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I wondered who Rowe really was… and what he really wanted.
And I kinda wanted to hear him lie to me some more.
“Oh, yeah,” I agreed, my eyes still fixed on the man who’d crash-landed into my hiding spot, filling the black-and-white evening with glorious color. “In fact, I’m thinking Sterling Chase might enjoy some polo.”
THREE
ROWE
I wassogetting the hang of this lying thing.
Okay, yes, there’d been a hairy moment or ten back there when I’d been sweating rivers into my tuxedo and my blood had rushed away from my brain so fast I’d felt faint. And yeah, I’d let myself get caught up in the moment like I sometimes did, staring a little too long, and laughing a little too loud, and talking way, way too much. But I hadn’t accidentally lit myself on fire or randomly blurted out my real name and social security number, and the police hadn’t come to escort me out, so all in all, that made this awin. Right?
If I’d known before I’d arrived that I’d have to hold a whole-ass conversation with someone who was meant to be myfake employee—a twelve-foot-tall, male-model look-alike fake employee, no less, who wore a tux so perfectly fitted it had to be custom-made, who was armed with a snarky smile and a mischievous eyebrow, and whose cologne made my cock stiffen every time the air-conditioning blew a delicious whiff of him in my direction—I might have said it was impossible and called the whole thing off.
But in reality, even though Bash had made me forget my damn name—the real one and the fake one—talking with him had been kind of… fun. Like the roller coasters my twin sister had dragged me on as a kid, where stark terror had yielded to a rush of euphoria because I’d done the impossible and survived.
But you still haven’t actuallydoneanythingtonight, Rowe Prince. You came here for a purpose, remember?
I blew out a breath.Right.
I was not at the gala for fun or to get flirty with a personal assistant who probably made more per year than my parents’ house was worth. I was here because I needed someone—I didn’t care if it was Justin Hardy, or one of his competitors, or the freaking Tooth Fairy, if she had the right resources—to give me a meeting so I could show them Project Daisy Chain. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that if I actually got a chance to pitch someone the project, they’d see how amazing and life-changing it could be. And once they’d committed, once they’d promised to make this dream into a reality, I’d hand over the amateur-level tracking and communication app I’d taught myself to code and the mountains of data on hospital workflows and case studies of healthcare outcomes I’d compiled over the years, and I’d be satisfied to let them take it from there.
Then I’d go back to Linden knowing I’d done my very best—more than I’d ever thought I was capable of—to make shit happen. I’d draw a deep breath for the first time in a decade. And maybe I’d stop missing my sister with every beat of my lonely heart.
“That’s not going to happen,” a young woman’s voice said firmly.
Given the direction of my thoughts, maybe it wasn’t surprising that when I wheeled around, I half expected to see Daisy standing there somehow whole and alive, self-assured and sassy as ever… and magically transported from rural Indiana to this glittering room in New York.
But the young woman standing by the buffet table was nothing like my twin. She was blonde and statuesque as a Greek goddess, where my sister had been a ball of mischievous energy even shorter than me. Not to mention, this woman was wearing a dress encrusted with far more sparkles than my sister ever would have tolerated.
“Miranda, darling, I’m only suggesting—” the older woman standing beside her argued.
“That I starve myself while there’s a buffet of food right here?” Miranda interrupted around a mouthful of food. “Do the eligible bachelors of New York enjoy women who fall at their feet from low blood sugar?”
It was exactly the sort of thing my sister would have said, and I couldn’t hide my smile. Unfortunately, Miranda noticed and immediately pointed in my direction.
“You, there,” she said before I could move away. “Doyouthink women should starve themselves at a gala simply to keep up appearances?”
“I, uh… No?”
“No.” Miranda tilted her head toward her mother triumphantly. “See?”
“Miranda, must we do this now?” Her mother, whose name badge read Constance Baxter-Hicks, glanced around the room and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I simply reminded you that this season’s styles are all quite formfitting and that I want you to be happy—”
“Yes. And I’m telling you prosciutto and brie make me happy.” She nodded down at the plate she held, where an absolutely delicious-looking bread-and-cheese thing sat.
My stomach, which had lately subsisted on microwaved oatmeal and free employee burritos, chose that moment to rumble. “Oooh,” I said, glancing longingly at the buffet table. I was a man on a mission, yes, but I could pause for prosciutto.
Constance flicked me a disapproving glance, but when she caught sight of my name tag, she straightened like she’d been goosed with a cattle prod. “Sterling Chase?” One immaculate eyebrow rose in disbelief. “TheSterling Chase? Of…Sterling Chase?” She waved a hand toward one of the signs listing the names of the gala’s sponsors.
Ah, shit. This again.
I cleared my throat. “Yes! It is I, Sterling Chase,” I agreed magnanimously. “Lovely to meet you, my good woman. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
I attempted to dart around her toward the delicacies on the buffet table, but she sidestepped, neatly blocking my path. “Mr. Chase, I’m Constance Baxter-Hicks, and this is my daughter, Miranda. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”
“Er. No.” I found myself sweating again, and now that I’d acknowledged my hunger, my stomach was nearly cramping with the need for food. “That is to say, I rarely mingle in society—”
