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I sip my coffee and wave off her worry. “I’m sure it’s some bizarre extra precaution he’s had in there since I was a toddler. What age do I get it if I’m not married?”
“You don’t.”
I slam the cup down on the counter, suddenly feeling hot. “There is no fucking way that’s true.”
Hand to her heart with a dramatic gasp. “Ivanna,please.”
Dear sweet Jesus.“Seriously? We’re discussing some archaic notion that I must be betrothed in order to receive my trust—an archaic notion that Dad wouldneverentertain, by the way—and your concern is my unladylike language?”
Regaining her composure, she swallows, her throat working overtime at the basic function, hands toiling once again. “You have every right to be upset. I’m not happy about it either. I can’t imagine what he was thinking—probably one of his ways of protecting you or something. And if he was of sound mind, I’m sure he’d change it, but he isn’t. So, we need to figure this out.”
I take another sip of coffee to feign a tranquil demeaner, although the autumn treat is now liquid bitterness. “I’ll talk to the lawyer. There must be a loophole.”
“I already have. They’ve been combing through it for weeks. There’s none.” She lifts something off the stool beside her, sliding a small stack of paperwork toward me that I didn’t notice she hadwith her. My eyes scan the highlighted words—a very clear directive of everything she’s explained.
“Weeks?” I flatten my palm in an angry smack on the cool granite. “You’ve known about this for weeks?” Heat floods my cheeks and neck. “You know what? I don’t need the money, so let’s forget about it.”
Before I can stalk away, holding tight to my blossoming rage, she lays three headshots on the counter of waxy, well-bred men and glances at me.
“All three of these gentlemen are in good society standing, have wealth of their own, and are currently single.” She stares at me, waiting, giving me time to come to terms with what absolutely cannot be happening.
Utterly baffled, I croak out the words, “You aren’t suggesting …”
“The marriage only needs to last five years for you to receive all the funds, Ivanna. I’m sure we can strike a comfortable deal with one of these young men.”
“You’ve lost your damn mind, or I’ve lost mine.” My hand flies up to my forehead as I march out of the kitchen through the two-story great room toward the back winding staircase. “This isn’tThe Princess Diaries, for Christ’s sake. I’m not going to interview potential husbands andstrike a deal.”
Hot on my heels, she doesn’t let up. “Your father would want you to be taken care of and have that money.”
“My father raised me to be bold and independent.” I take the stairs two at a time—a feat my mother can’t match in her four-inch heels. My voice rises with the elevation, bouncing off the marble columns and floors and crystal chandeliers. “He would never ask me to sell myself to a man to earn my money like a one percent whore.”
Her huffing breaths finally reach me, accompanying her clacking heels into my room. “Clearly, you need to calm down. It’s a lot to take in, and with Celeste gone … I’ll set up casual meetings with these gentlemen and—”
I point a warning finger at her—a disrespect I have neverthrown at either of my parents before, but my fire is blazing now. “You will do no such thing.Jesus, I have to get out of here.”
Pulling a pair of yoga pants out of my drawer, I shimmy out of my skinny jeans and slip them on. She watches with a look of dread, and while I know she feels upset about all of this, I can’t seem to empathize when it’s my life falling apart.
“Where are you going?” she asks as I scurry past her back toward the stairs.
“To sell a painting, make my own money, go for a run, and pretend my world hasn’t imploded in the last five months.”
Grabbing my purse, keys, and latest painting, I jump into my car and zip the twenty minutes to The Art Garden—my favorite little gallery—my knuckles blanching on the steering wheel in spite of this being my most-loved destination. It’s not the highest-rated gallery in the area, but the owner is sweet and always sells everything I bring her for unbelievable commissions. She insists I have a secret admirer or a superfan. Either way, it enables me to make a living doing something I enjoy, so she has rights to all my pieces.
It’s the area that draws me in more than anything though. Four Victorian-style homes sitting on several secluded acres compose the Victoria Shops, each housing a unique local business. Beside the gallery is a coffee shop with the most delectable French pastries in town, a jewelry store next to that, and a gun shop resides in the last. Each seems to be plucked out of a fairy tale. The grounds enhance that aesthetic with the jade-green grass and hundred-year-old oaks and maples shrouding quaint reading benches, whose leaves will blaze in rich, vivid hues of goldenrod and burgundy in a few short weeks. Rows of sculpted bushes and patches of sunflowers line the brick walkways that flow between each house, leading to the back acreage—my favorite place to run. It’s a picture of peace.
The kind of place where time slipping by is seen as a treasure, not a plague.
Dandelion wishes.
And that’s what I’m aiming for—losing myself to the whirlwindof stolen moments so I don’t have to think about the fiasco that has become my life. Unfortunately, even after Suzanna, the gallery owner, raves over my current piece, assuring me it will sell in a heartbeat, I’m still seething. So, I tromp down the front steps, prepared to pound my woes into the jogging trail, and somehow slam into a solid wall.
This particular wall is adorned in luxurious fabric, and as my fingertips revel in the silkiness, my eyes catch two sets of men’s dress shoes. I’d guess Tom Fords, but Celeste is better at men’s footwear—a skill she believes will give her an edge as a politician’s wife. It’s a baffling concept, one I choose not to question. The idea of lifting my head to face the manly wall has my stomach in knots. Peopling isn’t something I’m in the mood for, nor is it a skill I’m especially natural at.
Stepping back, I steel myself to apologize and bolt when my breath catches at the two beautiful men standing before me. Both are tall, well over six foot. One has short brown curls, kind eyes, and tawny-brown skin. He grins at me, but I can’t seem to stay focused on him. Something about the other guy grips me in a way I can’t quite explain, like he’s mentally holding me hostage, and it has nothing to do with the way his hand is curled around my arm. Nothing to do with the electricity pricking my skin in that very spot.
His look is otherworldly, Damon-esque fromTheVampire Diaries. Not that I think this guy is a vampire, but he’s certainly not average or normal or maybe even human. A smile explodes across his face—a beam of light that bleeds of danger and safety at once. If I wasn’t so pissed off with my current reality and was thinking clearer, maybe I’d run from this devil who shines with a deceptive celestial glint. Who am I kidding? I’ve never wanted to plummet to the depths of Hell more.
He removes his sunglasses, his shiny raven-black hair making his shimmering emerald eyes glow like something lethal. And the dark, impeccably groomed stubble lining his jaw, highlighting his golden skin and strawberry lips, is giving me some sort of sensorymalfunction. An itch to decimate socially acceptable decorum and reach out and touch it.
