IV

Barking Up The Wrong Tree

(Brady)

So much for an easy catch.

Maybe I should’ve thought this through. I shouldn’t have put her on the spot in her workplace like that, then and there. That was my bad.

But I’m not giving up.

I scroll through Lena Joly’s social media accounts, flicking between Instagram, X, Facebook, and LinkedIn. None have much activity.

Damn. All I need to know is how to make a pitch that will seal this deal. I need a hint of her interests, her dreams, her situation.

What am I missing?

Some old LinkedIn posts liking professional articles about breakthroughs in veterinary medicine. Her Facebook and Instagram are private, but she’s left some old posts up for a dog rescue place.

When I search Pawsome Hearts, she also appears in a few staff photos.

And that’s it.

Barely any followers. No pressure to post. No expectations from hungry followers waiting for you to boast about amazing deeds and show off lovable animals.

Jealousy knifes me hard.

What the hell is that like? A normal life? The only time people will accept a lack of presence from me is if I physically can’t post.

Those times are getting rarer now, especially with Dad’s health. I damn sure don’t have much time to take off work.

Would my life be easier if I didn’t have to look so perfect? If I didn’t need to reinvent the playboy idiot who blew himself up too many times when he was young and stupid?

Still, seeing a few scraps about Lena’s life leaves me more convinced that she could be my answer, a way to stall my parents’ ridiculous demands.

A way to meet them on my terms, or at least to give them the illusion.

She’s the kind of fresh, normal girl I need.

Passionate about dogs, bare-bones online presence, and damnably cute.

There’s no hiding her soft curves completely under her scrubs. My eyes feasted, everything from her chestnut hair on down through ample tits and a peach of an ass I’d kill to bite.

The menacing looks she gave me promising instant decapitation take nothing away from her appearance.

I just have to persuade her to make the craziest deal of her life—agree to date me long enough to take the pressure off.

Agree to fake date me for pure optics.

Agree to lie to my folks and the Seattle press so I won’t have to waste time with empty succubae like Nancy.

But what’s in it for her?

As I sip my coffee, I consider my plan.

She hasn’t warmed to me much, but we have animals in common. If I could just get her to understand that I mean it when I say I care about them . . .

But I already know that’s a massive challenge. Even my parents don’t think I’m being serious.

They think this pet food project is some stupid phase, a temporary bridge between their son’s first rave success and settling into the calm, moneymaking triumph of adulthood. Right at the head of Pruitt Ag.

Just like they think I’m destined to be hitched to Nancy Loomer.

Fucking shudder.

On paper, it’s good for our brand, and her parents were always close to mine.

In practice? The concept makes me want to climb out of my skin.

Fuck, I still don’t see how it means roses for our brand either. An arranged goddamned marriage?

Why can’t rich people just be normal? Why do we still have to marry for money when we’re already goddamned made of it?

Of course, if I did marry her, people would assume it’s purely political and all for the money. Anyone who knows this woman can instantly write off the personality factor.

Ridiculous.

Thanks to the dating app, even without my parents’ wealth, I have more than enough cash to power my life.

Nancy, on the other hand . . .

She must realize our parents are setting us up. For all she pretends in public, I don’t think she’s wild about me either.

Not really.

She loves the Pruitt name. She likes what I represent. She doesn’t mind my looks, and she adores the thought of landing exclusive rights to a hot, eligible bachelor commodity, like a bee covets honey.

I’m sure she respects my fortune, too, though it’s not like she doesn’t have her own.

We were both born to big money most people would consider obscene.

For her, it comes down to status.

In Seattle, my last name means a lot.

I’m the ideal prop in Nancy’s world—rich husband from a good family who will look good on her arm.

Count me the hell out.

My mind flips back to Lena as I click on her picture. Big, soulful brown eyes, and mahogany hair falling in ripples around her face.

Vintage pretty. Not Instagram-famous good looks.

Lovely in a distinctly natural way.

Frosty. Feisty. Begging to be thawed.

I reach up and slap myself, clicking back to my email tab. Regardless of how pretty she may or may not be, this shit isn’t about attraction.

This is about practicality. Freedom from annoying fucking obligations to focus on what matters, even if it’s just a brief stretch of peace.

I only need time to get my dog food formulated and out the door.

Snarling, I push my laptop back and head into the kitchen for coffee. I’m pulling an espresso shot through the machine when my intercom pings with a visitor.

“Brady, it’s me. Let me up,” Nancy’s voice sings through the screen.

I groan, burying my face in my palm.

The woman has a talent for showing up at the worst possible times. I don’t have the patience to deal with her today. Not when I’m cooking up a scheme to kick her to the curb.

But I also don’t have any good reason for turning her away. She knows my habits and my schedule too well.

Swallowing a sigh, I press the button to let her up and make an extra coffee heaped with sugar and frothed cream. Normally, she likes to go out and be seen with her coffee, but I’m not giving her that today.

When she walks off the elevator and through my door, she’s dressed in some leather and tartan outfit. It’s short and revealing and probably high fashion, but it’s the most boring try-hard shit I’ve ever seen.

Nancy doesn’t care much what look I’m into as long as she’s into it. Not a big deal when it’s just about clothes.

But we both know it isn’t.

Another reason we would never work, never mind the most forced friendship in the world.

“Coffee?” I say, handing her a mug. “I was making some when you dropped in.”

Because it would’ve been too convenient for her to call ahead. It also would’ve given me a prime opportunity to say “Fuck no.”

Two things she knows.

One of the many downsides to our family history is Nancy thinking she has a God-given right to breeze in and out of my life whenever she pleases. Whether I want her around hardly matters.

“Thanks. Is this oat milk?” She eyes the mixture with healthy disgust.

“Would I poison you with anything else?”

“Well, no. You know I don’t do dairy.” She giggles and takes a sip, scrunching up her face with delight.

I hate my life.

If it was an actual dietary restriction, whatever, fine. But Nancy’s selectively gone dairy-free because it makes her trendier. I don’t bother asking about the late-night fondue she scarfed down practically solo just a few weeks ago.

She seems to think dairy-free begins and ends with liquid beverages.

“What do you want, anyway?” I throw myself back in front of my laptop at the marble island.

“Oh, nothing. I just thought we could talk, y’know? We didn’t get much chance after that stupid dog ruined our last date.”

Stupid dog.

I grit my teeth.

“What do you have to say?” I can’t hide the scorn dripping from my voice.

“I dunno.” She shrugs. “Like, talk-talk, Brady. What’s going on in our lives? What’s up with you?” She throws herself down, resting her elbows on the island and leaning forward so she flashes her cleavage.

It’s so transparently ridiculous I almost laugh in her face.

“Don’t have much going on right now, Nance. Just work. The usual.”

“Oh?” She doesn’t sound like she cares. There’s a long pause, and I realize she’s waiting for me to ask about her.

“What are you up to lately?”

“I’m so glad you asked!” Her smile widens. “You remember I told you about Tahiti?”

“Tahiti,” I repeat. It’s vaguely familiar, though I can’t remember any details. “You’re going to French Polynesia?”

“Dude, do you ever stop working long enough to pay attention? Never mind, I’ll forgive you this once.” She rolls her eyes, wagging a finger. “Anyway, remember how I said I was going for a shoot?”

“Sure.” I don’t remember shit.

“It’s gonna be more of a work-and-pleasure thing, and it’s coming up in two weeks!” Her eyes flick up suggestively. “Such a fun opportunity. Prettiest water on the planet. You can post stuff from there without any people and still get ten thousand likes on Insta.”

“Yeah. I get why you’re pumped,” I lie.

“It’s a gorgeous hotel, all expenses paid. You know the five-star resorts where they pamper you all day long?”

“Yep.” Been there, done that. Luxury overload gets old fast.

“But there’s one little problem.” She pushes out her lip in an exaggerated pout. “It’s lonely. Wouldn’t it be so nice to have someone with?”

Obviously, I know what she’s trying to do—I’d have to be blind to miss it—but no.

No fucking way.

There is no way I’m flying out there willingly for some kind of pre-proposal BS trip where she’ll probably be expecting a ring. Even if all expenses are paid.

I can afford to pay for my own luxury travel, and when I do, it won’t be some sparkling hotel rising from Pacific paradise like a fairy-tale castle.

I open an email from the lab I’m working with and say bluntly, “Maybe you should ask one of your friends.”

“They’re busy,” she rushes out. “Don’t you think it would better if—”

“That’s a shame,” I cut her off. “Hopefully you’ll have a fun time solo.”

“Brady! It would be so much better with my boyfriend.”

My face hurts from the effort it takes not to wince.

Goddamn, she’s relentless.

Silence is my answer. I hope it pisses her off enough to take the hint and walk away, but that feels too easy.

“I was hoping,” she says, layering so much emphasis on the word I almost cringe, “that you’d come with me.”

There it is.

Shot between the eyes.

I hoped she wouldn’t outright ask, when I’m clearly not interested, but now that she has, this won’t end well.

“You know I have work, Nance. Critical phase with the lab working on the formula.” I gesture at my screen. “They’re almost ready with some new test samples. I have to be around to see how that goes.”

Almost immediately, her eyes glaze over. The second I mention details, she switches off.

“You always have work,” she says bitterly.

“All part of the process. Nobody ever said start-ups are easy.” I stare at her, wondering why I bother to take the edge off. “It won’t always be like this. Once we’re in the pilot phase, I might be able to take my foot off the gas a little before the full launch. But that’s a year out at least.”

“A whole year,” she echoes miserably. “All for fucking dog food.”

“Scientifically formulated, ethically sourced, organic, and affordable for the masses, thank you.” I flash her an exaggerated smile, beaming it through the knives etched on her face.

Work is an excuse to get out of a trip to hell, but it’s also true.

“What did I do to you?” she asks sharply.

“What?”

“We’ve known each other since we were kids. So why am I not enough for you?” She darts up and stalks closer, rounding the island until she’s next to me. “Why haven’t you ever tried to kiss me? Touch me? You know you could have it all . . .”

Fuck.

Her eyes are hard and sharp. This isn’t hurt speaking but entitlement.

She’s always been gorgeous, yeah, but there’s something pointed and weaponized about her beauty now. Get too close, and you’ll eviscerate yourself on those curves.

“Are you still fucking a new girl every week? I know your history,” she whispers, too close to my ear now. “It’s not like you don’t have needs. And I’m cool with your appetite, it’s all part of the package, I get it. I’m not asking you to be exclusive. Not yet. So . . . why haven’t we fucked?”

I clear my throat, wishing I could suffocate. She’s the last person I want to be talking about this with. Maybe the second last, after my old man.

“Those days are behind me,” I say carefully. “I’m not like that anymore. Those times caused me grief, Nancy.”

“Whatevs.” She rolls her eyes, snorting. “Jesus, just tell me you think I’m ugly. It’d be a lot more believable than this horseshit.”

“I’m not the same man I was a few years ago. I don’t like casual sex, Nancy. No more than I like you rubbing it in my face,” I growl.

“Why?”

Because I don’t fucking like you.

I could say it, and to her, it’s probably not good enough.

“Time for you to go,” I snap, standing and waving at the door. “Come on. Don’t make me drag you.”

“Leave?”

It’s like a foreign concept she can’t understand.

Enough.

I start walking, and she finally moves. I escort her all the way to the door, one hand on the small of her back.

“It’s not going to happen, Nancy. Help me let you down easy. This doesn’t need to get ugly.”

“What isn’t, Brady?” Her breath hitches like she truly doesn’t get it.

“Us.” I stop and stare at her. “Look, I know it’s what our families want, but sometimes what they want isn’t always what we need. We’re grown-ass adults. We don’t need to follow a plan drawn up when we were kids.”

“What you need, you mean.”

She’s right. That’s exactly what I mean.

For the first time, I see something like real hurt on her face, and I’m not happy. But this is the route she chose.

“We can be cordial,” I tell her, though I don’t know if that’s something she can ever wrap her head around.

At this point, I’m prepared to say anything that will get her out of my condo before she bashes me in the face with her designer purse.

“Whatever. Fuck you, Brady Pruitt,” she spits, turning so abruptly I almost crash into her. “You’ve made your choice, but let me tell you something. I’m not covering for your noncommittal playboy ass anymore.”

I should’ve known she wouldn’t go down easy.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that next time your parents drop hints and ask how things are going, I’ll tell them the truth. All the gory little details.” She lifts her chin with a terrible smile. “I’ll tell Mommy you’re too immature, playing with animals and chasing one-night stands like you’re eighteen. And Daddy, I wonder what he’ll think when I say your dick doesn’t work? Seriously, Brady, why can’t you grow up?”

Fuck. This.

I stare her down, refusing to engage in something so high school petty.

Maybe she wants a fight. She wants me to roar and scream and give her more leverage to skewer me, but I’m the bigger person.

I’m not giving her a damn inch.

I’m also not going to break down and sleep with her just so she’ll play nice and show some basic decency.

No, this bullshit only ends one way, and it has everything to do with Lena Joly helping me buy breathing space.

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