nse arrives within a minute.
A baby? You don’t even have a girlfriend.
I have to chuckle. The message is a remarkable show of restraint on his part. He didn’t go into a long spiel about how he’s getting old, how my mom’s getting old, and how it’s my duty to marry a nice, sweet girl and have some babies because old people like him and my mom need something to look forward to, like a giggly bundle of joy to bounce on their aching, arthritic knees. Or maybe his assistant is unavailable to type all that stuff up. Barron doesn’t like to type. Says it’s tedious.
I check my mom’s email. It’s nothing urgent, just some catching up. She’s planning to spend some time in Los Angeles because Ohio is too cold this year, and the temperature is bothering her joints. To be honest, that seems like an excuse. Mom might be old, but she’s healthy as a horse, and she loves her home with its huge garden and five-acre lot. My guess is she just wants to spend time with her grandson. And possibly hint at a second grandchild—from me. She’s going to have to wait a long time for that, because she wants me to do things in the “proper” order: find the right girl, fall in love, get married and then have the baby. I’d like to become a father at some point, but I’m in no rush to find “the right girl.”
Still, I’d love to see Mom, because she’s been widowed for so long and I don’t visit that often. But she lives in Harrisburg, Ohio, which is a pain in the ass to get to, as it’s two hours from the only airport in the area. I email her back, letting her know I miss her a lot and can’t wait to see her.
That done, I drive over to Justin’s place. It’s early, but lunch at my brother’s place on a weekend isn’t just a meal. It’s pre-lunch drinks, then the actual lunch, then lingering over coffee and tea and cake. Vanessa won’t have it any other way, and Justin lets her do whatever she wants.
Their home is a huge mansion with every real-estate-value-enhancing feature a developer could think of because my brother and his wife decided they need a good space for their family of three. Actually, I think Justin wanted to get it more than her. She wasn’t exactly the most enthusiastic of brides, and he was paranoid she was going to disappear or change her mind about their marriage. And even with our vast wealth and connections, Justin would’ve been helpless to stop her because of who and what she is. Not only is she a Stanford-educated lawyer, but a Pryce as well. The Pryces are dysfunctional enough to fuel a decade’s worth of daytime talk shows, but they always protect their own against outsiders.
When I reach the mansion after an hour of fighting L.A. traffic, I see a pearlescent pink-and-cream Cullinan parked in the driveway, past the gates. It can’t be Vanessa’s car. She’s more the fiery red type, and Justin knows better than to get her something in pink, of all shades.
I park my Lamborghini and go inside. Vicki, the nanny I helped Justin and Vanessa hire, beams at me, coming out of the kitchen. “Hi, Nate. Everyone’s here already.”
“Everyone?” I echo stupidly.
She nods, like I should know.
“Nate!” A sweet, high-pitched voice is heard first, before I see the little blue-eyed, golden-haired angel dashing toward me.
“Hey, princess!” I pick her up with a huge grin, hoisting her up high and settling her against my chest like the precious bundle she is. Isabella is Dane and Sophia’s child, which means…
That frothy pink Cullinan is Dane’s.
Whoa.
I shake my head, trying to shove my world back on its axis. Vanessa’s oldest brother, Dane Pryce, is cold enough to make Antarctica seem tropical. The image of him in the driver’s seat of that girly car—even though it’s a Cullinan—is so incongruous that it’s sick.
Maybe he was high when he bought it. Or maybe not, because the man is never high, never drunk and certainly never out of control.
Carrying Isabella, I walk to the gigantic open space that is the living/entertaining/sitting room or whatever. It has the requisite TV hooked up to the best surround-sound system money can buy, and lots of couches and armchairs. There are enough throw pillows to stock a showroom.
“Hey, bro!” Justin says with a grin. Although we aren’t twins, we’re very much alike in our looks—the same dark hair and dark eyes. But everyone says I’m the softer one—probably because I’ve never had the expectation of carrying on Sterling & Wilson’s vast business interests. Justin was always the chosen one, the heir apparent, the one groomed since birth for his position. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
His son, Ryan, is cuddled against him. He waves at me, his hand shiny with I don’t even want to know what. It doesn’t seem to bother Justin, though. He’s gazing at the boy like the child just cured cancer.
“Hi, Nate! How are you?” Vanessa comes out of the kitchen with a huge pitcher of margarita and four glasses, and kisses me on the cheek. She’s a stunner, her bottle-red hair pulled into a simple ponytail that swings with each step, every facial feature fine and delicate.
Motherhood hasn’t seemed to faze her one bit. Energy crackles around her, but then, just because she isn’t with her old firm doesn’t mean the woman’s sharklike instincts are dead. She is still a scarily good lawyer.
“Did you see Dane’s new car?” I say, gesturing outside.
Vanessa laughs as she pours generous amounts of margarita into the glasses. I pass one to Justin and take another for myself, before sitting down in a plush armchair with Isabella eyeing my glass greedily. “That’s not his car,” Vanessa says. “It’s Sophia’s.”
Something in her tone lets me know he’s not here, which is a bit of a shock. The man refuses to be away from his wife if he can help it. “She’s here? Just her and Isabella?”
Vanessa nods, then takes her drink and settles down next to Justin.
Whoa. Is he in the doghouse? That’s just not how I imagined Dane would be. He’s so pussy-whipped—er, in love with his wife that if she said cars run on water, he’d agree with her and eviscerate anybody who tried to say otherwise.
“He’s out of town, and I thought maybe she should visit us.”
“Why is he out of town?” Ever since he met his wife, he quit working overtime and weekends. Whoever pulled him away is going to end up dead.
“Oh, some emergency,” Sophia says, coming from upstairs and taking Isabella from me, then plucking a glass from the table and settling in an empty love seat. “You know how it is.”