Priscilla swung open the front door, grabbing Margaret and pulling her into a tight embrace.

“Marguerite!” she exclaimed, unable to blink back tears as she inhaled Margaret’s lilac perfume with a relief that made her light-headed.

“Pris!” said Margaret, her words a little garbled as she spoke into Priscilla’s shoulder. “I thought you were still in Paris.”

Priscilla leaned away, looking into Margaret’s big brown eyes and sniffling as she swiped at the wetness on her cheeks. “Non! Non, belle soeur. I’m home now.”

Margaret’s eyes were keen, and she lowered her voice a little as she scanned Priscilla’s face. “Xavier?”

At the sound of his name, Priscilla felt something fragile inside of her break. She’d tried to be brave thus far, leaving her cheating boyfriend behind and trying to figure out a responsible plan for herself and her baby…but coming up with responsible plans wasn’t Priscilla’s forte, and in two days, no plan, responsible or otherwise, had been forthcoming.

This is desperation, she thought fleetingly, sucking air between her clenched teeth. It sounded like a hiss, or the soft sound a hurt animal might make when it senses the end is near.

Margaret flinched, but her steady gaze was unwavering, and Priscilla suddenly found she couldn’t bear it. She blinked, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, her hands trembling as Xavier’s name hovered heavy between them. Swallowing over the lump in her throat, she slid her gaze over Margaret’s shoulder, looking for something, anything, to ground her, to comfort her, to keep her steady when all she wanted to do was run away.

And just like that…

Just. Like. That.

An anchor.

The clearest, bluest eyes she’d ever seen were staring back at her.

Even in her memories of him, she didn’t recall the crystal clarity of his baby blues. They were true and bold, steadfast and self-assured. They were eyes that looked at life as something to be bested, not feared. And for Priscilla, in that terrifying moment, they were the eyes in the middle of a roaring gray tempest. Those eyes tempered her instinct to flee…even made her want to stay.

Shane.

Solid, serious Shane.

Releasing the breath she was holding, she felt herself smile and then chuckle softly in surprise.

For a split second, his eyebrows knitted together in a brief show of that old disapproval that had amused her so much. Wait. Is it disapproval? she mused, staring back at him thoughtfully. No, she realized with wonder. She’d misread it. She hadn’t looked closely enough. Now she saw that it was something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on, some other feeling poorly masked in disapproval, because his blue eyes, intensely focused on hers, weren’t dismissive, judgmental, or hard. They were gentle. They were curious. They were maybe even trying to understand.

“Priscilla?” prompted Margaret. “Is Xavier here with you?”

She blinked, and a sudden, unexpected burst of strength and anger straightened her spine as she slid her glance back to her sister. “Non. Quel salaud. Connard. J’en ai plus rien à foutre.”

Prim and proper Margaret flinched at this string of curses.

“Je suis désolé, Priscilla.” I’m so sorry, she said, recovering as she reached for Priscilla’s hand.

“Je m’en fiche.” I don’t give a damn, she replied, lifting her chin.

“My French isn’t terrific,” said Shane, “but that didn’t sound too good.”

It was precisely the levity Priscilla needed at precisely the right moment, and she looked at Shane gratefully, another laugh bubbling up from inside of her as she squeezed Margaret’s hand.

She had giggled this afternoon when she thought of him and again a moment ago when they locked eyes, and now here she was, laughing again. Shane Olson. What an unlikely source, she thought, for easing her troubled heart. But three unexpected moments of lightness in a life that felt so heavy made her feel grateful to him.

“Shane!” she said, unable to hold back a warm grin. “It’s so good to see you again!”
Again, the confusion-masked-in-disapproval stare. “Is it?”

“Of course,” she said, resisting the impulse to drop Margaret’s hand and push down the bodice of her dress until he could see the edge of her bra. It might even be worth it…just to see his cheeks pinken and eyes dilate, just to fluster him a little—just to know that she could ruffle his orderly feathers.

“We have to catch up,” said Margaret, leaning close to her ear.

“Yes!” said Priscilla, turning away from Shane to lead her sister into the vestibule.

Inside, their father greeted Margaret formally, then put his arm around Shane’s shoulders and led him into the study, pouring them each a glass of scotch before dinner without inviting the ladies to join them.

“Let me look at you,” said Priscilla, taking her sister’s other hand and stepping back to scan her sister’s sensible navy-blue dress and matching pumps. “You look beautiful, Meggie.”

Margaret’s eyes were watchful, however, staring back at Priscilla with concern. “Tell me what happened in France.”

Dropping Margaret’s hands, she winced. “It didn’t work out.”

“But you moved there. I thought—”

“It turned out he was married,” she blurted out, flicking her eyes to the study to be certain her father couldn’t hear them. “I didn’t know.”

Margaret sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh, Pris. I’m so—”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s over now. Let’s not talk about it.”

Her sister sighed, her expression sympathetic. “Are you okay?”

I’m not, she wanted to scream, fisting her hands by her sides and blinking back tears. I’m not even close to okay. I’m having a baby, and when our father finds out, he’ll disown me. My allowance is almost gone. I’ll have nowhere to go…

She heard her father’s heavy footsteps approaching. “…join the ladies, eh? Dinner should be ready in a few minutes…”

And suddenly it was all too much.

Already fraught, she couldn’t bear a typical Story family dinner with her father’s near-constant ridicule, smiling demurely at her lap while he made her the butt of his jokes, calling her names and drawing scornful attention to her dress or her hair or her tattoos or—

“I’m not feeling well, Meggie. Make my excuses?”

Swiping at her first fallen tears, she hurried to the stairs and bolted back up to her room.

***

Shane sat at Douglas Story’s table, nerves mounting as he considered what he was about to do, certain that it was the right move for his career and the company he loved but also relieved that Margaret had given him the green light in the car.

He gave himself a quick mental pep talk:

It’s a smart business move to create a legal merger via marriage, and I am, in fact, fond of Margaret. Yes, I wish there was a bit more chemistry between us, but lack of attraction isn’t a deal breaker.

Besides, perhaps propinquity would kick in during their union. He didn’t require that Margaret love him; though he was fond of her, he certainly didn’t love her.

With that thought, however, and on the precipice of a life-changing proposition, he allowed himself a rare moment of wistfulness. It would be nice someday, wouldn’t it? To know what it felt like to fall in love with someone and know she loved him in return? To start a family together? Maybe time would aid in the development of such feelings between himself and Margaret. And in the meantime? They could share Story Imports. Excellent deals were built on less auspicious circumstances.

“When did Priscilla get home, Father?”

At the mention of Margaret’s sister, Shane’s head snapped up, all sensible thoughts whisked away like so much debris on a windy day.

“Day or two ago. Been in her room since she walked in the door.”

“She looks…tired.”

Shane silently disagreed. Practically sobbing on Margaret’s shoulder one moment and giggling at Shane the next, she seemed exactly the way he remembered her: the most confusing, infuriating creature he’d ever met. A walking paradox. The daughter of one of Philadelphia’s best families who dressed like a flower child from the 1960s . . . speaking perfect lyric French but using it to curse like a sailor.

Seated at the head of the table like a bloated king on his throne, Douglas frowned at Margaret. “Damned , that one. If she’s going to stay here for a while, I’d appreciate it if you’d have a word with her, Margaret Anne. Tell her to cover up those disgraceful markings all over her arms. And observe common courtesy at mealtimes.” He paused, then shouted for effect, no doubt hoping his voice would carry to wherever Priscilla was hiding, “Like showing up for dinner when a place at the table has been set!”

“Yes, sir.”

“We run a tight ship here at Forrester.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“None of this fly-in, fly-out business.”

“No, sir.”

“That one’s always been a little crazy.”

Shane caught the slight tug of Margaret’s lips as she hid a grin. “Yes, sir.”

To conceal his own smile, Shane picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth, then reached for his wineglass, drawing it to his lips as he recalled the shock of Priscilla’s sudden presence at the front door this evening and the deluge of thoughts that had instantly flooded his mind.

Priscilla.

Priscilla Story.

If there was one girl in the world who was—at once—the bane of his existence and the most effortlessly fascinating woman alive, it was Priscilla.

How she’d tortured him for endless afternoons at Story Imports during the months she’d interned, her obscenely low-cut blouses taunting him, her inane questions trapping him into conversation and making it impossible for him to carry on with his day or avert his eyes from the tantalizing swell of her bosom. He’d simultaneously long for and dreaded reasons to visit his boss’s office. Dreaded because Priscilla completely decimated his concentration and composure. Longed for because…well, Priscilla completely decimated his concentration and composure.

He swallowed his wine, concealing another grin as he set the goblet back down on the table.

She was colorful and ridiculous, overtly sexy and insanely scattered. Messy on so many levels and an entirely inappropriate choice for a man with Shane’s aspirations. She was not the sort of woman who would willingly host teas at the country club, make appropriate conversation with business interests, or be an enthusiastic asset to Shane’s career, despite her last name. With several tattoos on her arms (and God only knew where else), whackadoo clothing, loud jewelry, and a perpetual mane of wavy, unkempt honey-brown hair, she was exactly the sort of woman that shouldn’t attract Shane.

Which made his undeniable attraction to her so inconvenient.

When he heard that she’d run off to France with their French spirits distributor last fall, he’d been crushed for a moment, then relieved. Fate had intervened on his behalf, ensuring that Priscilla—and all the lusty feelings she elicited—was out of his sphere of influence, encouraging him to choose someone more appropriate with whom to spend his time.

Put Priscilla out of your mind, he thought, unwilling to give any attention to the swirl of feelings that had risen up within him the moment he saw her face tonight. She’s not for you.

He looked up at Douglas, tuning back into the conversation he was having with Margaret about her sister.

“…nothing like her. You, Margaret. You’re a gal I can be proud of. Here on time. With Shane. Great things ahead.” He shoved a forkful of roast into his mouth, still speaking as he chewed. “Helping with the family business, not wasting your allowance running after some ne’er-do-well Frenchie.” He took a loud slurp of his soup, staring at Shane meaningfully as he wiped his mouth. “Settling down with a good, solid, respectable businessman.”

Now’s as good a time as any, Shane supposed.

Taking a deep breath, Shane pushed his chair back from the table and dropped to his knee beside Margaret, looking up at her expectantly, offering her a polite smile. “Shall we make it official?”

She stared down at him expectantly, her eyes widening, her eyebrows furrowing.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Was she going to make him actually propose? He sighed as he reached for her hand.

“Margaret, as we discussed earlier in the car, it would be in the best interest of Story Imports if we embarked on a merger of our own—”

She gasped, yanking her hand away. “Shane! What the hell are you doing?”

He blinked up at her.

What the hell are you doing?

“You—” Shane cleared his throat as his stomach dropped. “You agreed.”

“I agreed to nothing of the damned sort!”

“Now, Margaret!” thundered her father. “You’ve no cause for that sort of language! Listen to what the man has to say.”

Shane leaned back on his haunches, confusion making his heart race uncomfortably. “Margaret, we just discussed this in the car—”

“No! No, we didn’t! This is…ridiculous. How can you even—?”

Suddenly, her gaze lurched from Shane to her father, whom she began scolding for whatever part he’d played in Shane’s proposal.

But Shane barely heard a word of their quarrel, tuning it out as he stood stiffly. With his cheeks on fire, he sat back down in his seat, the memory of a very similar girl shaming him in a very similar way paralyzing him as he flashed back to that horrible evening so long ago.

The tinkling laugh of Victoria Carnegie Abbott filled his ears as he headed down the dorm corridor to visit her—to try to make amends—after their disastrous date last night. In his hands were a bouquet of pink roses, which had cost him a good chunk of his paycheck, but Vicky was worth every penny. She was beautiful and cultured—a debutante from Boston whose family owned the most respected law firm in New England.

By then, six years into his East Coast education, Shane was used to girls flirting with him, but when he asked Vicky out to dinner and she’d accepted, he felt like he’d won the lottery. He’d picked her up at seven and taken her to the best restaurant off-campus, and she’d invited him back to her dorm room.

Alas, in his excitement while they were making out, he’d spent himself on her thigh before they could actually get to the deed. He’d been embarrassed, but she’d been awesome, assuring him that it happened all the time and didn’t matter.

Stopping by tonight with flowers was his way of thanking her for being so understanding, and he hoped that she’d give him another chance to take her out again.

Her laugh beckoned him, high-pitched and sweet, as he neared her room, louder as he approached because her door was wide open. The shit of it was, however, that as he paused outside her door, he realized that she was talking about him. In fact, she was holding court, discussing Shane’s performance (or lack thereof) with a large group of her similarly upper-crust girlfriends and admirers.

He got it up, but he—he—Her laugh. Her mean fucking laugh resonated in his head all these years later as the buzz of Margaret and her father hurling insults at each other faded into background noise. He came on my—my—my l-l-leg. He got it up, but not in!

Up, not in! One of her friends almost choked on the words, laughing so hard.

Another voice. He’s hot, Vicky. I don’t blame you for trying.

I do, said someone else. He’s NOKD.

Altogether, they chorused, Not our kind, dear.

He’s the waiter at my brother’s fraternity. The help, Vicky. Really. What did you expect?

What did I expect? she’d asked them. Well…I heard he’s from a farm somewhere in the Midwest. I guess I expected a stallion, girls. A stud.

Too bad you got a colt, said one of her friends, and they all started giggling again.

A colt? she’d exclaimed. Try a gelding!

Shane had stood there, frozen in the doorway of her dorm room as he listened to them ridicule him, holding that stupid, ridiculous bouquet of long-stemmed pink roses by his side.

When one of her friends had noticed him and whispered that he was standing there listening, Vicky had turned and looked at him, without a drop of shame. Checking out his body, then sighing as she shook her head, she quipped, I think you need a little more practice, junior, before turning back to her friends and leading them in another round of laughter.

The flowers had slipped from his fingers to the floor, and he’d run. Down the hallway, out the door of her dorm, across her campus, and all the way to his, not stopping until he reached his single room and slammed the door shut.

Hot tears had singed his cheeks as he berated himself for believing that a scholarship student from a cow farm in Wisconsin could score the hottest, wealthiest girl on campus.

For his remaining two and a half years at college, he’d been the subject of low-toned giggles as he kept to himself and concentrated on his studies with a vengeance. He hated Vicky Abbott with a passion. But in the end, the entire mortifying ordeal had made him stronger. He’d vowed never to be humiliated like that again.

And yet . . . here he was, sitting at another rich girl’s table while she leveled him with her eyes, turned up her nose, and declared, “I’m sorry, Shane, but it’s out of the question.”

She looked at Shane with such stark distaste, he dropped his eyes to the floor in shame.

Fucking shame. Another feeling—like not fitting in—that he absolutely despised.

Out of the question.

Not our kind, dear.

I think you need a little more practice, junior.

Margaret stood up, pushed her chair back into the table, and left the dining room.

Letting go of a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, Shane stared at his place setting with disgust before lifting his eyes to his boss. He wavered between feeling embarrassed and feeling furious, working hard to keep his voice level and calm.

“I can assure you, sir, we discussed it in the car on the way over. I was led to believe that Margaret was interested.”

“Foolish chit. Doesn’t know her own mind,” said Douglas, pushing back his own chair and standing. “Scotch. That’s what we need.” Douglas turned toward the door, throwing over his shoulder, “I’ll be in my office when you’re ready, son. We’ll talk.”

Shane watched him go but didn’t follow immediately, grateful to be alone for a moment. Taking a shaky breath, he stood up, straightened his tie, and buttoned his jacket. He placed his hands on the back of his chair, staring at what remained of the elegant dinner table.

What the hell had just happened? And how had it all gone to shit so quickly?

He had specifically asked her if she was interested in his plan for their future, and she had unreservedly agreed. Yes, she had been unusually distracted in the car, staring out the window. And yes, he’d had to say her name three—or was it four?—times before she turned to him after his speech, but he’d just assumed she was mulling it all over. Was it possible she hadn’t been listening at all? Was it possible she hadn’t actually heard his proposal at all and never agreed to it in any real way?

His fingers clenched around the ornate wood trim of the chair, then relaxed.

Something inside of him desperately hoped that he and Margaret had somehow had a misunderstanding. They worked at the same company, and he genuinely liked her—he didn’t want to lump her in with the Vickys of the world.

And yet…her eyes when she’d said, It’s out of the question, had been full of disdain.

The help. A gelding. Not our kind, dear.

Being the right kind was all Shane Olson had ever wanted.

Shane’s ambition was a deeply seeded, deeply rooted motivator; it had, in fact, directed the entire course of his life.

Being a businessman—a successful businessman—would give him the means to stay in a city like Philadelphia and never have to return to the cold, dreary, Midwest farm life he’d left behind. And hell, he’d come too far to rethink his path now. Damn Vicky. Damn Margaret. And damn Douglas Story and his archaic ideas. No matter what, Shane intended to make his dreams come true.

Since the key to upward mobility at Story Imports was marrying a Story, it looked like Shane would need to start looking for a new job. Which meant that the work he’d put into Story Imports over the past four years was all but wasted. He wasn’t a stranger to hard work, but he wasn’t a fan of wasted time. After being so close to his goals that he could practically taste them, this defeat was especially hard.

Clenching his jaw, he turned away from the table, sighing as he made his way across the dining room, toward his boss’s study.

***

Priscilla had a bad habit of eavesdropping, but it had certainly come in handy more than once.

Hovering outside the dining room, she’d peeked in when Margaret had cried, “Shane! What the hell are you doing?” with shock and horror, her own eyes widening when she saw him on one knee, looking up at her sister. Priscilla had zeroed in on his face, at the blasé look in his eyes.

Huh. He’s not in love with her. Why does he want to marry her?

She’d leaned away from the door, back into the hallway and out of sight, trying to figure out Shane’s motives, but she was distracted by Margaret yelling at their father with a vengeance. You had a hand in this! Shane shouldn’t be popping the question unless he’s popping it to you!

That’s it, thought Priscilla.

Their father had probably planned this sham of a proposal with Shane for some kind of business gain. Margaret’s emphatic refusal and Shane’s shell-shocked reaction confirmed it hadn’t been an organic step in their relationship. Priscilla doubted that marriage—a real marriage—had ever truly been an objective for either of them.

As Margaret stormed out of the dining room, Priscilla grabbed her sister’s arm and pulled her into the first private spot her eyes landed on: the front hall coat closet.

“Pris! What are you doing?”

“I can’t believe he just did that!” whispered Priscilla, pulling the door closed.

“Did you know?” When Priscilla was silent, Margaret railed on. “God, isn’t there anyone in this family willing to let me live my own goddamned life? Traitor! How could you let me walk into that dining room without a warning?”

“I swear I didn’t know for sure. Daddy alluded to a ‘big night’ just before you arrived, but there’s no way I ever thought—”

“So you jumped ship like you always do and let me walk into the lion’s den alone. Great, Pris. Thanks.”

“I came back, didn’t I?” Priscilla felt through the coats hung up behind them until she found her nubby wool pea coat and slipped her hand in the pocket to find her car keys. She pressed them into Margaret’s hand. “Take my car. Go. Get out of here.”

“Oh. Just like that. Just . . . leave.”

“You got a better idea?”

Margaret was silent for a moment before puffing out an exasperated breath that Priscilla felt on her cheek. “What are you driving these days?”

“It’s a rental. BMW, clean diesel.”

“Of course it is.”

“Just go, will you? I’ll . . .”

“You’ll what, Pris?”

“I’ll try to fix things.”

Margaret scoffed, and Priscilla pursed her lips in the dark. Fair enough. Fixing things wasn’t generally Priscilla’s forte.

“How?” asked Margaret.

Priscilla already had an idea hatching in her head, but she needed to be absolutely certain of something important first.

“Margaret, I need to ask you something.”

“What?”

“You’re dating Shane.”

“Not anymore,” said Margaret acidly.

“Do you love him?”
“Absolutely not.”

“Do you want him?”

“No.”

“You could bounce a quarter off his ass.”

“Ugh.”

“Not even a tiny bit?”
“At this point? Not even if he was the last man on earth,” said Margaret with a bite.

“You’re positive?” she asked again. “You won’t change your mind tomorrow once you’ve calmed down?”

“Yes, I’m positive! No, I won’t change my mind,” she said. “I don’t love Shane, and I definitely don’t want him after tonight’s marriage-merger madness.”

“Then leave it to me,” said Priscilla calmly.

Margaret’s forehead landed on Priscilla’s shoulder, and her voice was thready. “Daddy’s furious.”

Priscilla rubbed her sister’s back. “You foiled his plan.” But there might be a way to still give him what he wants.

“He treats me like some eighteenth-century chattel. It’s humiliating.”

Priscilla winced. “And yet you care.”

“I do, Pris. Why? Why do I care?”

“When you figure that out, explain it to me, Meggie.”

Margaret sighed, and it was shaky, but she lifted her head, and the keys jingled in her hand. “Okay, I’ll go.”

“Good,” said Pris, pushing her sister toward the door. Margaret paused, and Priscilla nudged her again. “Well? What are you still doing in the closet with me?”

“I miss Mother,” said Margaret softly.

Priscilla clenched her jaw, remembering all the times their mother could have protected or defended her…and hadn’t. Her hands dropped to her stomach, and she silently promised that she would never leave her baby unprotected. Never. 

“She wouldn’t have gotten in the way tonight, Margaret. She wouldn’t have stepped in. She would have let it happen, and she would have made you feel bad for refusing. He always got his way. Always. No matter what.”

“You’re probably right.”

I know I am, thought Priscilla, her heart aching with certainty.

Suddenly Margaret grabbed her sister’s cheeks, pulled her close, and rubbed Priscilla’s nose with hers. “I love you, Pris.”

Priscilla’s eyes instantly filled with tears. I love you, Pris. They were her favorite words in the world, but she heard them so rarely that when she did, they took her breath away. She swallowed over the sudden lump in her throat.

“I love you too, Meggie,” she said, keeping her voice as level as possible. “Now get out of here.”