Prom King (Three Kings #3)

Chapter 1

Lying in wait outside the main conference hall was a scene that conjured the same shadows and dark thoughts as nightmares from my childhood. Fighting a shiver of revulsion, I navigated the glittery disorder spoiling the marble expanse of the otherwise minimalist hotel lobby.

A twelve-foot noble fir, draped in platinum ribbon and handblown glass ornaments, hanging from the boughs like grenades, hovered menacingly near the huge rotating glass doors, suffocating the main artery into and out of the hotel.

Garlands of preserved eucalyptus and white roses slithered up each column, choking the natural stone.

Worse, at the reception desk, a collection of antique, silver, life-sized reindeer figurines glinted with deranged opulence, heads and widened eyes forever frozen as though horrifically trapped in the headlights of an approaching murder truck on an unmarked stretch of highway.

Unexpectedly, the staff had desecrated the sanctity of the lobby all in one day while the conference attendees had been innocently participating in breakout sessions and panels.

Thanksgiving was still over a week away. Did these people have no shame?

I affixed my gaze to the carpet, telling myself not to sprint past the creepy gnome-like statues surrounding the candy-cane enclosure which, to me, resembled a prison rather than a forest. But as I approached the restaurant, I was met with a similar garish display: ghostly crystal snowflakes suspended from invisible wires above and champagne flutes rimmed with sugar that sparkled like shards of broken glass beneath the otherwise tasteful amber lighting.

I sighed, telling myself to ignore the signs of the season.

But the faint, insidious trickle of instrumental Christmas music piped in from some unknown source, muffled by the quality carpet and the way the front desk staff modulated their voices below the hum of the light fixtures, completed the omnipresent, oppressive ambiance of maniacal holiday cheer.

Therefore, I did the only thing I could to escape the discomfort.

I focused on more practical matters. Such as how incredibly wasteful Christmas decorations were in general.

Someone—likely several someones—had plotted each of the seasonal displays.

Another group of someones had set them up, and a third group of someones would need to take down, label, and store the items, just to repeat the process over and over, year after year.

How many hours were spent on such ridiculous and inane frivolity? And to what purpose? What an enormously inefficient use of resources.

At 4:30 in the afternoon, the restaurant and bar were mostly empty except for a table of day-drunk executives, a few inconspicuously armed security guards, and a family of wealthy tourists whose children had commandeered the restaurant’s ornamental fountain.

I cut left through a bank of tables and made straight for the long bar, sliding onto a stool, positioning my back to the lobby (and therefore, the worst of the Christmas-related debris).

The bartender stood several feet away and appeared to be mid-thirties, male, with impeccable posture and features that probably read as handsome to a certain type of business traveler, but which would’ve given me trouble in a police lineup if I’d had to pick him out of a group of six white men.

Admittedly, I’m bad with faces. I’m even worse with names. And people. And that was fine. In my opinion, people are overrated.

The bartender waited for me to actually sit and settle while also openly conducting a full appraisal of my appearance.

I knew what he saw: fast-fashion black blazer, gray button-up shirt, hair pulled tight, zero makeup, thick-rimmed glasses that mostly obscured my eyes.

Nothing about me meant to attract attention, but not necessarily designed to strongly repel it either.

When he approached, I didn’t waste time with chitchat. “Vodka, neat.”

He raised his eyebrows a smidge. “Any specific brand?”

I fished one of the drink vouchers that came free with conference attendance out of my blazer’s inside pocket and slid it onto the counter between us. “As long as this voucher covers the cost, whatever vodka is fine.”

He studied the voucher, then me, handling the slip of paper with the kind of careful indifference reserved for things that would end up in the trash.

In my opinion, the organizers should’ve given us all QR codes for the vouchers, reduce the paper waste, the printing cost, and therefore the price of attendance.

But what did I care about the incompetence of the organizers?

Based on my reported tax bracket, I received a need-based scholarship to attend this conference every year, thus these drink vouchers were free for me.

Whatever. Not my monkey, not my circus, as my mom used to say.

Drink ordered, questions answered, the bartender left and I sat more comfortably on my barstool, content to wait for the vodka.

The North American Investment Executive Opportunities Convention (NA-IEOC, pronounced Nay-Ee-Ock in the community) occupied most of the downtown Chicagian Hotel this week.

I’d skipped today’s final keynote so I could cash in my drink vouchers and head home before the herd of other attendees descended on the bar for their tipsy networking.

On the rare occasion I drank alcohol, it was always for free, always as a means to warm up before venturing outside during a Chicago winter, and always ideally in peace.

Even though I generally refrained from consuming alcohol, I wasn’t against drinking for pleasure on principle, but I was against paying for it. On principle.

While I waited for the vodka, I checked my phone.

The market had closed flat, tech down, energy up, nothing interesting.

I scrolled half-heartedly through a digest of the day’s industry news until I became aware, at the edge of my vision, of someone claiming the stool beside mine.

I glanced left, ready to dismiss whoever it was with the flat glare of unfriendliness that always worked.

But then my mind caught up to my vision and my thumb paused mid-scroll.

Who the what the—

“Alaric Weston.” The words left me on an exhaled breath, tumbling from my brain, chest, and lips in unison.

The small, inviting smile he wore slipped a little. “Alaric Jordan,” he corrected, rotating his body a deliberate twenty degrees in my direction. “It’s really good to see you, Alison.”

I barely heard him because my brain was otherwise occupied taking involuntary inventory of the man.

I couldn’t help it. We hadn’t been this close to each other since high school and his sudden proximity had caught me completely off guard.

Granted, I’d spotted him from afar earlier in the day and several times yesterday, always surrounded by his legion of admirers, but I’d never expected to talk to him. Or be near him. Ever again.

Dark brown hair, shorter than last year’s conference but still perfectly groomed.

Baby blue shirt and navy suit, the tie a fraction of a shade brighter than the shirt, which—probably not coincidentally—matched the color of his eyes.

His jawline was sharp and clean-shaven; the fullness of his face from adolescence had resolved into something taut and geometric.

Except his lips. Those were still just as they’d been, generous and soft and gorgeous.

Another change, he now had wrinkles, laugh lines, pleasant creases bracketing his wide mouth and beneath his eyes. But it was the intelligence in those eyes, which had visibly refined over the years, that held me entranced.

Alaric’s grin spread wider the longer I stared, his gaze twinkled and warmed. At my continued gaping silence, he leaned a fraction of an inch closer. “It’s been a long time. How are you?”

The sound of his velvety voice and mild West Texas accent brought me back to myself. I blinked, redirecting my gaze, determined not to appear as flustered as I felt.

“Fine,” I said, then cleared my throat.

Pull yourself together, Alison. He’s just a man. And, for the record, he’s technically your stepbrother.

In the past, reminding myself that Alaric was technically my stepbrother had usually done wonders to quash any flickers of inconvenient attraction and admiration. Yes, we hadn’t been raised together. Not at all. Not even a little.

And yes, we’d barely spoken—not even at school—from the moment my biological father had abandoned my mother, me, and my sister for Alaric, his brother, and his mother when we’d both been in preschool.

But still. Technically, we were related. In the eyes of the law. Kind of.

Returning my attention to my phone screen, my brain randomly reminded me that Alaric had been a really good kisser eighteen years ago. Annoyingly, this memory of our one time kissing caused a pulse of warm interest in my stomach like a sudden hiccup. Even more annoying, I felt my neck grow hot.

I never should’ve kissed him back under that mistletoe.

If I’d known eighteen years ago how much the memory of that event would plague me even now, I never would’ve done it.

Unfortunately, I’d been a reckless, perpetually furious teenager.

Besides, he’d kissed me first, I’d kissed him second, and only because I couldn’t let him kiss me without punishing him for it. Which I did. By . . . kissing him.

WHATEVER! Why are you still thinking about it?!

Thankfully, the bartender returned at that moment, setting the vodka in front of me and asking Alaric, “What can I get you, sir?”

I glanced up briefly at his use of the word sir. The bartender must’ve given Alaric the same type of once-over he’d given me when I first sat down and had decided that Alaric was deserving of more deference.