And when Darcy wants to spoil you, you get spoiled. “Thank you.” We’ll discuss where I’m going to be living later—that’s not a battle I want to fight at the moment.
“No need for thanks. That’s what family’s for.”
My eyes prickle with tears. Ray and his wife, Darcy, are the ones who treated me like their own. Without them for foster parents, who knows how I might’ve ended up?
The receptionist smiles to signal that they’re ready for me. I turn my attention back to the call. “I have to go, Ray. I’ll text you the flight info as soon as I can.”
“Great. Love you, Ava.”
“I love you, too, Ray.”
* * *
Lucas
Since I know Ava is going to cheap out on me—I don’t trust that she’ll get more than a foot massage—I call the spa and instruct them to give her the works. I want her happy, relaxed and glowing when she comes back.
I lean against the headboard and smile to myself. I wish I were there to see it when she realizes she’s going to be pampered whether she likes it or not. Mostly so I could kiss away her annoyed scowl and taste that adorable pouty mouth.
My phone buzzes with a text. Ava, writing about my high-handedness? I should probably send her something inappropriate. Maybe a pec shot…or something more risqué. I snort with a suppressed laugh, but my humor vanishes when I see who it is from—Blake.
When are you available? Found the perfect woman for you.
The message is so bizarre, it takes me a m
oment to process. It isn’t like him to give a damn about my love life.
Not interested, I text back.
Already find a bride? Is it the woman you wanted to talk about earlier?
I scowl. Ava is none of his business. I’m not marrying her for the painting, I write, referring to the fucked-up proposal from our father.
Then what?
I hesitate. I want Ava for reasons other than the damned paintings. And I want her to crave me the way I crave her…the way I love her.
Another text comes in. You are marrying, right?
I already told you guys no. As I hit send, I feel a pit growing in my belly.
Dad is a borderline sociopath, but he’s no dummy. He knows the only way to make us all jump is to make sure everyone gets punished if even one of us disobeys.
I can live without the painting. My siblings believe Grandpa saw our greatest potential and put that into the portraits he did of us when we turned eighteen. It might be true for them, but it isn’t for me. He saw something in me that didn’t exist. He only saw what he wanted to see, and when there wasn’t anything there, he imagined it.
People think that Elliot and I are geniuses and that we founded and nurtured the company that made us rich together. But it was really Elliot who protected it from the embezzler—I didn’t know the money was missing since stuff like that isn’t my forte—and he’s the one who courted our investors. I was always a bit too shy and awkward. Or, as Elliot would put it, “Hard to get to know.”
The more precise verdict would be “wears his heart on his sleeve unless he’s careful” delivered in a female voice dripping with contempt.
You know this is going to devastate Elizabeth.
I glare at the phone screen. Blake knows my weak point. Other than Ava, my half-sister, Elizabeth Pryce-Reed, is the only woman I’d take a bullet for. She isn’t Catholic, but she should be canonized anyway for all the good work she does for the destitute and disadvantaged in the world. I’ve seen the difference she’s made in people’s lives. If I died today, it wouldn’t make the world any sadder, any less bright. But Elizabeth? The world would be a poorer place.
That’s a cheap shot. She’ll get over it if I donate a few million bucks to her foundation to make up for it, I respond even though I know that isn’t true. Even though Grandpa’s portrait couldn’t capture all that’s good about her, she adores the work since she loved that man. She’d grieve if she lost it.
Is that what she said? Blake texts back.
She doesn’t have to. I know.