Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
How had he gotten so fucking lucky?
She appeared at his elbow with a plate piled high with food he didn’t want. “Eat,” she commanded softly, pressing the dish into his hands.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care. You need to eat something.” Her fingers brushed his wrist, warm and insistent. “Please, Grey. For me.”
He couldn’t argue with that. He found an empty chair against the wall, settling in to pick at Mrs. Henderson’s famous potato salad while keeping one eye on the room. Logan held court near the bar, regaling some old high school friends with a story that actually drew genuine laughter. Greyson scanned the crowd for Soren, expecting to find him working the room with corporate precision, shaking hands and accepting business cards, but his middle brother was nowhere to be found.
A movement near the hallway caught his attention. Jocelyn emerged from the powder room with the kind of expression that immediately set off alarm bells—eyes darting left and right, smoothing down her skirt, looking for all the world like she’d just committed some minor crime.
Greyson frowned, taking another bite of potato salad as he watched her slink toward the kitchen with exaggerated casualness.
A moment later, the powder room door opened again. Soren stepped out, and Greyson nearly choked on a lump of egg and potato.
His brother’s usually immaculate hair stuck up at odd angles, his tie hung loose around his neck, and his shirt was wrinkled in ways that suggested it had been hastily tugged.
Pausing in the doorway, Soren straightened his cuffs and glanced up, his gaze freezing when it collided with Greyson’s no doubt stunned expression. Color draining from his rigid face as realization dawned. He shot a quick glance toward the kitchen where Jocelyn had disappeared, then back to Greyson with the desperate look of a man caught red-handed.
Very slowly, very deliberately, his brother pressed a finger to his lips, his expression pleading.
Greyson shoveled another forkful of potato salad into his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. He gave his brother the smallest nod—a promise that this particular family secret was safe—and watched Soren’s shoulders sag with relief before he melted back into the crowd of mourners.
Greyson returned to his potato salad, unable to shake the grin tugging at his mouth.
“The food must be good. That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile today,” Wren said, handing him a rocks glass of what looked like his favorite bourbon.
He was tempted to tell her what he saw, but decided to keep his word to Soren. Jocelyn was her best friend and would likely tell her soon enough, if she hadn’t already.
The house gradually emptied as the afternoon wore on, guests filtering out with final hugs and promises to check in soon. Greyson found himself stationed by the front door, accepting final handshakes and murmured condolences with the kind of autopilot politeness that grief demanded.
He was helping Mrs. Pemberley with her coat when he spotted a familiar figure in the foyer, bundling into a cashmere overcoat. Clayton, his father’s attorney, must have flown in from Boston that morning.
“Pardon me, Mrs. P,” Greyson said, exiting the hall to speak to the tall, silver-haired man who had handled Hawthorne business for the better part of three decades.
“Clayton.” Greyson extended his hand as he approached the older man. “Thank you for making the trip. I know Dad would have appreciated it.”
Clayton’s handshake was firm, his expression genuinely sorrowful. “Your father was… an impressive man. Complicated, certainly, but impressive nonetheless. He built something that will outlast all of us.”
“Thank you. Impressive’s a kind way to put it.” They both chuckled as if knowing exactly what they weren’t saying out loud. “We’ll call your office sometime next week to go over whatever needs signing.” Greyson managed a tired smile. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter now, since Dad changed the will, but it’s a shame it couldn’t go to my brothers. They wanted the company and deserved it, but...” He shrugged. “Dad was just that kind of prick.”
Clayton’s brows knitted together, confusion clouding his features. “I’m sorry, what change?”
“The clause he added. About divesting the company if one of us didn’t settle down and get married before he passed.” Greyson studied the lawyer’s face, and something cold settled in his stomach. “The clause he added around Thanksgiving.”
The confusion on Clayton’s face deepened. “Greyson, I think there’s been some misunderstanding. The will hasn’t changed in years. Your father never contacted me about any modifications.” He adjusted his coat, speaking with the careful precision of someone delivering important news. “You and your brothers will inherit everything equally, just as we discussed years ago. If you want to sell your shares to Soren or Logan, you have every right to do so.”
The world tilted sideways.
Greyson’s mouth opened, then closed. The sounds of the house—distant conversations, the clink of dishes being cleared—faded to white noise as the implications crashed over him like a rogue wave.