Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
I suppose it makes sense that to my mother, Penelope Althorp is an option. There aren’t many families that fit the criteria in New York. Fewer still with single offspring who are age-appropriate.
“Jack, did you hear me?” My mother sits in the middle chair of three in our box, and I sit to her left. Greg sits to her right, nearest the stage. He realizes instantly and moves his chair between the exit and my mother, so she has a clear view. It means he’ll barely be able to see.
“Yes, Mother,” I say.
“Are you making any sort of effort to find yourself a wife?” she hisses under her breath.
I’m not interested in shopping for a wife. I’ve seen relationships can work for some people. I have a tight circle of very good friends who I met at business school. All five of them have met the women they were meant to marry. They are in love. They are better, happier, more fulfilled because of the women they’re with.
I’ve never come close to that.
“Finding a wife isn’t a priority,” I reply. I let my gaze take in the theater. People glance up to see our box. Most of the audience won’t know who we are. But anyone in New York high society will. I can’t have this conversation with my mother here. Too many interested parties.
“You need to make it one. I’m not getting any younger. Neither is your father. We need you established.”
I don’t even know what that means, but it hits something in me because a familiar swirl of guilt has me keeping my mouth shut.
The lights go down and the curtain comes up.
The stage is illuminated and Meghan Furlan, one of the prima ballerinas, comes into view. She can capture an audience’s attention like no one else I’ve ever seen perform. But I spot something in my peripheral vision. I try to ignore it. Probably just the conductor.
But I see it again, and this time, I pull my gaze from the stage.
It’s a woman in the audience. She’s in one of the very best seats in the house, in front of the stage about six rows back. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, like the woman on stage, and she’s dabbing her eyes with tissues. Her profile is elegant. She has a long neck and high cheekbones. She looks like she belongs on the stage and not in the audience.
I check either side of her. On one side is Ethan Scott and his wife, who I haven’t seen for a while, and I make a mental note to arrange a drink with him. To the other side of her is a woman I recognize from a New York City Ballet fundraiser.
Is she here alone?
It’s not unusual for people to cry at the ballet. Even my coldhearted mother has wept at a couple of performances. But the curtain has only just gone up.
The beautiful stranger pulls back her shoulders and lifts her chin slightly, almost defiant at her tears. She clutches her hands to her chest as Meghan Furlan performs the first pirouette of the evening. It’s almost as if she thinks Meghan might fall. Of course, she doesn’t, and the mystery woman breaks into a huge smile.
Inexplicably, the corners of my mouth twitch and I smile with her. I glance back at the stage, but throughout the performance, my gaze is constantly pulled back to the audience. To the beautiful woman watching the beautiful performance. I’m completely distracted by her.
Who is she?
Who is she?
She’s so delicate, she almost doesn’t seem real.
My heart is pounding and my mind is whirring, trying to think of ways I can meet the woman I’ve been unable to tear my gaze from. I should make a beeline for Ethan and his wife at the intermission. Or at least, that’s what I can tell my mother. If I head to the main bar, I might be able to run into her. Because that’s what I want, right? To talk to the woman who has me so transfixed.
I can barely think straight, and I try to organize my thoughts, try to find logical explanations for the instinct I have to race to meet her. I can’t. I just know that I have to try to find her.
I’m not sure what I’ll say when we come face-to-face, but I need to know who she is. There’s a primal feeling in me, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
I have to know her.
But what if I fail? She might go to the restrooms, or I might not get down there in time. In fact, I’m guaranteed not to get down there in time. I’ll be stopped at least five times with people wanting to make small talk or to talk about their charity or their niece or whatever.