Twisted Twosome, Page 2

  “Bet your dad gave old Wilbur a few stock options in the company to tide him over.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Old Daddy Dearest is the owner of every lumberyard and concrete plant in the Tri-City area. He worked his way up from the bottom, starting at a sawmill in Pennsylvania, and through a lot of hard work and investing, he can now afford a mixologist genius like Cookie, a Rolls Royce he leaves in his five-car garage, and my mother’s monthly “beauty” sessions.

  But with his money comes your stereotypical rich-father syndrome: only the best for his kids. My oldest brother, Abraham, is the president of the company, Elizabeth, my older sister, married wealthy—naturally—and my second oldest brother, Spencer, is living off his inheritance he received when he turned twenty-eight. Typical playboy in New York City.

  And what am I doing you ask? Well, I have a beautiful master’s degree in business from prestigious Northwestern . . . and that’s pretty much it. I have no money of my own—inheritance doesn’t kick in until I’m twenty-eight, two years from now—my dad refuses to let me live on my own, get a job, or even think about lifting a finger to do any kind of work. This does not include the charity events I help my mom with. Daddy believes I need a man in my life to take care of me, to dote on me, and to “buy me all the pretty things.” Insert eye-roll here.

  Even though my dad thinks he has my life all planned out, even his top three “suitors” for his little girl, I have other plans. Big plans. Plans I’ve been dreaming of since I was a little girl in middle school and witnessed all things lacey, white, and pretty when my aunt married. Rolling around in bundles upon bundles of tulle became my dream. A dream I can now practically taste . . .

  “So, are you ready for tonight?” Madison asks.

  The heat of the sun intensifies with the mention of tonight. It’s beating down on me, building up the pressure, circling me in an inferno of what’s to come.

  Tonight.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been more nervous in my entire life. Even when I was forced to go with Danny Leshay to senior prom because it was part of my father’s business deal with a client. My dad buys out a lumberyard, and in return, I have to go with the guy’s son to prom. Thoughts of being stabbed and murdered on the side of the road by someone I didn’t know terrified me. Thanks, Dad!

  “I’m prepared but so freaking nervous.” I turn on my side and face Madison. “I have that sinking feeling he’s going to say no.”

  “How can he say no, G? You’ve run through your presentation a million times. I’ve seen it. You are solid with all your numbers, with your projections; it’s an easy yes.”

  “To any other businessman, my presentation is an easy yes, but to my dad . . . I have this horrible feeling it’s going to be a hard pass.”

  And that’s the honest truth. He’s a good man, but when it comes to me, I’m his little girl, not an aspiring entrepreneur.

  “You might be surprised.” Madison takes a big sip from her drink. “He wasn’t happy at first about you going to Northwestern and earning your master’s in business, but he changed his mind about that.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, because on paper, I’m more appealing to one of the ‘husbands’ my dad has chosen for me. An educated girl is a girl with goals and motivation, one that will be able to participate with knowledgeable commentary in dry, pointless conversations at charitable events. My entire life leading to this point has been a long and drawn-out finishing school run, and operated by my father, preparing me for the very moment I meet the one man I can stand at his side, woo his clients, and be the trophy wife I’ve been morphed into.” I set my drink on the table between us and rest my hands under my cheek. “I want so much more, Madison.”

  “If you had red hair and was brushing it with a fork right now, I would think you were the little mermaid.”

  “I’m serious.” I laugh just as cursing from a thousand men breaks up our little conversation.

  From the side of the pool where renovations for the pool house are taking place, the lone construction worker is holding his finger between his jean-clad legs.

  Madison sits up and lifts her sunglasses to get a look at the commotion. “Did you hammer a nail into your finger over there?”

  The man who’s been working on the building for a few weekends looks up at us. His head is covered by a backward black baseball cap, his chest is bronze from working many hours outside this summer, and it’s hard not to notice the corded muscles wrapped around his entire body, from his chiseled stomach to his powerful biceps. To be honest, it hasn’t been a chore watching him these last few weekends.

  What’s-His-Name looks up and pops his finger in his mouth, sucking on it as his body ripples under the brightness of the sun.

  “Damn,” Madison mutters under her breath just as the man pops his finger out of his mouth. “Mama likes.”

  Unable to hear Madison slowly discredit his self-respect, he gruffly says, “I’m good.” Not giving us a second thought, he shakes his hand and turns back toward his project.

  Never having spoken to the man—I’ve only seen him around—I cautiously say, “You sure? Kind of looks like you’re hurt.”

  Slowly he turns his head in my direction, his eyes cutting me a look of indignation. “I’m good, Princess. No need to set your cocktail down to check on me.”

  Pardon me? Was that attitude?

  I sit up, my legs straddling my lounge chair and tip my sunglasses up so he can see my dissatisfaction in his choice of words. “It’s Georgiana, not princess.”

  Picking up his hammer, he shoves it in a holster attached to his side and says, “Could have fooled me.”

  “Oooooo,” Madison says as if she’s in grade school. “Burned.” She sits back in her chair, taking a sip of her drink as if she’s preparing for the show of a lifetime, one she might just get.

  Slowly, I set my drink down and stand. I adjust the fabric of my swimsuit bottom so it’s covering my ass and saunter over to the man, now sorting nails as he casually glances in my direction.

  When I stand in front of him, I watch his eyes travel over my barely covered frame until he meets me head-on. His staggering height doesn’t intimidate me, even though he towers over my petite frame. He appears strong and powerful with a hard set in his jaw.

  “What did you say?” I ask, a hand on my hip.

  Not giving me his complete attention, he says, “You heard what I said or else you wouldn’t be over here trying to put on a front.”

  “Put on a front?” My voice sounds a little shrill from the accusation. “I’m not putting on a front.”

  “Yeah?” He pulls a rag from his back pocket, lifts his hat, and wipes his brow. His blond hair sticks up in all different directions with beads of sweat at the tips that aren’t covered by his hat. “So you’re not trying to act intimidating in front of your friend? You know, push around the hired help to make yourself feel better?”

  “Excuse me?” Two seconds ago I was irritated, now I’m mad. “How dare you make such an awful accusation about me. You don’t know a thing about me.”

  “I know enough,” he answers and turns around to nail another board for the new siding. His incessant hammering has ensured a headache all morning.

  “Hey.” I poke his sweaty back, trying to ignore how amazingly tight it feels under my index finger. “I suggest if you want to keep your job you show a little respect.”

  Whoa, can we all say it together? Georgiana, you’re a bitch. The words felt dirty leaving my mouth. I really don’t act like this, like my—gulp—parents, but I’m tired, anxious about meeting with my dad, and irritated. It’s a cataclysmic combination and when that happens, nothing good comes from it. I’m about to apologize when he starts to go off on me.

  “Respect? You want to talk respect?” He spins on his heel and holds up his hammer. “What do you know about respect, Princess? From where I see it, you know nothing. Every weekend I’ve been here, you’ve ordered people around, watching them
wait on you hand and foot, complained about not having any money, gossiped about every bad boob job in town, and have yet to be pleasant to anyone who stands an inch beneath you.” He goes to hammer again but turns around once more and says, “And the heels you just had to wear out to the pool ripped a fucking hole in my nail gun hose, giving me no other option than to nail these boards by hand, adding on time I can’t afford. So, Princess, excuse me for upsetting you, but I’m sticking with the nickname. It fits you to a T. Oh, and just so you know, sandals. Sandals are the proper footwear you should be wearing around the pool.” He rolls his eyes, turns around, and starts hammering another nail into the siding of the pool house.

  How dare he!

  “That’s what you think I am? Some whiney brat?”

  “If the unnecessary high heel fits, Princess.”

  Unsure of what to do. I stomp my foot and say, “Well, I’m not.”

  Pretty sure my reaction just solidified his assumption.

  “Tantrums don’t work on me; try your daddy.” He continues to hammer away, his back muscles shimmering with each movement.

  “Maybe I will. We’ll see what he has to say about this little conversation.”

  He places another nail against the board and starts hammering. “Wouldn’t be shocked if you did. You step on my hose, ruin my chances of getting this project done today, which only prolongs my time here, cutting down on my chance to make more money since I’m getting paid a flat rate, and now you want to get me fired. Sounds about right. Can’t take the blame for anything.”

  No one has ever been so disrespectful to me.

  “How was I supposed to know I stepped on your stupid hosey thing?”

  “Maybe if you pay attention to people and objects around you, you may have noticed.”

  “You’re a jerk, you know that?” He has me all wrong, and it is really bothering me that he pictures me as a spoiled, inconsiderate, self-consumed brat. That’s not who I am at all.

  “How do you figure? Because the way I see it, you’re the jerk.” His body fully turns around to face me, challenge in his eyes, maybe a bit of humor at the corner of his lips as he awaits my answer.

  Holding my chin high, I say, “Because, instead of having a hissy fit like a petulant child, you could have come over to me and said, ‘Miss Westbrook, sorry to bother you, but you seem to have poked a hole in my hose.’ But instead you decided to stew over here and then pick on me when I was trying to see if you were okay from your inability to hammer a nail into a piece of wood properly. It’s called being an adult.”

  He studies me, hands on his hips, not showing any kind of reaction. “Being an adult, huh? And you think you’re an expert at that?”

  “I would say I’m well-versed in the topic.”

  He nods, his teeth biting down on his lower lip as his eyes flick to where Madison is sitting. “Well-versed, interesting. Tell me, when did adults start eating dinosaur chicken nuggets for lunch?”

  Just when I’m about to reply, Madison calls out, “Nuggies are ready, G. Come eat T-Rex’s arms with me. Roar!”

  I shut my eyes tight, willing for this moment to disappear, maybe praying for the ground to swallow me whole due to Madison’s poor timing. The infuriating man says with a smile, “Your nuggies are ready, Princess. Don’t want them getting cold.”

  He turns away, ending our conversation by putting earbuds in his ears and picks up his hammer. Apparently I’ve been dismissed.

  I stomp toward my chair and flop down on the side facing Madison, who holds out the plate and a bowl of barbeque sauce. “God, these are so good. I love eating dinosaur.”

  “You couldn’t have waited until I was done talking to him? God, Madison.”

  “What?” She shrugs and takes a bite of her nugget. “They were going to get cold.”

  On a frustrated sigh, I snatch a nugget from the plate and pop it in my mouth. What an insufferable, horrible man. How dare he? He’s listened to my conversations? I don’t talk about bad boob jobs. Well, Jessica Hahn’s boob job was very unfortunate. I do not treat the staff here as if they’re beneath me. I know all their names. But he’s . . . he’s obnoxious. What would he know anyway?

  I hate that I had no recourse after he laid into me. I am never tongue-tied. Hopefully—no, surely—I’ll be able to hold my own better when talking to my dad tonight.

  ***

  “Did you put together this presentation yourself, Gigi?” my dad asks. He sits back in his black leather and mahogany desk chair, his finger to his chin as he looks through the hard copy of my presentation.

  “I did.” I try to tamp down my nervous bouncing leg.

  “All by yourself?”

  “Yes.” The annoyance in my voice is hard to control. What’s so hard to understand? I designed and put together the presentation myself. I swear my dad thinks I’m still an infant with wobbly legs sometimes.

  “Hmm.” He rocks in his chair as he studies the plans, giving me no hints as to what he’s thinking.

  I just finished my twenty-minute presentation for Limerence, my all-in-one bridal boutique business plan. Not skipping a beat, I showed him the demographics in our area and the need for a shop like Limerence, how it would be unique and different from any other bridal shop in the area, even in the state. I gave him my five-year projections, my estimated start-up cost, the information of the storefront I already chose, reasons for the location, and ways he can invest as a partner. I approached the entire presentation like a businesswoman: professional, clear-cut, and to the point. My dad loves talking shop, he loves new ideas, and I played to his business tactics, throwing his strategies right back in his face.

  Even though I’m nervous, I know I’m prepared. I know I can answer any question he might toss at me.

  “These projections are sound. You were reasonable in your first three years.”

  “Thank you.” For some reason, the urge to curtsey in front of my dad from the compliment is overwhelming.

  “Start-up cost seems reasonable as well.”

  I point to the page he’s looking at and say, “And that includes inventory and construction for the store. It’s a great space, but it will need some refurbishment.”

  “Just like every other store out there.” He flips to another page. His leg is crossed over his knee as he reads over everything. Excitement starts to boil deep in the pit of my stomach. He likes it; he just has to like it.

  “Exactly. But I think with the discount I can get on supplies from one of your companies, I can keep costs low for construction. And collecting inventory, although challenging with my budget, I intend to offer space on consignment for designers until I can afford to purchase vintage dresses myself.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He nods.

  “And I will run the store until I can get my feet on the ground. Although, Waverly said she would love to help me with my marketing. I plan to utilize her great eye and photographic skills for social media and advertising.”

  Waverly is my oldest brother’s wife. She and Abraham have been so incredibly supportive of my endeavor, my number-one supporters, actually. Madison runs a close second.

  My dad clears his throat and closes the folder. He turns toward me and places my presentation on his desk. “Looks like you’ve thought of everything.”

  I nod. “I have. I didn’t want to come to you until I had all contingencies covered. I’ve learned from many before me who’ve come to you with investment opportunities unprepared.”

  A small smile of approval passes over his lips. “Good girl.”

  Trying to hold back my excitement, I sit up straight and say, “What do you think?”

  Smiling brightly, my dad folds his hands and lays them on top of his desk. “I think you’ve put together a solid business plan.” My heart flutters in my chest. “You’ve considered all aspects of the economic terrain.” Excitement boils inside me. “Your presentation and numbers are on point, your idea unique.” My feet want to tap-dance in joy on his desk. “However . . .”
r />   Look out, wet blanket incoming.

  “You’re twenty-six, you’re a female Westbrook, and you’re ready to start a family. Your priorities lie with your mother, helping with her charity until you’re married and can start your own.” He reaches for his Rolodex—yes, he still has one—and he thumbs through it until he pulls out a card. “I spoke with Chauncey McAdams, son of Barnabas, Wall Street mogul. He was telling me over a round of golf how he recently cut ties with his girlfriend and was interested to see if you were a good match.” My dad starts to write a number on a thick card. “I told him you would be delighted to meet for a drink.”

  Is he kidding right now? This has to be a joke. First, there is no way some man named Chauncey is real. Second, my dad ignored my presentation then told me Chauncey cut ties with his girlfriend and was keen to see if I was suitable?

  He tries to hand me the paper with what I’m assuming has Chauncey’s number on it, but I don’t take it. “Dad, I won’t be going on a date. I’m not ready to start a family. I have a few years before I want to think about marriage. I have goals, and I want to accomplish them.”

  “Yes, having goals is a great attribute of yours, Gigi, but your goals are a little off.”

  “With all due respect, Daddy, I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to tell me what my goals are. Shouldn’t that be a personal thing?”

  “Not when it involves our family.” The smile that was once on his face disappears and the stern set in his brows I’ve come to know very well appears. “You’re a Westbrook. There is a standard you’re expected to realize. You went to finishing school, you graduated from Northwestern like every other Westbrook, and now you’re expected to marry like your sister, start a charity, and give back to the community.”

  “Why do I have to be married to do that? I can still start a charity, Daddy.”

  He shakes his head, his eyes cast down, disapproval in the set of his shoulders. “Not when you’re trying to run a business that unfortunately might look good on paper but is a lose-lose investment. Low reward, high-risk, zero benefit to society.”