’d marry her if she was pregnant. Went as far as to produce a fake sonogram.”
Tom’s eyes widen. “Are you fucking serious? Bitch is crazy. You’ve only been boning for a couple of months.”
Shrugging, I glance at my hands. “Apparently, being heir to the English fortune is reason enough to marry me. Anyway, the condensed version is I told her I’d support her and the child, be an active parent, but no fucking way was I marrying her after a few months. She then lost her shit and accidently confessed.”
Tom sneers. “I’ve had some pretty desperate dames, but none of them have gonethatfar to try to lock me down. What is wrong with these women?”
“It’s the world we live in. They’re raised to be money-hungry bitches. More money equals more power and prestige. I’m done with psychos trying to trap me for nothing more than what my name represents.”
“I get that. But where are you going to find a woman who doesn’t give a shit who you are? Seriously, Sam, it’s what these women do. It’s how they’re wired: find a man—trap the man—consume the man’s happiness,” Tom states matter-of-factly.
I laugh. “Surely there is a woman out there who doesn’t know who I am and who will happily wave me off when our time is up. Right now, I’d settle for a few months of good, old-fashioned fun without having to take out a restraining order at the end of it.”
“I think this day calls for a stiff drink—or five,” Tom suggests.
I nod, holding out my now empty whiskey glass. “I’m way ahead of you, cousin.”
He shakes his head. “Not here. That’s just depressing.”
“Okay, but I’m not going to the club. I can’t stomach another night being surrounded by social climbers trying to dig their claws into me.”
