Engaged to One Whitmore, Fell for the Other.

Layla

“Trust me, Layla. They’ll love you.”

I tore my eyes away from the massive estate beyond the windshield and looked at Taylor.

He had called it his family home.

Home.

The place looked more like something that should have required an admission f*e.

“You should have told me your family was this rich.”

Taylor smiled. “Would it have made a difference?”

“Yes. I would’ve had time to prepare myself for being thrown back through the gates for looking too poor.”

He laughed.

I didn’t.

Not entirely, anyway.

I looked back at the estate.

I had known the Whitmores had money. Of course I had. Taylor had never pretended otherwise, and the Whitmore name wasn’t exactly an obscure one in New York.

But there was knowing your boyfriend came from money, and then there was sitting at the end of a sweeping private drive staring at a mansion large enough to make my entire apartment building look modest.

“You’re worrying about nothing.” Taylor reached over and squeezed my hand. “They’re going to love you.”

Easy for him to say.

He was one of them.

And then there was Harvey.

I had never met Taylor’s older brother, but I had heard enough about him.

Harvey Whitmore was ruthless in business and apparently not much gentler outside of it. He judged openly, spoke his mind whether anyone wanted to hear it or not, and had a talent for making people feel small without ever raising his voice.

Exactly the kind of man I wanted assessing whether I was good enough for his younger brother.

I breathed out slowly.

“Let’s go,” Taylor said. “You’ll see for yourself.”

I hoped he was right.

My stomach seemed convinced he wasn’t.

We climbed the broad stone steps toward the entrance. Before Taylor could reach for the handle, one of the enormous double doors opened.

A butler stood on the other side.

An actual butler.

I glanced at Taylor.

He caught the look and grinned.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

The butler stepped aside with a polite nod, and Taylor rested a hand against the small of my back as we entered.

Whatever smart response I’d been about to give him disappeared.

The foyer alone was breathtaking.

High ceilings. Polished marble beneath my heels. An enormous chandelier spilling warm light over a staircase that curved toward the upper floor.

For one horrible second, I became painfully aware of everything I was wearing.

My dress.

My shoes.

The small purse I’d spent far too long deciding was nice enough for tonight.

I resisted the urge to smooth my dress.

It had looked beautiful when I’d left home.

It still looked beautiful.

I wasn’t going to let a house convince me otherwise.

Voices carried from somewhere ahead.

Taylor guided me toward them.

The moment we entered the living room, several faces turned in our direction.

Conversation didn’t stop.

But it changed.

I felt it immediately.

A glance at Taylor.

Then me.

Then back to Taylor.

Some were curious.

Others weren’t nearly as subtle.

One woman’s gaze moved from my face to my dress, down to my shoes, then slowly returned to my face.

I straightened my shoulders.

So much for they’ll love you.

But there was one person who didn’t look at me at all.

And somehow, he was the one I noticed first.

He sat in an armchair near the fireplace, one ankle resting over the opposite knee, a glass of whiskey held loosely in one hand.

Dark suit.

No tie.

Completely relaxed.

Yet there was something about him that made everyone else in the room seem less important.

He didn’t need to demand anyone’s attention.

The room already belonged to him.

My stomach tightened.

I knew who he was before Taylor said a word.

Harvey Whitmore.

He slowly swirled the whiskey in his glass.

“So, Taylor.”

His voice was calm.

Almost bored.

“You brought another one?”

My eyes snapped to him.

Another one?