Arranged Husband

Chapter 1

CHARLOTTE

Say what you want about my aunt Cecelia Westwood, but the woman knew how to throw a Christmas party. It was all glitter and grandeur, not even a single pine needle daring to fall out of place.

I maneuvered through the crowd of Westwoods with Claire perched on my hip like a sequined accessory, her tiny fist clutching the end of my hair and her other hand reaching for a crystal ornament shaped like a swan.

“Gentle hands, Your Royal Drooliness,” I murmured, leaning just far enough for Claire to pat the ornament and leave a smudge of baby slobber on it. “Don’t worry, Aunt CC loves a personal touch.”

Claire giggled and my heart melted right on the spot.

One year old, and my cousin Sterling’s little girl was already a genius level charmer, an expert at getting exactly what she wanted.

CC smiled serenely at me from across the room and I returned it, but then quickly averted my gaze and hurried Claire away from the now drool-smeared swan.

“Plausible deniability, kiddo,” I murmured to the talcum-scented cherub on my hip. “There are lots of kids here. If no one sees us, it wasn’t you.”

Missing last year’s Christmas extravaganza had been akin to an act of familial treason as far as my aunt was concerned, but this year, I wasn’t the only Westwood girl anymore.

Once upon a time, that had been a real thing, the lack of female babies.

So real that it had caused a rift between CC and my mother when I’d been born.

But now, with Claire, as well as Hailey and Briar, the twin girls Jameson and Sadie had produced, the family’s female drought was officially over.

CC was positively intoxicated on estrogen, so much so that she’d forgiven me my treasonous act, but if word got out that I was responsible for the drool on the decorations, that might be the last straw.

My shoes, gold heels that could double as medieval torture devices, clicked against the marble floor as I raced—calmly—away from the scene of the crime.

As the last Westwood born before the current baby boom, I’d always been the golden girl, but now that time and biology had caught up, I was just one of four born Westwood women and I was only too happy to pass the mantle to the little ones.

It took me nearly ten minutes to cross the ballroom—mostly because everyone wanted a peek at Claire, not me. I was essentially the chauffeur to the main event and I loved it.

“There she is!” I called when I finally spotted Laney near the dessert table, one hand around a flute of champagne and a tartlet in the other.

She was grinning like a woman tasting freedom for the first time, but then she spotted me and immediately shook her head.

“Oh no,” I warned under my breath, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

Before Claire could see her, she was already backing away, mouthing something about five more minutes before disappearing behind a wall of poinsettias and rich aunts wearing holiday sequins.

“Traitor,” I muttered, bouncing Claire lightly on my hip. “Okay, baby. Don’t worry about your mother. Auntie Char’s got you.”

Claire answered with a delighted squeal, drool glistening on her chin like it was part of her outfit. Honestly, the kid could spit up on a Prada dress and still look like a Gerber commercial.

Naturally, I loved her for it.

I loved kids, period. I always had. There was just something about them, soft, squishy, loud little bundles of chaos who somehow made the world make sense.

In another life, maybe I would’ve spent my days reading stories to second-graders or handing out stickers after performing exams in a pediatric clinic, but Westwoods didn’t do stickers.

We did mergers. Banking world domination was the family business.

My entire life had been about money, legacy, and never letting the empire crumble.

No matter how many times I’d imagined a different kind of life, one with finger paint instead of finance reports, I would never say it out loud to anyone in the family.

But I had managed to find my own ways to live out my passions, ways no one could object to.

Noise rippled through the room and I turned just in time to see a familiar figure in a black coat step through the grand archway. Harrison, the baby of the San Francisco Westwoods, wearing his usual casual confidence and arriving late as usual.

At twenty-six, he was the closest to me in age out of the cousins, with me just one year younger, but somehow, Harrison had always managed to seem like he had it all figured out. A trait I sure as heck didn’t possess.

“Sorry, traffic,” he said to no one in particular, scooping Claire neatly out of my arms before I could protest.

“Traffic?” I arched a brow. “Your house is six minutes away. On the estate.”

He grinned, utterly unbothered by being called out on his obvious lie. “I know, it’s crazy, right?”

“Uh-huh. And the perfectly styled hair?”

“That’s genetics, my dearest cousin. You should know that. Style is in the Westwood DNA.”

Before I could roll my eyes, his wife, Aurelia appeared at his side, elegant, glowing, and very much the kind of woman who could walk into a room like this and make it her stage. She gave me a quick hug, then flashed him an exasperated smile.

“Quick,” she murmured to him. “Let’s go get this done.”

Harrison’s blue eyes sparkled like freaking gemstones. He nodded at her, took her arm with Claire on his other hip, and swept them across the room in a blur of showmanship and deliberate purpose. I shook my head.

I had no idea what those two were up to this time, but from the sound of things, Harrison and Aurelia had become something of a power couple. Always chasing another deal and whatnot.

Harrison had married a girl who came from a family exactly like ours, another acquisitions-hungry bloodline with ambition in spades.

I wanted to catch up with them sometime and get to know her a little better, but obviously, they’d arrived on some kind of mission that they were dead set on achieving, which meant now wasn’t the time to chat.

While I’d given him shit about the traffic thing, I wasn’t even sure where they lived at the moment. I’d heard they’d moved to New York, but I’d also heard they were in the Mediterranean. Knowing Harrison, constantly being on the move was also entirely possible.

My brothers and I hadn’t been able to attend any of the spate of weddings that had happened last year. In our defense, there hadn’t been much notice for any of them, but still, I was sorry not to have been around. It sounded like my cousins had had quite a year.

Now, however, Claire was gone. My arms were empty and none of my cousins or their wives were in sight.

For a second, I just stood there, surrounded by champagne flutes, chandeliers, and the low hum of a fancy party that was definitely doubling as a business meeting.

They always did. Since I wasn’t interested in closing deals or discussing mergers, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself now that there was no baby, no mission of my own, and no one to make me look busy.

In the end, I did what any self-respecting Westwood would do. I straightened my shoulders, smiled like I knew exactly what I was doing, and started wandering.

The first floor was packed, the fireplaces roaring, and the scent of sugar and money thick in the air. Alex caught my eye across the room and lifted his chin in a silent acknowledgment.

That was it. No wave, no smile, no hey, baby sister, are you having a good time?

Just the solemn upward nod of a man who would rather be anywhere else and would still barely glance in my direction.

We’d flown in together this morning, with him grumbling about quarterly reports and me pretending not to fall asleep on his shoulder.

Apparently, that burst of familial warmth had expired upon arrival.

“Glad we had that bonding moment,” I muttered under my breath, a little miffed that Oldest Brother couldn’t be bothered to give me more than a curt chin-lift-nod thing.

I snagged another flute of champagne from a passing tray. If my brother could drink his feelings, so could I. The main sitting room was a glittering wonderland of flickering firelight, twinkling garlands, and crystal bowls overflowing with gold-wrapped truffles.

Stepping through the arched entryway, I took a long sip and let the bubbles fizz across my tongue. I scanned the crowd for someone, anyone, I actually wanted to talk to.

“Oh, look!” The sudden squeal made me flinch.

An older woman I didn’t recognize was staring directly at me, one manicured hand flying to her pearls, the other pointing upward like she’d just spotted Santa himself.

“Mistletoe!” she gasped, her eyes wide with delight.

As if an uncontrolled champagne cork had popped, heads started turning in our direction. Conversations stuttered. Suddenly, every set of eyes in the room was on me.

And then, on him.

Across the archway, leaning casually against the opposite column, was a man built like a brick wall in a tux. A fortress of a guy with broad shoulders, a sharp jaw, and a watch expensive enough to scream that he didn’t check the time, he owned it.

He held a glass of amber liquid, probably scotch that cost more than a luxury SUV.

I followed the woman’s pointing finger, and sure enough, there it was. Mistletoe. A dainty little sprig, hung precisely in the dead center of the archway.

Perfect.

My heart did a tiny, traitorous skip as I looked back at the man. He seemed familiar. Rugged, dark red hair slicked back, cheekbones that could cut glass, and those eyes, ice blue and sharp, narrowing slightly as they met mine.

I had to tilt my chin up and then up again, because he was that tall, just to even the playing field as I looked into his eyes. Someone nearby tittered. I heard ripples of the word “kiss” floating through the crowd.

“Well,” I said brightly, because silence was not my friend right now. “This is festive.”