“The girl who finally stole Nick Hunter’s heart?”
His lips twitched up into an evil smile.
“They’re going to crucify you...”
Chapter 4
“A COMING-OUT PARTY?” Nick looked at Harold as if the man was making an oddly-timed joke. “You want us to host a coming-out party?”
Harold nodded happily, quite oblivious to the implication. Nick glanced at me incredulously, before turning back to our new keeper.
“You’ve got to help me out here, man. Because I don’t—”
“It’s a party to celebrate you and Abigail coming out as a couple,” Harold explained, looking smugly thrilled by his own brilliance. “A formal social announcement to establish yourselves as Manhattan’s newest and brightest romance.”
My eyebrows lifted delicately into my hair, as I stirred sugar into what had to be my eleventh cup of coffee in under an hour. “Newest and brightest romance?”
Harold’s eyes cooled as they turned my way.
“Not exactly what I’d call it either, my dear, but it’s the story we’re going with.” It was a sour start, to be sure, but a glow of what looked like genuine excitement had started flickering in his eyes. “It will be the social event of the season. Only the who’s-who of New York’s high society will warrant an invitation. Actually, if it’s alright with you, Nicholas, we can host it at the yacht club. The manager there owes me a favor, and it’s the perfect venue for a large group—”
“I’m sorry.” Nick held up his hands. “I’m still not entirely sure what we’re going to be announcing. I mean,” he looked uncertainly at me, “it sounds like an engagement party...but don’t most people who throw engagement parties have some idea as to the date?”
I folded my arms across my chest, and shot Harold a superior smirk. An excellent point.
The man had stayed until almost one in the morning the day before, and had returned at six a.m. on the dot. During that time, we’d talking about anything and everything relating to a wedding, but had made very little headway. (Partially, because Nick and I were still quite determined that there wasn’t going to be one. Partially, because neither one of us had ever even considered the answers to half the questions he was asking.)
Flower arrangements. Colors. Themes. Venue. Dresses. The list went on and on. If Nick and I were ever to actually attempt such an outrageous idea, it would quite surely be the biggest upheaval the city had seen since declaring itself an independent colony.
When we had offered little assistance, Harold picked up his pen and paper, poured himself a glass of scotch, and settled onto the couch to plan the entire thing by himself. One way or another, he would need something to show Mitchell for his efforts, but I also got the feeling that his lingering presence was strategic as well.
As soon as the sun went down, the man seemed utterly determined to keep the two of us apart—using his own body as a shield when necessary. Deliberately side-stepping, stalling, and positioning himself squarely in between us on the couch. I swear, the guy would have slept over if we’d shown even the slightest bit of leniency.
Not that his efforts were really necessary. The more we were forced to talk about our impending nuptials, the less Nick and I wanted to have anything to do with each other.
Before heading upstairs to bed (where we automatically split off to separate rooms), he gave me a tight smile, followed by a kiss on the forehead. That’s right—the forehead. Like I was a favorite niece or affectionate ward.
Not that I could really blame him. By the end of the night, I was feeling the same way.
When I’d woken up the next morning, he wasn’t in the house. I assumed he’d gone off for his morning jog, and by the time I got dressed and wandered downstairs for my first cup of coffee, Harold was already banging on the front door. Nick showed up fifteen minutes later, took a quick shower, and then we were off to the races once again.
We were sleep-deprived, whiplashed, and testy. But the coffee maker had been running round the clock since about five that morning, and if Harold was hoping to pull one over on us, he was sorely mistaken. Already, Nick saw this ‘coming-out’ party for what it really was.
“I’m serious, Harold,” he said again. “I’ve already introduced Abigail to everyone who matters as my girlfriend—that’s what the boxing exhibition was for.”
“...a barbaric spectacle suitable for such a woman...”
“So if this is going to be anything more than that,” Nick cut him off sharply, “then I’d really like to wait until you talk to my father.” There was a heavy pause. “Like you promised.”
Harold hung his head with a soft sigh.
“Nicholas, you know your father isn’t going to back down on this—”
“And I’m not either,” Nick said heatedly. “I’m not going to force Abby to marry me, just because I happened to descend from a power-hungry lunatic.”
I peered up from my coffee long enough to shoot him a curious look. Not going to force Abby to marry me...not the other way around? Did he think it wouldn’t be so bad himself?