They speculate about why Ryder is marrying me—probably the baby, and they talk about why I should be careful because things like that surely can’t last even if the man in question is known for donating huge sums of money to help underprivileged women and children.
“I mean, there’s a big difference between donating once in a while and dealing with it yourself every day for the next eighteen years,” says a blue-eyed blonde who looks positively gleeful.
“At least it solves the mystery of why he’s marrying her,” a brunette says. “It was on a lot of people’s minds.”
Bitch.
Fat cow.
Beached whale.
And so many other hateful things said about me online flood my mind. My hands start shaking, and I turn the TV off. I don’t need the stress.
The doorbell rings. Grateful for something to do, I get up. It’s probably a delivery man, but I check through the peephole anyway.
Standing outside is Elliot Reed. I open the door.
He’s in a white t-shirt and denim shorts, his feet stuck in black flip-flops. A pair of sunglasses dangles from one hand.
Despite the fact that he’s Ryder’s half-brother, they look nothing alike. I heard that he takes after his mother, who was Wife Number Two. His hair is dark, but compared to Ryder’s it’s a shade or two lighter. He also didn’t get the classic Pryce profile with those perfect, aristocratic lines. But he’s still a striking man, with even features and a charming smile.
Unfortunately for him, I’m immune.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He gives me the smile. “I happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“Right. Because you routinely hang out in middle class neighborhoods that don’t have high-end bars or strip clubs.”
“Ouch,” he says with a wince. “Guess I deserved that.”
I give him a look.
“Can I come in?”
“If Ryder sent you—”
“He didn’t.”
I gaze at him, wondering. “All right,” I say finally. “You can come in.”
He walks in, looking around the humble living room. It’s smaller than Ryder’s bedroom, and it is decorated with inexpensive furniture and second-hand items. Shelves have tons of framed pictures of Oliver and Bethany—an unbroken photographic record from the time they became an item to the present.
“Nice,” he murmurs.
“I bet you’ve never set foot in a house that’s worth less than three million.”
Something flashes in his gaze, then disappears just as quickly as it appeared. “Now who’s being a snob?” He sits in the couch. “Elizabeth called me.”
I frown. “About?”
“You.”
Crossing my arms, I lean against the wall across from him. “If there’s anything she wants to talk to me about, she knows my number.”
“Yeah, well. I thought I should do this face-to-face.”
I keep my mouth shut and wait for him to go on.
“Nothing happened at the strip club,” he says.
My lips curve. “Riiiiiight.”
“Look, Ryder wanted to talk, I was already there, and I didn’t want to leave. So he came by.”
“Regular bars not good enough for you guys?” I say, uncrossing my arms.
“You know about the deal with our father, don’t you?”
I nod. No point in being coy with him.
“I thought so.” He taps his lips like I’ve just confirmed something important for him. “Then you know I need to marry too.”
“And how does that relate to the strip club?”
He frowns and smiles at the same time, like you do when someone doesn’t get an obvious joke. “I’m looking for a wife.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His announcement has short-circuited my brain.
Now he actually laughs. “You haven’t heard?”
“No.” I blink. “But why? You could have anybody you want.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why I want a stripper. Besides, it’ll be more fun this way. You watch.” He winks.
Then it hits me. Why he’s doing this—it’s to show to his father that he can’t be controlled. I snort a laugh. “You are terrible.”
“Thank you. I try very hard.” He grows serious. “Paige, why are you making this more complicated than it needs to be?”
I sigh, then shake my head. “Ryder doesn’t trust me.”
“And? So what? It’s only for a year. I’m certain my brother offered more than enough to make up for a year of your life, and he’ll take care of the baby as well.”
Elliot’s right. I know that. But I need Ryder’s trust if I’m going to do it. It’s the least I want from him, and I don’t even know how to articulate that so I don’t end up sounding like a whiner.