Chapter Ten
Huxley
My foul mood persists, and hasn’t improved much by the time brunch with my brothers rolls around four weeks later. It doesn’t help that I’ve been to the bar near Highsmith every night and haven’t run into Grace. My feeling that it wasn’t her scene was correct.
And it certainly doesn’t help that Joey sent me two more women, neither of which was an improvement over “Jane.” Actually, Jane was the best of the bunch. Where does he find these women? And does Dad know about it…?
Of course he does . He probably approves all these women. To my chagrin and disgust, I can easily imagine Dad playing “me Tarzan, you Jane” with women a third his age.
I should just hire somebody to beat the hell out of Joey. Wonder if any of my brothers knows somebody who knows somebody. Money’s no object. Keeping Joey permanently away from me is.
On top of that, my grandmother isn’t even trying to talk to me anymore. She sent me ten different wedding invitation designs, all of which have my name and a blank for the bride’s, since I haven’t chosen which Webber yet. Then came fifty bouquet options. Why the hell does she think I care about what flowers should be at the matrimonial farce I don’t plan to participate in?
Then she texted me that it’d be tragic if I was cut off from the family, and I had to stare at the message, trying to figure out what she was really trying to communicate.
Has she forgotten that I have my own money, my own career and my own last name? Maybe threats like this work well on Uncle Prescott and some others in the family—although I can’t visualize them working on Mom—but I’m immune. If getting cut off means no more Huxley & Webber on retainer, so be it. Highsmith, Dickson and Associates would love to have my business.
I park my Lamborghini in front of Emmett’s mansion. I spot a few other cars, including the Bugatti Noah loves so much. It’s a little shocking that he hasn’t gotten a custom paint job to make it look like cheetah skin. And more shocking that he got here before I did.
Emmett’s place has gone through some renovations, mainly to accommodate his and Amy’s little daughter Monique. There’s a pink baby grand in the center of the great room that looks out onto the lush garden. Monique apparently wanted to play a pink piano after seeing another girl playing one, so that’s what Emmett got her.
Right now, the gigantic home has only us brothers. When we have our brunches, Amy prefers to hang out with my other sisters-in-law—four of them, since Noah and I are the only bachelors left, although even he has an all-but-wife girlfriend now. We told them we wouldn’t mind if the ladies wanted to join us, but they said it was our man-bonding time, and they didn’t want to intrude.
Which just shows how smart they are, because the purpose of our brunch is exactly that. It’s always been just the seven of us. We were in the same grade in the same schools, and always had each other’s backs because we knew from early on that we couldn’t necessarily count on our parents. So what if our father was a legend in the movie business and there were seven women who could’ve taken on a maternal role? They were busy and had their own interests. The only one who came close to being a mother figure to me was Emmett’s mom, but only because she’s nice and unassuming, not because she’s boring or had nothing better to do.
So even though we’ve been out of school for years, we make sure to spend time together. To see what’s up with each other’s lives. And, of course, give each other shit, because that’s just how we roll.
I’m the last to arrive. All seven of us were able to make it here today, in the huge dining room with a massive brunch spread. Emmett has catered the meal because he doesn’t want to kill us with his cooking. To be fair, none of us are any good in a kitchen. Ted Lasker gave us many things—dark hair, square jaws and enough money that none of our mothers needed to work to provide for us while we were growing up—but not culinary ability. Of course he probably can’t wipe his own ass without Joey, so wielding a knife in the kitchen… Not a good idea.
I grab some sausages and bacon and sit down with a mug of strong coffee.
“Playa del Carmen is a great choice for a month-long birthday celebration,” says Nicholas. “But a little crowded with all the gringo vacationers.”
“Whose birthday is this?” I ask. Nicholas is so whipped he might just go ahead and book an entire resort for a month for his wife.
“My mom’s,” Emmett answers. “She wants to have a quiet vacation on the beach.”
Emma is the polar opposite of Dad in every way. Sane. Rational. Loves peace and quiet. Enjoys reading romance and mysteries. Not a big fan of parties, and she stays away from most of them except for Dad’s birthday bash because he’s impossible otherwise.
She’s nothing like the other six mothers, either. God must’ve taken pity on Dad to let him dazzle a woman like Emma enough to spend a night with her. But of course, he botched it by returning to his degenerate lifestyle the next day and promptly impregnating the rest of our mothers.
They had no desire to put aside their own interests and careers—from modeling to photography to being a rich jewelry heiress—while my brothers and I were little. They voted to ship us off to boarding schools. A lot of our brothers like to blame Dad for that decision, but if you think about it, it’s obvious he never cared about us deeply enough to ponder where we should get our education. As long as we didn’t die, he was fine.
The boarding schools were convenient for my mother, who was never around because her legal career demanded everything she had to give. But not Emma. She moved to Europe to live near the schools and acted as our guardian. She taught me to be a better man than my father, and even tried to teach us how to cook, saying it was an essential life skill. In addition, when I was fighting for the right to steer my own future, she was the one who told me to take my time to consider what I truly desired.
“Follow your heart, Huxley. You only get one life. Don’t live it for someone else.”
The woman might not have given birth to me, but spiritually she’s been more of a mom than Jeremiah ever was. And I love her for it.
“Rent out an entire resort with a private beach,” I say. “That way she can just invite the people she wants.”
“That’s the plan,” Emmett says.
“Good. It’s the least she deserves.” My eyes fall on the Belgian waffle on Noah’s plate, and I scowl. Still can’t figure out why Grace ran out on me. I checked with the Aylster concierge in case she’d gotten in touch that way, but nothing.
Noah must feel my gaze. He looks up from his phone—he’s always on his phone, checking social media feeds. “What? You look like that stick up your ass suddenly got bigger.” Then he munches on the waffle with sheer bliss radiating from his face. He’s never met a carbohydrate he couldn’t fall in love with. But he manages to maintain a lean frame, probably from chasing all those cheetahs he loves so much. He’s a wildlife photographer, albeit a part-time one, since he doesn’t need the money. None of us do, thanks to the early investments we made with Emmett and Grant, who are financial geniuses.
“Probably just met a chick who wouldn’t succumb to his charms.” Sebastian shoots me a sly grin.
“Who?” Noah says, finally putting down his phone.
“No way!” Grant says. “Hux would never bother.”
“Exactly. Women are dime a dozen for him.” Griffin yawns. Probably his children kept him up all night again—he never lacked for sleep until his wife popped out three at once. He teaches, does an enormous amount of research and publishes like his life depends on it—he is in academia, after all—but he never, ever had to give up sleep for what he wanted to accomplish.
“Besides, if he puts his mind to it, I’m sure he can charm any woman.” Nicholas’s words are measured. He has a calm, settled way of speaking that makes you instinctively trust him. I wish he’d do some voiceovers for our bank commercials, but he’s not interested. He is as intensely private as Griffin, who does everything in his power to hide who his parents are. To the point that his mother has complained that she “isn’t some serial killer to be ashamed of.”
Seb snorts. “I have it on good authority that he took a girl to the Aylster a month ago. She didn’t leave until zero dark thirty the next morning.”
Outrage pulses in my heart. “They told you? What the hell happened to client privacy?”
“Oh, it’s alive and well. Thing is, you’re not the client.” Seb looks positively smug. “They have a log of who comes in and out. And apparently you’re interested to know if the lady in question ever came back and left you a note.” He turns to the others. “Which she didn’t.”
“Bro…” Griffin shakes his head.
“Women don’t like it when you’re desperate,” Grant says. “It repels them.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious. How’s Aspen doing?”
“Shut up.” He and his wife Aspen are still engaged in a minor cold war over his refusal to be reasonable about her idea of investing in an old college friend’s bar. His reluctance has nothing to do with the business plan being shitty. Rather, it’s personal because the friend happens to have a penis.
“It’s only fifty thousand bucks,” Emmett says. “Let it go. Besides, your wife is smart. She wouldn’t mix business with anything personal.”
Frustrated irritation sparks in Grant’s eyes. “Have you seen the way that motherfucker looks at her?”
“Nope. But I know who Aspen married,” Emmett counters.
We nod. Grant merely sighs. He probably knows he’s wrong but doesn’t want to admit it to his wife. None of us knows how he gets around with an ego that big. “Fine. It isn’t like we’ll become destitute if the bar fails.”
Nicholas lifts his coffee mug. “Now you’re talking.”
“So, back to that stick up your butt… If it’s not the girl, what is it?” Grant says, obviously trying to turn the topic away from his disagreement with Aspen.
Asshole. “My family is pressuring me to marry a Webber. My grandmother in particular absolutely refuses to leave me alone. She set up four dates for me and one of the girls! So that I could ‘get to know and appreciate my options better.’” My hands clench. I fantasize about strangling The Fogeys so often my knuckles ache.
“How did they go?” Grant asks, eyeing me cautiously.
“They didn’t,” I say, in a you-know-me-better-than-that tone. “Then yesterday, she sent a huge brass plaque that read Huxley Lasker-Webber to the office to hang outside my door.”
Emmett and Nicholas spew out their coffee. Noah makes a strangled noise and slaps his chest to dislodge the last piece of waffle he shoved into his mouth. Griffin’s mouth actually hangs open.
“Well… At least she put your last name before the Webber ,” Grant says.
“Thank God!” I throw my hands in the air.
“The empire needs its heir married and producing baby heirs,” Seb says.
I shudder. “Ugh. No. I’m not a lawyer, which disqualifies me from being an heir to Huxley & Webber.”
“He’s right.” Noah finally says something rational, only to ruin it by laughing and adding, “You don’t sell your heir to the highest bidder.”
“There was no bidding.” If there had been an auction, it would’ve been better because then I would’ve bid to make myself permanently unavailable.
Noah blinks. “So the family got nothing?”
“There’s a contract,” I grind out.
“Can’t be legal,” Griffin says with a dark scowl.
I clench my teeth. “Unfortunately, it is. I got stupid and trusted my family with a POA once.” I revoked the power of attorney so fast, Mom burst out laughing. Being hooked up to a machine will be better than getting used by my family again. I read the entire infuriating contract twice. “If I fail to marry a Webber within two years of signing, I’m to hand over twenty-five percent of my ownership stake at 4D Agency to my grandmother.” The veins in my head almost popped when I read the clause. It still makes my blood boil.
Emmett winces in sympathy. “Huxley & Webber isn’t one of the best for nothing.”
“Legalized human trafficking.” Noah moves his chin up and down in an I-knew-it nod. “Well, look at it this way, Hux. At least you’re the prize.”
I shoot him a death glare. “Not funny.”
He shows me his palms. “Hey, don’t hate me. I’m not the one sending you a Lasker-Webber name plate. Just pointing out the silver lining.”
“So your options are…?” Griffin says, always pragmatic.
Just thinking about them makes my head throb. “An idiot—”
He grunts. He hates dumb people because he has to deal with them every semester when they swarm his office to argue their grades.
“—and a spender.”
Nicholas cocks an eyebrow. “A spender?”
“Burns through twenty-five thousand a month,” I say, recalling what Ares told me. “And the Webbers don’t even talk about this one publicly, so there’s gotta be a lot more wrong than just some frivolous spending habits.”
“Like what?”
I shrug. “No idea. But Andreas agreed to throw in a million bucks if she’s the bride.” Bryce mentioned that the other daughter being an option at all is probably Andreas’s doing. For some reason, the old man seems to like her better than Vivienne. Probably because nobody can be as annoying and lacking in common sense as that disgrace of a human being. Or…my cousin is totally wrong about Andreas’s motives, and what he really wants is to offload a seriously flawed grandchild.
Onto me .
“Wow,” Seb says.
“Maybe she has an extra nose.” Noah scratches his own in contemplation. “Or a scar on her forehead. I mean, not a lightning-shaped one—that’d be cool. Wait, I know!” He snaps his fingers. “A face tattoo!”
Griffin’s mouth twists. “Be serious.”
“The money’s probably to make up for the twenty-five K.” Emmett steeples his fingers. “You put the million into a decent investment vehicle, it’ll pay for her monthly allowance. Plus there’ll be some left over to cover taxes.”
“Uh-huh. And will it be enough to cover my pain and suffering?” I mutter.
“Well… Given how you are…” Grant shrugs. “Probably not.”
“Too bad Alaric isn’t a girl. He’s so sensible,” Noah says.
He’s a Webber. A Harvard-educated lawyer, naturally. And… “He’s large and tall, so even if he were a girl, he wouldn’t be my type. I like my women small, pretty and with soft curves. Flowing, dark hair. Sweet tempered but a little feisty.”
Seb looks at Griffin. “Sounds like he needs a Labrador retriever.”
“Hunt around for the right woman,” Nicholas advises. “How hard can it be?”
“You met yours at a high school graduation. I’m a little long in the tooth for that,” I say dryly.
He rolls his eyes. “How about a fake engagement? You can’t marry a Webber if you’re engaged to somebody else.”
“To whom?” None of my exes would be able to pull it off because nobody would believe I cared about them enough to go back to them, much less want to marry one. I wonder briefly about Grace, but the sad fact is that I may never find her again.
“How about Madison?” Grant says. “She’s capable.”
I make a face. “She’s my assistant .”
“So?” Noah points a piece of bacon at me. “She has feelings for you. She’ll do a good job for a chance to cling to you in public.”
I stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t noticed? She’s been giving you that ‘oh please…fuck me, boss’”—he does a breathless falsetto for maximum impact—“look for years now.”
I scoff. “She has not.”
“My eyes don’t lie. She’s like that every time I stop by your office to drop off some photos.” Noah sounds exceptionally convinced. The camera lens client wanted to use Noah’s shots because he’s one of the best wildlife photographers. For the multi-year campaign, he even did shots of scenery other than cheetahs.
“I saw how overly attentive she was when Lucie and I visited your office to discuss the ad campaign for our collaboration project,” Seb says. “She’s on your wavelength. Knows what you want without you having to say it.”
“How could you side with him? Of course she’s attentive—that’s her job! But trust me. The second I fired Madison, she’d quit giving a damn. Besides, even if she had feelings for me— which she doesn’t —I’d still say no. I don’t shit where I eat. Interoffice dating is doomed to fail.”
“Fine. Forget Madison. You must still know somebody who can help you,” Grant says.
“If you don’t have even one hottie who owes you…” Noah’s expression positively brims with pity. “You’ve lived your life wrong.”
* * *
By the time the brunch ends, the sky is practically black.
“Damn it. Is it going to rain?” Griffin gets grumpier when the weather’s crappy. Not because he’s afraid of driving in the rain, but because he hates SoCal drivers even more when it’s raining.
“Looks like it. Drive carefully,” I say, climbing into my car. I’m not worried about my brothers doing something stupid. I’m worried about other drivers screwing up.
As soon as I’m on the highway, the water hits, and the road turns into a parking lot.
Fabulous. Just fantastic.
If a zombie apocalypse started during a rain, everyone in SoCal would be trapped in their cars and get their brains eaten.
After about five minutes of my staring at the barely moving taillights in front of me, my mind begins to wander. Fake engagement…
Nicholas’s idea sounds like a romance novel. Of course, he reads a lot of them because his wife Molly loves them so much. He somehow manages to get her tickets to all sorts of popular signings and gives her his black AmEx to buy whatever books she wants. He even sent a private jet to pick her up because she often buys more books than she can possibly ship.
But even she doesn’t spend twenty-five thousand a month. Seb’s wife might, but Lucie is a jewelry company CEO. She works her ass off, and she’s entitled to spend the money she’s earned.
This secret spendthrift Webber girl probably has no job. Why work when you receive free money? I haven’t heard anything about Vivienne getting such a generous allowance, so the mystery girl must’ve found some way to squeeze it out of Nelson, which couldn’t have been easy. He’s generous and indulgent with himself, but not with others. And he isn’t a complete moron, so he’d be difficult to trap.
She’s starting to seem like a manipulative, conniving woman. Maybe worse than Grandmother. I’d have to be on guard at all times to make sure I didn’t get fucked over if I was dealing with her.
I narrow my eyes, loathing the situation. The mystery Webber girl is almost certainly worse than Vivienne. At least I know what’s wrong with that one. Annoying. Stupid. Vapid. Spoiled. Fickle. Gather all the foibles of our mothers and take away all their positive aspects, and you have Vivienne Webber.
My mind whispers that I should choose the lesser of the two evils. At least pick the devil I know. But the idea is abhorrent. On the other hand, if I don’t do anything, my family will eventually find a way to force me. A twenty-five percent stake is enough to meddle in the management of my ad agency, and Grandmother will do everything in her power to ruin my dream so that I’ll have to live hers.
She’s already sent me hundreds of texts, railing at me for not showing up for the dates she set up.
If I had a fake fiancée, I could take myself off the market long enough to fight this contract. My family is damn good, but so is John Highsmith. And he’ll take the case just for a chance to show my grandmother.
But who owes me a favor big enough to play my fake fiancée?
The rain is now pouring down so hard I can barely see anything in front of me. It hasn’t rained like this in a long time. In fact, the last time…
Wait a minute. That girl who said she’d like to pay me back. She only had a dollar or two and left me a number instead. I never called to collect, but I kept that dollar bill.
She may not be suitable, but it wouldn’t hurt to check her out. Her gratitude when I dropped her off was sincere. If she can help, she will.
Well, well, well.
Maybe I didn’t live my life so wrong after all.