Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 110859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
He was so difficult to read. At times he was charming and sweet and in the next moment he was cold and distant. She wondered if this entire arrangement had anything to do with her specifically or if she was just filling a slot. She hoped the latter wasn’t the case, which contradicted every barrier her commonsense insisted she maintain.
He was beginning to affect her on a personal level, and that was dangerous. His praise or disregard shouldn’t affect her. She needed to stop being so damn vulnerable. She mentally chastisted herself to disassociate any personal feelings. It was a job. So why did his opinion of her suddenly seem to matter?
At this point, after all the money he had spent and everything he provided for her, she was already indebted. She’d follow through with her part of the deal regardless, but it would be a much easier job if she believed Lucian Patras actually liked her.
The Museum of Natural Art was interesting. It was a cross between artifacts, plants, antiques, and quirky art, all sort of blending in with what the aristocrats called the contemporary craft movement.
Scout remembered being at some sort of office building with her mom when she was little and watching a show called Gilligan’s Island. Her mom had meetings there at the same time every week and she loved it because she got to watch TV. A character on the show was a millionaire. He used to talk with his front teeth clenched together. She realized that was how she expected Lucian’s friends to talk. They didn’t. They were all normal people.
The women, married, single, young, or old, all loved Lucian, she quickly learned. Men vied for his attention as well. She smiled politely when someone spoke in her direction, but no one really talked to her. She didn’t have much to contribute to the conversations anyway. Stocks, bonds, the economy, politics, it was all above her head.
Lucian kept a hand on her the entire night even if he didn’t speak to her much. As they moved to find their table, she panicked when she saw there was dancing. There was no way she was dancing in these shoes. She could barely dance in bare feet.
The tables were draped in glossy linens, and ridiculously large topiaries acted as centerpieces. The chair backs were made of bronze-painted branches and the silverware was heavy to hold.
Lucian entered a heated debate over the new permits needed for redevelopment in lower Folsom with the gentleman to his right.
“These things really are silly, aren’t they?”
Scout turned at the soft comment coming from the older woman sitting next to her. “Pardon?”
“These events. I mean really. Five thousand dollars a plate to support art. What ever happened to supporting a real cause?”
Scout choked. “Fi-five thousand dollars, did you say?”
“Ridiculous. I know,” the woman went on. “I mean, I don’t even know how half of the knickknacks out there are considered art. My grandmother used to make crocheted plunger covers. Perhaps I can find a spot to display her work here,” the little woman said sarcastically.
Scout stifled a laugh. She had to be almost eighty. Scout introduced herself and the woman replied, “Lovely to meet you, dear. Yvette Constance Whitfield hyphen Baldwin. My husband’s running this event.”
Scout snorted. The woman was a riot. Her laughter attracted Lucian’s attention. He greeted Mrs. Whitfield-Baldwin. “Thank you for inviting us, Yvette.”
“I was just chatting with your lovely date, Lucian. About time you found yourself a respectable woman. She’s quite exquisite.”
Scout didn’t appreciate being appraised as if she were made of stone and incapable of hearing. Lucian nodded his concurrence. “I quite agree, Yvette.”
Scout gritted her teeth but held her smile.
The dinner was nice, but the extravagance of it all was baffling. From the clothes to the cost of the tickets, to the amount of news coverage, it was all obscene. Mrs. Whitfield-Baldwin was right. How about supporting a real cause, like stamping out hunger or solving the job crisis or finding a cure for AIDS?
As they drove home, they again were quiet. Lucian’s introspective mood seemed to turn brooding. Scout was already nervous about the remainder of the night, so she figured she’d better try to lighten the mood.
“Lucian?”
He turned to her.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did this morning.” She wouldn’t apologize, but she would let him know her behavior hadn’t ranked as one of her proudest moments. She was usually much more in control of her emotions than that.
He scowled then sighed. “It’s over. Let it go.”
“But you’re still mad.”
“Who says I’m mad?”
“Well, you haven’t really spoken to me tonight. I figured . . .”
“Where did you go, Evelyn? It occurred to me this afternoon that I really don’t know much about you other than what I read in your paperwork.”
She fidgeted with her dress. “I had to go see someone.”