Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
She hasn’t warmed to me much, but we have animals in common. If I could just get her to understand that I mean it when I say I care about them . . .
But I already know that’s a massive challenge. Even my parents don’t think I’m being serious.
They think this pet food project is some stupid phase, a temporary bridge between their son’s first rave success and settling into the calm, moneymaking triumph of adulthood. Right at the head of Pruitt Ag.
Just like they think I’m destined to be hitched to Nancy Loomer.
Fucking shudder.
On paper, it’s good for our brand, and her parents were always close to mine.
In practice? The concept makes me want to climb out of my skin.
Fuck, I still don’t see how it means roses for our brand either. An arranged goddamned marriage?
Why can’t rich people just be normal? Why do we still have to marry for money when we’re already goddamned made of it?
Of course, if I did marry her, people would assume it’s purely political and all for the money. Anyone who knows this woman can instantly write off the personality factor.
Ridiculous.
Thanks to the dating app, even without my parents’ wealth, I have more than enough cash to power my life.
Nancy, on the other hand . . .
She must realize our parents are setting us up. For all she pretends in public, I don’t think she’s wild about me either.
Not really.
She loves the Pruitt name. She likes what I represent. She doesn’t mind my looks, and she adores the thought of landing exclusive rights to a hot, eligible bachelor commodity, like a bee covets honey.
I’m sure she respects my fortune, too, though it’s not like she doesn’t have her own.
We were both born to big money most people would consider obscene.
For her, it comes down to status.
In Seattle, my last name means a lot.
I’m the ideal prop in Nancy’s world—rich husband from a good family who will look good on her arm.
Count me the hell out.
My mind flips back to Lena as I click on her picture. Big, soulful brown eyes, and mahogany hair falling in ripples around her face.
Vintage pretty. Not Instagram-famous good looks.
Lovely in a distinctly natural way.
Frosty. Feisty. Begging to be thawed.
I reach up and slap myself, clicking back to my email tab. Regardless of how pretty she may or may not be, this shit isn’t about attraction.
This is about practicality. Freedom from annoying fucking obligations to focus on what matters, even if it’s just a brief stretch of peace.
I only need time to get my dog food formulated and out the door.
Snarling, I push my laptop back and head into the kitchen for coffee. I’m pulling an espresso shot through the machine when my intercom pings with a visitor.
“Brady, it’s me. Let me up,” Nancy’s voice sings through the screen.
I groan, burying my face in my palm.
The woman has a talent for showing up at the worst possible times. I don’t have the patience to deal with her today. Not when I’m cooking up a scheme to kick her to the curb.
But I also don’t have any good reason for turning her away. She knows my habits and my schedule too well.
Swallowing a sigh, I press the button to let her up and make an extra coffee heaped with sugar and frothed cream. Normally, she likes to go out and be seen with her coffee, but I’m not giving her that today.
When she walks off the elevator and through my door, she’s dressed in some leather and tartan outfit. It’s short and revealing and probably high fashion, but it’s the most boring try-hard shit I’ve ever seen.
Nancy doesn’t care much what look I’m into as long as she’s into it. Not a big deal when it’s just about clothes.
But we both know it isn’t.
Another reason we would never work, never mind the most forced friendship in the world.
“Coffee?” I say, handing her a mug. “I was making some when you dropped in.”
Because it would’ve been too convenient for her to call ahead. It also would’ve given me a prime opportunity to say “Fuck no.”
Two things she knows.
One of the many downsides to our family history is Nancy thinking she has a God-given right to breeze in and out of my life whenever she pleases. Whether I want her around hardly matters.
“Thanks. Is this oat milk?” She eyes the mixture with healthy disgust.
“Would I poison you with anything else?”
“Well, no. You know I don’t do dairy.” She giggles and takes a sip, scrunching up her face with delight.
I hate my life.
If it was an actual dietary restriction, whatever, fine. But Nancy’s selectively gone dairy-free because it makes her trendier. I don’t bother asking about the late-night fondue she scarfed down practically solo just a few weeks ago.
She seems to think dairy-free begins and ends with liquid beverages.