“No, Rowan, this isn’t about that. Not exactly.” He picks up my wine glass—er, wine cup—from the coffee table and sniffs it. His nose wrinkles and he sets it back down in a hurry. “Though we should probably revisit your understanding of discretion sometime soon.”
I reach for my cup, my fingers brushing against his as I reclaim it. The contact sends sparks of molten electricity dancing up my arm.
“Then what is it about?” I take a sip of wine for courage.
Vince moves closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne like a tide of things unspoken and unspeakable.
“My father has arranged a series of… meetings,” he says, watching my face carefully. “With potential brides.”
The wine turns sour in my mouth. “Oh.”
“‘Oh,’” he echoes. “Is that all you ever have to say?”
I shrug, trying to lo
