Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Then again, nothing about them was conventional.
Their similarities ended with their height. Everything else was arctic opposites.
One was silk and the other leather.
If I had to guess, the live-action Ken clone was von Bismarck.
Dirty-blond, square-jawed, and adorned with shabby whiskers of stubble, he looked like something only a Walt Disney illustrator could sketch.
The perfect European prince, down to the scandalous blue eyes and Roman-like structure.
Silk.
The other man was a polished savage. Menace decanted into a Kiton suit.
He wore his inky hair in a gentleman’s cut, trimmed into submission. Everything about him seemed carefully crafted. Intentionally designed to deliver lethal doses straight into a woman’s bloodstream.
Sharp cheekbones, thick brows, lashes I’d risk jail time for, and the frostiest gray eyes I’d seen to date.
In fact, his eyes were so light and frosty, I decided they had no business coupling with his otherwise tan Italian features.
Leather.
“Romeo Costa.” Savannah’s voice curled with longing as he breezed right past us, heading toward the table reserved for VIPs. “I would let him ruin me as thoroughly and impressively as Elon Musk destroyed Twitter.”
“Oh, I would let him do heinous things to me.” Emilie toyed with the blue diamond on her neck. “Like, I’m not even sure what they might be, but I’d still be down for them, you know?”
It was a problem. Being church-going, Bible-thumping, virginal Southern girls in the twenty-first century.
Chapel Falls was known for two things:
1) Its filthy-rich residents, most of them conglomerate owners of high-profile Georgian businesses.
And 2) being extremely, outdatedly, lock-your-daughters-up conservative.
Things worked different down here.
Virtually all of us never went further than sneaking a few sloppy kisses before marriage, even though we all scraped the age of twenty-one.
While my well-mannered friends kept their glances discreet, I had no trouble glaring.
As a nervous host led them to their table, they surveyed their surroundings. Romeo Costa with the dissatisfied detachment of a man who had to feast on back-alley garbage for dinner; and von Bismarck with amused, cynical playfulness.
“What are you doing, Dal? They can see that you’re staring!” Savannah nearly fainted.
They weren’t even looking our way.
“So?” I yawned, swiping a flute of champagne from a tray hovering in my periphery.
While Sav and Emilie gushed some more, I set off, passing banquet tables lined with imported sweets, champagne, and goodie bags.
I did the rounds, greeting peers and distant family members if only to access the catering trays on the opposite end of the room. I also kept an eye out for my sister, Franklin.
Frankie was here somewhere, probably setting a small fire to someone’s toupee or losing the family fortune in a game of cards.
If I was branded the lazy one, with the lack of ambition and abundance of free time, she was the designated banshee in the Townsend household.
I had no idea why Daddy brought her here. She was barely nineteen and interested in meeting men a little less than I was interested in chewing unsterilized needles for a living.
Strutting in my limited-edition Louboutins—five inches, black velvet, and needle-thin heels made of stacked pearls and Swarovski crystals—I offered smiles and blown kisses to everyone in my path until I bumped into another body.
“Dal!”
Frankie wrapped her arms around me like she hadn’t seen me just forty minutes ago when she’d sworn me to secrecy after I caught her shoving nips of Clase Azul into her padded bra.
The plastic edges of the miniature bottles dug into my boobs as we hugged.
“Are you having fun?” I righted her in place before she toppled over like a goat. “Do you want me to get you some water? Advil? Divine intervention?”
Frankie smelled of sweat.
And cheap cologne.
And weed.
Lord, help Daddy.
“I’m fine.” She waved a hand, peering around. “Did you see there’s some duke from Maryland here?”
“I don’t think monarchy exists in the U.S. of A, Sis.”
Just because von Bismarck’s last name sounded made up didn’t mean he was royalty.
“And his super-rich friend?” She ignored me. “He’s an arms dealer, so that’s fun.”
Only in her universe would an arms dealer be something enjoyable.
“Yeah, Sav and Emilie were so pumped, they were ready to wrestle a mountain lion. Did you meet them?”
“Not exactly.” Frankie scrunched her nose, still surveying the ballroom, probably for whoever made her smell like an oopsie-baby in the back of a drug dealer’s car. “Guess whoever invited them wanted to make an impression, ’cause their table has shortbread specially prepared by the late queen’s beloved baker. Flown here straight from Surrey.” She flashed me a crooked grin. “I stole one when no one was looking.”
My heart squeezed.
I loved my sister so much.
I also wanted to kill her right now.
“And you didn’t steal one for me?” I nearly shrieked. “You know I’ve never tasted authentic British shortbread. What’s the matter with you?”
“Oh, there’s still plenty more there.” Frankie dug her fingers into her tight updo, massaging her scalp. “And people are lining up to talk to these jerks like they’re the Windsors or something. Just go there, introduce yourself, and casually take one. There’s a mountain of them.”