Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 90315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Dancing with a squid.
This painting is the size of the windows that span behind my mother’s desk in the Oval Office. I should know. I was just in there this morning.
Sipping my one and only glass of champagne, I tilt my head to the side, still staring at the painting. There’s a lot going on. “Is that a—”
“Starfish fucking a clam? Yeah, I think so.”
I blink over at Chelsea, and she grins at me.
“What did you bring me to?”
Chelsea laughs and pats my shoulder. “An art exhibit opening in New York City. Come on, it’s fun. We’re dressed up, drinking bomb champagne, surrounded by your hot security guys.”
I glance over to my Secret Service men. There they are, like always. Dressed in suits, with things in their ears, just like in the movies. Only difference is, we’re not outside, so they’re not wearing sunglasses. Richie has been with me since I was a teenager. But the other one is new. I don’t remember his name. The rest are scattered throughout the gallery and outside.
I frown at my best friend of twenty years, since our first day of kindergarten.
“They’re not hot.” Only one has ever been hot, and he hasn’t worked for me for years. “They’re annoying.”
“If you have to have annoying security, they might as well be hot. They can be both.” She winks at me, and we move along to another piece that features a sink full of dirty dishes and a golden retriever humping a poodle.
“My eyes may never recover from this,” I mutter, making her cackle with delight. Chelsea’s laugh always makes me smile.
We couldn’t be more different. She’s the wild one. The risk-taker, the loud person with no filter.
She’s also stunning, with long blond hair, bright-cerulean eyes, and an hourglass figure that fills out her blue dress perfectly.
She’s a showstopper.
I can never tell her no about anything, including this last-minute trip into New York City for this exhibit. Chels loves the city, and I would rather be anywhere else.
Somewhere quiet, where I can think, where there aren’t many people. Or any people at all.
“You should have an exhibit of your own, Lena,” Chelsea says, sobering. “You’re way better than this.”
“You can’t compare my art to this. It’s not the same.”
Chelsea rolls her eyes as she loops her arm through mine, and we click on our stilettos to another room, another gallery. And of course security follows.
“You know what I mean,” she says. “Your art is fucking beautiful, and it should be displayed for others to enjoy. To buy. You could make a killing.”
Shaking my head, I give her arm a squeeze. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m okay.”
I’ve told her before, I don’t want to draw more attention to myself. My mother is the president of the United States. I get plenty of attention already, and I hate it with a passion.
“Maybe once your mom’s term is over, and things settle down a bit,” she says and tips her head against my shoulder.
Probably not.
But in my usual fashion, because I can’t tell her no, I simply say, “Maybe.”
“Oh! I could totally be your manager. You could just do the art side, and I could run the business side.”
Not in this lifetime.
I love her, but Chelsea can’t manage her own allowance from her parents. She’s twenty-four and has already spent her entire trust fund, and her parents still give her ten grand a month for living expenses.
And yet by the middle of the month, she’s broke and asking me for a loan.
Which I always give her.
And I hate myself for it. I know I’m enabling the shit out of her, but damn it, she’s like a sister to me. I don’t have siblings. Just Chelsea. She battled a cocaine addiction for years, and she’s finally clean. She has so much potential—she just doesn’t have any self-esteem.
Because her parents, while filthy fucking rich, are assholes.
“Oh, look!” She points to the side of the room. “A dessert buffet. Let’s be naughty and eat some calories rather than just drink them.”
I blink over at her. “Chels.”
With a huff of her breath, she shakes her head. “Come on, Mom, I want some of that cake.”
I nod at people that I know as we walk through. This is definitely a who’s who of New York’s elite, and I know the only reason I was invited is who my mom is.
“Well, you look delicious.”
I know that voice.
Pasting on a plastic smile, I take a steadying breath and turn to find Howard Tobias Matthews III ogling my tits as he lifts his glass to his lips.
Not champagne.
Bourbon.
His diamond-studded Rolex flashes beneath the cuff of his white dress shirt. He’s in a custom black suit, which molds over his body perfectly.
On paper, Howey is the perfect man.
A Harvard Law grad, attorney with a prestigious New York City firm, tall, dark, and handsome, with a muscled body and an impressive financial portfolio, and he comes from the kind of family that would have hosted grand balls during the Gilded Age.