Chapter 5
CHARLOTTE
The club wasn’t the kind of place that welcomed jeans, so I’d dressed up. Dressed to the nines, actually, thrilled Dad had invited me with him tonight.
For once, he’d invited me. Not Alex. Or Nate. Or any of the other four, but me.
It was a rare enough occasion that I smiled as we walked in, feeling like a princess even though I was creeped out by oil portraits lining the walls, each showcasing an old man who looked as smug as if they’d personally invented money.
This wasn’t my usual scene at all, the polished mahogany and quiet power, but tonight, I was on Cloud Nine to be here.
My black dress was sleek and classic, my heels the exact height that said yes, I can run in these, but I prefer to make men nervous instead. When Dad offered me his arm at the entrance to the dining room, I took it, basking in the rare glow of his attention.
It really didn’t happen often. I loved him, but he’d been distant since Mom had died, and with six older brothers, affection wasn’t exactly a currency we had ever earned easily.
But tonight, he’d smiled at me when I’d come downstairs. In the car, he’d asked about my week. He’d even told me I reminded him of my mother in this dress. And I was soaking it all up like sunlight.
We sat at his usual table, surrounded by Dad’s friends, all of them men with silver hair and expensive watches. They talked business, golf, and whatever else they considered riveting, and I smiled, nodding in all the right places even if I wasn’t really listening.
Honestly, I was just happy to be here.
As I looked around the dining room, pretending not to be as bored as I was, a stunning, dreamily handsome man suddenly appeared in my field of vision. I blinked hard a few times, but nope. He didn’t turn away or veer off to another table.
Somehow, it seemed he was headed directly for us. Tall and striking, he wore a perfectly tailored suit that went great with his face.
“Mr. Westwood,” he said when he reached us and my dad got up to greet him. “It’s an honor.”
I nearly fell off my chair. He had a British accent, his voice as smooth as velvet. It sent a shiver straight down my spine.
Dad smiled. “Charlotte, this is Gregory. Gregory Van Allen. His father, Viscount Van Allen, and I go way back.”
Viscount Van Allen. Of course. Because why fall for a normal man when I can immediately lose my mind over royalty with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass?
“It’s my pleasure,” Gregory said, reaching for my hand. He didn’t shake it, he kissed it, his twinkling honey-brown eyes warming me all the way through when they held mine.
His mouth curved into a devastating smile that could slay a girl’s demons and make her forget her own name. My brain short-circuited.
Dad waved him into a chair. “Join us, Gregory.”
As he sat down, the other older men disappeared one by one, probably drifting off to find seats someplace where they could keep talking about golf instead of tea parties. Gregory kept smiling at me, immediately launching into a conversation.
Well, not so much a conversation. He talked and I mostly blinked at him, dazzled by the sound of that dreamy accent and the way his eyes never left mine.
“Charlotte.”
My heart stuttered at the sound of my brother’s voice.
When I looked up, Alex stood just beyond our table, his expression tight. Beside him was a man I hadn’t seen in months. A man whose sudden presence here was extremely unwelcome. Especially right now.
All six and a half feet of Trent Shepard with all his tanned skin and sun-streaked hair stood with my brother, his shoulders built like sin and his thumbs hooked into his belt.
Of course he’d show up now, in a place where I was pretending to be effortlessly charming and definitely not the girl who’d been humiliated under a damn sprig of mistletoe six months ago.
The smile I’d been wearing for Gregory Van Allen, the swoon-worthy viscount, or duke, or whatever his title was, faltered the moment Trent stepped toward our table.
Memories hit like a bad highlight reel. The Christmas party, the mistletoe, his smirk, and his low, southern drawl cutting through the laughter. Those words, ringing with finality. “Not gonna happen.”
Yeah, well, apparently it was happening now.
My stomach dipped as Alex and Trent kept moving toward us like they’d been invited.
They both looked impeccably polished, Alex in his usual immaculate suit and scowl and Trent in a crisp shirt that somehow managed to look wrong in a room full of men who probably used the word “bespoke” unironically.
Alex clasped Dad’s shoulder, exchanged a few words with him, and then, because fate enjoyed humiliating me, slid into the seat beside Dad. Trent took the available chair between Gregory and me.
“Douglas,” he greeted my father with a friendly smile, reaching across the table to shake his hand. “How’re you doing?”
“Trent.” Dad chuckled warmly, like he’d rediscovered a long-lost son. “This is a surprise, boy. When did you get into town?”
“Just this morning,” he said lazily in that drawl that still haunted my freaking nightmares. “It’s good to be back.”
I clutched my champagne flute like a weapon, trying not to snap the stem. Trent monopolized my dad’s attention and Alex started talking to Gregory. Eventually, Trent leaned in to hear Alex better, crowding my space, his broad shoulder brushing mine.
The scent of him, sun, leather, and something woodsy, hit my nostrils on my next inhale. I couldn’t lie to myself and pretend the asshole didn’t smell good, so I edged away on my seat, only for his boot to scuff my heel.
“Seriously?” I hissed, kicking him lightly in the shin.
He jerked, glancing down, then over at me with a startled expression. It quickly softened into one of faint, puzzled recognition. “Oh. Sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
Didn’t see me here.
I bit down a sharp retort, but before I could decide whether to say the words or dump my drink in his lap, Alex stood abruptly. “Gregory, let’s catch up for a minute, yeah?”
He clapped a hand on the poor man’s shoulder and practically hauled him away from the table. I blinked after them, utterly confused, and then realized Alex had just dumped me, Trent, and Dad.
Alex and Gregory disappeared toward the cigar lounge, and the moment the door shut behind them, I became acutely aware of the heat of the man beside me. The man radiated Texas like it was a lifestyle choice.
To make matters worse, my dad suddenly stood up too. “I’m going to see if Gregory’s father is around. He owes me five dollars and I aim to collect. You don’t mind keeping Charlotte company, do you, Trent?”
I noticed he hadn’t asked me if I was okay with being kept company, but it didn’t matter anyway because he was gone before Trent had even replied. So now I was officially being babysat by a man who found me so repulsive that he would run than kiss me, mistletoe be damned.
Fantastic.
For a few long seconds, Trent didn’t move or speak. Then he cleared his throat, glanced at me, and shook his head like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with me. “I’ll, uh, I’ll just let you be.”
With that, he pushed back his chair and stood, walking away without another word. I sat at the empty table with heat creeping up my neck. Everyone had found someone to talk to, or to laugh with, or something else to do.
Everyone but me.
Overlooked. Again.
I pulled out my phone and texted for a driver. I wasn’t about to stick around while they did their important men things and just left me here. A dull ache had started up in my chest by the time I reached the club’s fancy foyer alone.
I’d been so excited to spend time with my dad and he hadn’t even lasted an hour. Fierce, hot disappointment cascaded over me, but I was pretending not to care when I heard Alex’s voice behind me.
Again.
“Char! Where are you going?”
I turned to find him striding toward me with that brotherly expression that said don’t make me run after you. Trent followed at his side, his face a blank stone mask, impossible to read.
“I have an event tonight,” I said breezily, tucking my phone into my clutch and lifting my chin. “This was fun, though. We shouldn’t do it again.”
Alex ignored the last part and raised an eyebrow. “Are you reading books to Girl Scouts again? Is that your event?”
“You’re hilarious.” I flipped him off without missing a beat.
A low laugh reached my ears and I frowned, because Alex wasn’t laughing. I stole a quick glance sideways and realized that Trent Shepard, of all people, seemed to be amused by me.
Shaking my head, I gave my brother a short wave and started backing away. “I should get going. See you around, Alex. Don’t do anything—oh, wait. You don’t do anything anymore, so no warnings are required. Enjoy puffing on each other’s cigars, gentlemen.”
He groaned. “Char, come on.”
I ignored him, pushing toward the door and then realizing Trent was already there, one large hand holding it open for me.
For one heartbeat, our gazes met. His clear, cutting blue eyes caught the gold of the overhead light, and his stare would have pinned me in place if I hadn’t already been annoyed with him.
“Charlotte,” he said quietly, holding the door like it was second nature.
My throat was suddenly a little tight, but I nodded anyway. “Thanks.”
Stepping past him, I left the club and walked out into the sticky night heat, my heart tripping over itself for no good reason.
I hurried to the waiting car, all the while pretending I didn’t feel electricity crackling through my nerve endings like a science experiment gone awry.
My legs were shaky walking down the steps.
By the time the driver merged into the traffic, I’d taken several deep, cleansing breaths, trying to forget the masculine scent of him. I scrolled through my messages, attempting to ignore the tiny storm still whirling in my chest.
My father’s world always left me feeling like I was a little girl playing dress-up. It wasn’t me. On the bright side, his abandonment meant I could finally get back to my own world. I quickly tapped out a message and fired it off to Stella, my best friend.
Me: You still coming with me to the art thing tonight?
Stella: Uh, duh. I’m already dressed. You think I’d miss free cheese cubes and awkward teen poetry?
I smiled, sinking back against the leather seat. The gallery thing wasn’t actually at a gallery. It was a public high school gym decked out with folding tables and poster boards, where students displayed paintings, pottery, and sketches under fluorescent lights.
Stella’s cousin was one of the art teachers, and somehow, I’d gotten roped into going last year, but I’d loved it.
There was something pure about it, watching kids beam with pride over something they’d made, not because it would earn them money or score them a connection, but because it mattered to them.
Me: I’m in the car. Be there in twenty.
Stella: Bring snacks. I never trust those pretzels.
I laughed quietly, glancing out the window.
The city lights blurred past. For the first time all night, the tightness in my chest loosened.
Out here, away from the Westwood name, away from my father’s pointed smiles and Trent Shepard’s confusing blue eyes, I could just be me.
And maybe it was time to accept that was the only thing I really needed to be.