Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“I’m sure there’s one or two.”
His eyes are suddenly hot chocolate, heating up a little as they hold mine.
“You’re welcome to try to find them.”
I’m supposed to be flirting with him, baiting him, but he’s casting the line. I don’t like it. I need the pole in my hand. I break that steamy contact, lowering my eyes to the cocktail ring I’m twisting around my finger.
“What took you to Haiti?” I ask. “It’s miserably hot this time of year.”
He pauses a moment before answering, the press of his lips against a smile acknowledging my conversational feint.
“You’ve been?”
“Sofie’s been to our orphanage in Haiti several times for the foundation,” Walsh interjects from Trevor’s other side.
I wonder how in on this little plan of Daddy’s he actually is. Walsh is a great guy, but when it comes down to it, he’s as much Martin Bennett’s son as I am Ernest Baston’s daughter. Both of us descend from ruthless corporate raiders.
“She’s our celebrity ambassador,” Walsh continues.
“Really?” A new light enters Trevor’s dark eyes. It could be respect. I’m not sure.
“Kristeene, Walsh’s mother, recruited me years ago to do it, and they haven’t gotten rid of me yet.”
Though there were a few times I wondered if the Walsh Foundation board of directors might have ousted me had I not been Baby Girl Baston. And right on cue, Daddy takes a seat beside Harold. Maybe Oatmeal is his assignment.
“Sorry, I was detained making plans for a surprise guest.” He takes a sip of the white wine at his elbow. “Now, Harold and Trevor, you’re both Princeton men, right?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Trevor offers a self-deprecating laugh, sharing a grin across the table with Harold. “We dropped out our junior year to start Deutimus Corp.”
“It all worked out, though.” Harold pushes the glasses back up his nose with an index finger. “They conferred an honorary degree on us last year.”
“Well, that was nice.” Daddy points a fork in my direction. “You wouldn’t know it, but Sofie here was accepted to Princeton.”
My lips purse against the groan that wants out so badly. Not this again.
“And Sarah Lawrence,” Daddy continues. “And UCLA.”
“Yes, but somewhere along the way I got confused and thought it was my life.” I dash saccharine on the smile I offer my father. “And that I could do what I wanted with it.”
“You mean running all over the world having your picture taken?” Daddy lowers his fork to his plate and his eyebrows into the frown I’m used to seeing when we discuss my misspent youth.
“It’s actually worked out quite well for me, Daddy.”
I’m one of the highest-paid, most sought-after models in the world. That means something to me, if not to him. I won’t let him piss on it.
“We saw your billboard today.” Harold passes the words and a kind smile to me across the table.
“I hope it was the one where she’s wearing clothes.” Daddy slices into his tender steak and any pride I might feel for my accomplishments, as they were.
An awkward silence pools around his words. I feel Trevor’s eyes on me, assessing if Daddy’s words have found their mark. Good luck cracking this safe, Bishop. I offer a laugh that tinkles like a champagne toast.
“Daddy, that’s the BARE campaign.” I’m sure he’s not bringing up the Playboy spread I recently did for my birthday. Not in front of his fish. “It’s very tastefully shot.”
Harold forks an asparagus spear. “Was that the one we saw, Trev?”
“Not sure.” Trevor moves his broad shoulders in a careless shrug.
“If it was Times Square, it’s BARE, a skin-care product I endorse.” I push a chunk of hair behind one ear. “In the other one I’m actually wearing clothes.”
“Where’s the other billboard?” Trevor raises his glass of water to his lips while he waits for my answer.
“In the Meatpacking District.” I’m taking the pole back and baiting the hook. “But you don’t have to try to find it. You have the real thing right here.”
He doesn’t bite, but smiles and gives me one last look before turning to answer a question Walsh just posed.
“Where’s your mom?” Rip asks from his seat beside me.
“Probably scolding a server.” I pierce a scallop and pop it into my mouth. “After years of practice, she’s very good at that.”
“Your mother is actually making some seating chart adjustments so our special guest can sit here with us,” Daddy says.
That special guest again. As long as it’s not another sheikh. The last time I entertained one of Daddy’s sheikhs, he followed me to the bathroom and got handsy. He didn’t speak a word of English, but I translated knee to groin perfectly.
“Here they come now.” Daddy wears a pleased expression on his usually hard-to-satisfy face.
I see my mother first, and I can only hope, with all my creams, exfoliations, and serums, to look as beautiful as Willimena Baston—Billi to her friends—does in twenty years. Like my father and me, she’s blond. Where my hair is naturally almost Nordic bright, hers is a buttery gold. Her hair color and nature are much softer than mine and Daddy’s. And where our eyes are emerald green, with not a speck of hazel, hers are pewter gray.