Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
“Arranged marriage? Stop being childish and—” He pauses for a brief coughing fit.
They’ve been getting worse lately, and I see Freddy eyeballing the oxygen tank on the back of his chair with concern. Dad wipes his mouth angrily and points at me.
“Like it or not, you’ve inherited this legacy. You’re the public face of our family and our business. When people think Pruitt Agriculture, they see your face first, especially when you plaster yourself over social media.”
Shit, I wish he didn’t have a point.
Having a public-facing figurehead is important for any big business like ours, especially the boring ones that mostly run in the background. We’ve always sold ourselves as a family business going back generations—only now that means half the world ogling at you online, never mind the institutional media.
Dad knows this too well, and so do I. Not that it stops him from throwing it in my face whenever he thinks he needs to grind me into shape.
He folds his arms until he looks like a muffin, all chest exploding out of his suit.
“We’ve put up with a lot from you, son. We’ve even indulged your costly little sideshow with dog food, built on our resources and supply network.”
“You have, and I’m grateful,” I bite off, trying to keep a lid on my temper.
Dad holds up a finger. “But I’ve warned you—if any of your online fluff causes even a whiff of bad press, I won’t stand for it. None of it, Brady. You’ll find your own damn farmers and specialists, right after you shut down your social accounts.”
Mom winces before I can say a word.
“Your father has a point,” she urges gently. “You just need to be more careful.”
“Careful. What the hell does that mean?” I demand.
In answer, she holds up her tablet with a thin smile. The Instagram Reel I posted last night plays. I walk over, take it, and scroll through the comments.
Adorable dog! one comment says.
Love the way he’s helping out, another says.
Holy pissy missy! Look at that mad bish staring him down, someone else says. Several people agree, making it the top comment.
A few more make jokes about my next hookup with the girl shooting daggers out her big brown eyes.
Like I was trying to be anything else than charitable.
Like I ever do anything else with my account these days.
Even so, the sight of the vet tech’s glower makes me smile. The camera caught her when she wasn’t paying attention.
Lena, wasn’t it?
The brunette was pretty in that soft, demure way I’ve started to prefer because it’s more authentic. Little to no makeup and surgical enhancements. No flashy tattoos done by a guy with an art degree, and no lip filler slowly turning her face into a plastic doll’s.
Her amber brown eyes look bright here and narrowed, right above a soft mouth that curves at the corners when she’s pissed.
Under other circumstances, she might be more used to smiling than scowling.
Definitely not here.
At the time, I thought it was Nancy’s stupidity winning us the stink eye, but playing the video back, it’s clear the girl’s rage is aimed at me.
Damn.
So maybe I didn’t make the best impression.
I just wanted to make sure Charlie got checked, but I guess I didn’t go about it as well as I should have. I could’ve waited to show him off to the world, after I had him back at my parent’s place for the night.
Not cool when the clinic went out of its way to help us.
I should’ve been more apologetic about barging in there after hours too. Hell, maybe I should’ve even tipped them.
Dad sighs roughly, sinking down into his wheelchair.
“We need you to start turning your life around, son. Wake up. Be more aware.” His frown looks tired this time, like my antics have aged him. “No one’s getting any younger.”
For a fraught second, we lock eyes and I see vulnerability behind his usual incoherent anger. He’s not the same man he was a few years ago before his brush with death, before the heart attack left him hollowed out.
“Understood.” I swipe away from the video and hand it back to Mom.
“I don’t need to tell you large brands are more online than ever,” Dad growls, his humanity vanishing. “We can’t have an unmarried thirty-year-old son playing tabloid prince that fucks everything that moves.”
“Alec!” Mother gasps, shaking her head.
Whatever flicker of sympathy I had for him a second ago dies.
The rush of anger is explosive.
I should’ve known it would come down to this—I should’ve fucking known—but it doesn’t make his words cut any less.
All this high-and-mighty hand-wringing over my organic pet food brand, and this is his real problem.
My sex life.
No, not even that—the public’s perception of my sex life.
The fact that I wasn’t a damn Boy Scout in my past life.
Bullshit.
And I’ve smelled it enough for today.