Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I glance out the window, at the bright, empty street. My stomach is still a little tight from last night—too much champagne, not enough food, and the sight of my stepbrother’s gloriously naked body imprinted on my brain like a tattoo. I shouldn’t want to see him again. But the thing about forbidden fruit is that it only gets riper the longer you stare at it, and especially if it’s shaped like a massive eggplant, hard and bulging with veins.
Victoria breaks the silence. “Speaking of which, did you see the magazine yet?”
“What magazine?” I ask, my voice careful.
My mom rises from the stool, glides to a drawer, and returns with a recent issue of Minneapolis Tatler. She sets it on the marble, the cover glossy enough to reflect the under-eye shadows I’m trying to hide. Front and center, of course, is Trevor: black tuxedo, hair slicked back, mouth twisted into a knowing smirk that’s one molecule away from a snarl. His eyes—those eyes—are the same blue as a wolf’s, sharp and cold and hungry. Of course, he’s so handsome that my heart starts pounding immediately.
The headline sprawls across the bottom: “MINNEAPOLIS’S MOST ELIGIBLE: THE CITY’S TOP BACHELORS REVEALED.”
Victoria flicks the page with one finger, sending the magazine spinning toward me. I stop it with my palm, leaving a smudge on Trevor’s jawline. There’s a prickle on my scalp, like the cover might burn through my hand if I touch it too long.
Victoria sniffs. “Well, at least they got a good photo of him.” She hesitates, then adds, “He’s not actually seeing that girl, is he? Cassie, I think her name was?”
I force a smile, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I don’t know. I never saw her before last night, but probably not, if he’s a featured bachelor. I mean, you couldn’t really be a bachelor if you’re dating someone seriously, right?”
Victoria relaxes. “Right. It would be a shame if your brother’s reputation got tangled up with someone like that.”
Brother. She says it so easily, as if biology cares about a marriage certificate and two years of awkward blended Christmases. I stare at Trevor’s photo, the hard line of his jaw, the knowing glint in his eye.
“He is impressive,” I say, and it comes out flatter than I mean it to.
Henry grunts. “You may hate him, but Trevor’s got a lot of redeeming qualities.”
Victoria interjects quickly.
“I don’t hate your son, Henry. I just hate the idea of Trevor getting tangled with a piece of good-for-nothing that will use him for his money.”
Henry shrugs again.
“Let her use him for his money. I think that’s what he wants. In fact, I have a feeling that’s what Trevor was aiming for all along, that and the shock value of bringing a hussy to a family event. But my son’s a genius at law and business, and I don’t say that lightly, because Trevor started with nothing. Okay, not nothing, exactly, but just a little seed money from me and a bunch of ideas. Now half the law offices in the city are running on his AI software.” He sips his coffee and adds, “He’s already worth billions, and he’s going to make trillions before he’s forty if Counterpoint AI goes public. Mark my words.”
Victoria looks faintly bored.
“It’s all paper money,” she says in a flat voice. “Nothing is real.”
Henry shrugs. “Maybe. But it’s more real than a lot of things, these days.”
Meanwhile, I tune out my parents and I flip the magazine open, my thumb running down the edge, skimming the profile: Trevor Cahill, thirty-five, founder of Counterpoint AI, disruptor of legal tech, single and ready to mingle, enjoys squash and marathon running, has “his eye out for the right lady.” Ha ha, what a joke! My stepbrother’s out for pussy, and his behavior last night just proves my point. But the interview is full of tight-lipped answers, fawning adoration, and jokes at the expense of his competitors. There’s another photo, him leaning against a steel banister, sleeves rolled, forearms corded with muscle as he smirks at the camera again.
This man is really too handsome for his own good.
But what really gets me is the sidebar at the bottom of the page: a little announcement in bold red.
“Join us for the Minneapolis Tatler Annual Bachelor Auction, featuring this year’s most eligible men. All proceeds benefit local youth charities. Bid on your favorite bachelor for a night of fine dining and adventure!”
My throat goes dry. I stare at the block print, reread it three times. My stepbrother’s going to be sold? To whom? To do what? I know Trevor’s not going to stop at “fine dining and adventure.” That man is hell on wheels, and doesn’t care who knows.
Victoria’s still talking, and her words startle me to life.
“Kayleigh, you should go,” she says, and I realize she’s been watching me, eyes bright and mischievous. “Wouldn’t it be funny to see Trevor up on stage, strutting for a bunch of desperate housewives? I think half my friends would bid, even if their husbands killed them. Wouldn’t that be so hilarious?”