He smiled, shook hands, and made his way through the crowd with the excuse of being late for an important meeting with his grandfather.
“Is it true?” One reporter asked shoving a microphone in his face.
“Is what true?” He asked through clenched teeth. And why the hell was he even engaging?
The reporter wore red lipstick and a tight black pantsuit.
She grinned widely as more microphones were thrust into his face.
“The marriage.”
Two words.
“Marriage?” He spat the word. “There will be no marriage.”
The reporter gave him a confused look. “So it’s not true that your grandfather has agreed to choose a suitable wife for the Wellington Dynasty from one of the many women who attempt to purchase you at the auction?”
That was a rumor the press had started buzzing about ever since they’d learned of the auction. There was no way in hell his grandfather would take it that far.
“No more questions,” he barked, jabbing the elevator button harder than necessary. Thank God the doors opened and closed on the waiting crowd just in time for him to have a full-fledged panic attack as the elevator surged to the top floor.
Marriage.
No.
He wouldn’t.
His grandfather wasn’t that insane.
Was he?
Talk about fucking with Brock’s life. That would be—a prickling sensation ran down his neck and arms.
That would be exactly like something his grandfather would do.
The elevator doors opened.
“Hi, Brock. I’ll just tell him you’re here,” Mrs. Everly began, but the smile dropped from her face the moment she got a good look at Brock.
“No need. I’m going in.” He slammed his hands against the large wood doors as he pushed into his grandfather’s office.
As usual, Grandfather was sitting behind his desk, a newspaper propped up in front of him.
Grandfather was a creature of habit.
Brock’s stomach clenched with anger.
If he wasn’t careful, his future was staring right at him.
And it looked bleak.
Lonely.
Hell, it looked like marriage to a woman of his grandfather’s choosing.
“Brock!” Grandfather placed his weathered hand on the mahogany desk and stood on shaky knees. “Sit, sit!”
“I think I’ll stand,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Suit yourself.” Grandfather shrugged.
“No.”
“Pardon?” Grandfather’s eyebrows furrowed as he moved around the desk and crossed his arms. “What was that, son?”
“I. Won’t. Do. It.” Brock’s body shook. With rage. With dread. He knew the ramifications of saying no, but he couldn’t control the words coming out of his mouth.
His grandfather held out his hands as if to tell Brock to settle down, “Brock, you seem upset—”
“I’m beyond upset!” Brock took a step backward. “Find someone else. Though God knows why you think this is good publicity. We get enough attention from the twins, who seem to land themselves in every newspaper and magazine in the country.”
Grandfather suddenly went pale; his hand went to his chest and then with a strangled gasp, he collapsed.
*
Three hours after Brock thought he’d nearly killed his Grandfather by actually standing up for himself he was still in the office.
The EMTs were long gone.
Grandfather was going to be fine.
An anxiety attack.
From stress.
“What were you discussing when he collapsed?” the first EMT asked.
Brock had felt too sick to answer; he just shook his head and asked in a strangled voice. “Is he going to make it?”
“His heart’s just fine.” The other EMT was giving Grandfather oxygen, or at least trying to. Grandfather was fighting him every step of the way, saying he had just felt a tightening in his chest and then hot all over.
And now they were back to square one.
What should have been a brief meeting had turned into one of the scariest moments of Brock’s life.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“I’m fine, Brock,” his grandfather lied.
His grandfather coughed and sputtered into a handkerchief, then stuffed it in the pocket of his three-piece suit. The sound of his leather seat giving way filled the office, as Grandfather leaned back in the cushions and placed his hands in front of his face, tapping his fingers against one another, signaling he was deep in thought.
Brock tugged at his suddenly too-tight tie.
“Shall we…go over the plans for the auction?” Grandfather asked with hopeful eyes. And just like that.
He got his way.
Again.
“Sure.”
“Oh”—Grandfather thumbed through a folder on his desk and waved him off—“I guess that can wait for later. First I want to discuss the ranch. I’m preparing it for your new family.”
His new family.
As in.
One he chose? Or his grandfather? He was afraid to ask. Afraid he’d yell again and really kill the old man this time.