Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 54520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Yet here I am, white-knuckling the steering wheel of a rental as we pull out of Vancouver Airport, and head toward some fancy-ass winery for a weekend of next-level Jerry Springer bullshit.
All because I can’t say no to Harlow Hayes. And the worst part? I woke up this morning eager to see her. Practically climbing out of my fucking skin like some lovesick teenager.
What kind of shit is that?
Pathetic. That’s what it is.
Beside me, Harlow fidgets, her fingers tapping nervously against her thigh. She’s been lost in her head since we landed, most likely rehearsing every possible scenario. The chick even has a spreadsheet with our plan mapped out, color-coded and all. I was given a copy on the plane and instructed to memorize it.
“Okay, let’s run through the story one more time,” she says, twisting toward me. “We’ve been together six months, you asked me out after a night with our friends, you’re crazy about me, and what’s our favorite thing to do together?”
She pauses, waiting expectantly, so I give her the first answer that pops in my head.
“Fuck like porn stars.”
Her face flatlines, and it’s so damn comical I bark out a laugh.
“Come on, Linc. This is serious.”
“Would you relax? I told you, I got this.”
She huffs, arms crossing. “You don’t know my parents. They’re not easily fooled. Neither is Finch. He’s a lawyer, he can smell bullshit a mile away. Honestly, I’m shocked he bought our story the first time.”
I grunt at the mention of that dweeb. “Trust me, I can handle your parents—and Finchy Boy.”
Her brow arches. “Finchy Boy?”
I shrug. “Suits him, doesn’t it?”
She thinks it over, her lips fighting a smile before giving in. “Yeah, it does.” A soft laugh follows, easing some of the tension.
Smirking, I settle back in my seat. “Gotta admit, Goldilocks, I’m shocked you even dated that loser. Didn’t peg him as your type.”
Just like that, her easiness fades. “First of all”—she snaps, raising a finger—“you don’t know anything about my type.”
I know enough to know it sure as hell isn’t Finchy Boy, but I bite it back.
“And secondly”—another finger lifts—“it was short-lived and clearly a misjudgment on my part.”
I’ll fucking say.
“Trust me, if I could erase every second with him, I would.” Her voice dips, the words fading into the hum of the tires.
I get the urge to press her, dig deeper, but I hold back.
No sense making this harder on her, and truthfully, I’d rather pretend she never wasted a second on that asshole. Just thinking about it has me seeing red.
Thankfully, a distraction comes when we turn down the long driveway, leading to the winery.
Oak trees line either side of us, their branches arching overhead before giving away to rolling vineyards and distant mountains, all of it framing a stone chateau that screams wealth and class for only the highest elites.
A low whistle slips out before I can stop it.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Harlow grumbles, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s a members-only club. Finch’s family pulled strings to get my parents in, something they never shut up about.”
Beneath all that steel in her tone, there’s a flicker of something else. A vulnerability she’d rather choke on than admit, snuffing all that fire out of her.
I hate it.
“You want me to turn around?” I ask, only half-joking.
Her gaze finds mine, softer now.
“Say the word, and I’ll back this bitch out right now. We’ll claim the flight got canceled and spend the weekend far away from Finchy Boy and his tight-ass suit.”
For a heartbeat, her sadness breaks, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “Tempting,” she whispers, “but no. I need to do this.”
I disagree. She doesn’t owe them a damn thing. But it’s her call.
She turns to the door, shoulders squaring with resolve. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
I cut the engine and follow her out.
Let the games begin.
The scent of polished wood greets me as we step through the entrance of the grand lobby. The space is as luxurious as the outside, and exactly the kind of status my parents worship.
We approach the front desk, where a poised and polished receptionist offers a practiced smile.
“Welcome to Rosewood Estate,” she greets, her gaze sliding right past me to linger on Linc.
Annoyed, I slap my credit card onto the smooth marble counter. “Reservation under Harlow Hayes.”
Her gaze tears from Linc, cheeks flushing pink. “Yes, of course.”
She reaches for my card, but before she makes contact, Linc slides his own across the counter.
“Actually, we’ll use this one.”
I snatch it first, shoving it aside. “No.”
He pushes it right back, his smirk infuriating. “Yes.”
“You don’t even know how much it is,” I hiss. “I told you, this was my idea. I’ll pay.”
He leans in, his scent curling around me. “I told you, I don’t want your damn money. Besides”—his voice drops, lazy and cocky—“I’m the boyfriend, remember? That means I pay.”