Charles Williams Wellington the Third was seated behind his desk as if he sat on a throne, his mass of silver hair flowing into a deep curl that fell over his forehead. His wrinkled and tanned face didn’t look older than seventy, though he was pushing eighty-two, only weeks away from celebrating his birthday.
“I have decided”—he paused and stood to his full height of six-four—“to have an auction.”
“Oh?” Brock was the first to speak. Business he could deal with. Numbers he could process. Anything outside of that and he was going to need a drink.
Or ten.
“What would you like to auction?” He pulled out his iPhone and started a new note. “One of your houses? A few of your stallions? Titus Enterprises had a car auction last year that was extremely profitable.”
Grandfather’s face transformed into a wicked grin. “Maybe the other two should sit down.”
“I think he means us,” Bentley said under his breath, while Brant shot Brock a worried glance.
“I mean to auction…” Grandfather took a deep breath and raised his finger to point at them. “You.”
Brant, the fastest of the bunch, jerked his chair to the right. “He’s pointing at Bentley.”
Bentley, never the more clever of the two, faked a coughing fit and fell forward in a vain attempt to kick Brock’s chair closer to the middle.
Rolling his eyes, Brock said, “He’s pointing at all of us.”
“Actually…” Grandfather’s voice deepened. “I was pointing at you, Brock.”
Brock had always done everything his grandfather asked. When he graduated high school he’d been pressured into going to Harvard, because wouldn’t it be so wonderful to go to the same school as his father? In honor of his memory?
Football, not basketball.
Chess, never checkers.
It was easier to keep the peace, to keep the smile on his grandfather’s face. And because he’d do anything to keep the old man from more grief and sadness. He’d seen those emotions on his grandfather’s tear-stained face when he’d told him his parents were dead. And ever since, Brock had said yes.
To Harvard.
To football.
To business school.
To taking over the company.
To the women his grandfather thought it best he be seen with.
But this? This was too far.
“Auction a person?” Brock tried to clarify. “Why?”
Immediately relieved they were no longer the focus of attention, both of his brothers had already directed their attention to their phones.
Not even paying attention.
Story of his life.
Grandfather limped around his massive desk. Guilt slammed into Brock’s chest in perfect cadence with his increasingly erratic heartbeat.
With a curse, Grandfather grabbed his cane and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
His eyes locked in on Brock. “Please.”
Brock opened and closed his mouth.
“It’s for a good cause,” His grandfather didn’t blink, just kept limping toward Brock until he had to crane his neck to stare up at the man he’d do anything for and had sacrificed everything for.
The final nail in the coffin was when the older man lowered his chin and humbled himself by uttering, “Do it for me.”
Fuck.
Chapter Two
Jane!” Esmeralda shouted. “Hurry up! You’re taking way too long! We’re going to be late to the party!”
“Maybe you should just go without me,” Jane offered in what she hoped sounded like the perfect balance between depressed yet content. She was exhausted from work—the last thing she needed was to babysit her sisters while they drank their body weight in vodka tonics.
Esmeralda’s voice was loud and clear as day. “Jane! If you don’t come who’s going to fix my dress if something happens? Or watch over Essence; you know how she gets shy with guys! And you’re the best wingman.”
Jane clenched her teeth together. What girls actually had their own personal seamstress? Though Jane was really more of a jack-of-all-trades. And she was probably the worst wingman in history.
“You girls ready?” Essence asked.
“Jane! Hurry up! We don’t want to arrive too late. It’s rude, and he may not notice us.”
Jane barely managed to hold in her gasp as Esmeralda and Essence tumbled down the stairs and presented their dresses.
Esmeralda’s tight black dress had just enough fabric to cover her surgically enhanced boobs and barely covered her ass.
Essence’s was nearly the same style, except it was white.
One wore purple lipstick, the other had on gray; they were always on top of the newest trends even if the trends were stupid—and ugly.
At Fashion Week, they could get away with it.
In Phoenix they just looked like Bratz dolls.
“Yeah, I think”—Jane coughed into her hand—“he’ll notice.”
“Aw!” Esmeralda clapped her hands and flicked her dark hair over her shoulder. “That’s so nice of you to say.”