“Well, I have seven pretty amazing reasons to smile now.”
She pats my arm as I walk over to Chelsea. On the way, I pass Brent talking to Stanton’s sister Mary—channeling Pee-wee Herman.
“You don’t want to get involved with a guy like me, Mary. I’m a loner, a rebel . . .”
Chelsea’s arms wrap around my neck and we sway on the dance floor to some slow song.
“Guess what?” she asks.
I brush my nose against hers. “What?”
“I was just talking to your mother. She and Owen offered to take the kids back to the house tonight and stay over. Soooo . . . I booked a room here, for you and me.”
“Fuck, you’re brilliant,” I murmur. “Have I ever told you how much I love your mind?”
“I thought you loved my body,” she says teasingly, pressing it against me up-close and personal.
“Oh, I do, believe me. I’ll give you a thorough demonstration of how much I love it tonight—and tomorrow.”
“And we’re sleeping in tomorrow—Mr. Five A.M.,” she says insistently.
I smirk. “Well, we’ll be in bed . . . but there won’t be much sleeping going on.”
Chelsea rests her head against my chest. “Sounds perfect.”
It does, doesn’t it?
I don’t mean to brag, but like everything else in my life these days, it sounds perfect because . . . it really. Fucking. Is.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at Brent’s story in
APPEALED
The third book in New York Times bestselling author Emma Chase’s sexy Legal Briefs series
Coming Fall 2015 from Gallery Books!
Prologue
Once upon a time, in a land not so far away . . .
“Kennedy?” Brent Mason’s voice whispered. “Are you awake?”
She wasn’t supposed to be; her mother had tucked her into bed long ago. A wonderful bed, fit for a princess. Hand-carved mahogany columns at each corner, with an arched satin canopy that hovered above her like a puffy cloud, draped with white sheer curtains on the sides. Her head rested on the fluffiest down pillow, and cashmere blankets kept her snug and warm. It was one of the many beds, in one of the many rooms, at Mason Castle. No one else called it a castle, but that’s how she always thought of it, with its winding gardens, grand double staircase, the two-story library, the endless hallways, and especially, the ballroom.
“Kennedy!” The whisper was louder now, bouncing with impatience.
“Shhh! Yes, I’m awake!”
Kennedy slid from the bed and donned her slippers and tied her pink robe, all without turning on the bedside lamp, which might give them away.
Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to make out his robe-clad form just inside the room, beckoning her with his hand.
“Did it start yet?” she whispered, reaching him.
The dark, wavy hair that hung over his forehead swayed as he shook his head. “But before we go, you have to swear on your eyeballs you won’t tell anyone about the new spot. I’m the only one who knows about it—and now you’ll know.”
“My eyeballs?”
Brent’s blue eyes were solemn as he explained, “That means if you break your promise, your eyeballs will explode.”
Kennedy’s hands reflexively rose to her temples. She didn’t want them to explode. She also liked the spot they had used for the last four years: the velvet-cushioned window seat in the red bedroom at the end of the east wing, which allowed them to see everything.
But Brent had told her yesterday that he’d found a new secret place—the very best. He’d been so excited, and now she was excited, too. “I swear on my eyeballs, I’ll never tell.”
Brent nodded, then he cracked the door open to look and listen. Everyone—guests and servants alike—was downstairs, making their way from the ballroom to the rear veranda for the big show.
The Mason’s New Year’s Eve party at their estate on the Potomac River was a legendary affair. It was also tradition—their families, and close friends like Kennedy’s family, were invited to spend the night and the days that followed. Unlike Kennedy’s older sister or Brent’s numerous cousins, the two of them were considered too young to stay up for the midnight festivities.
But they had a secret tradition of their own.
With Brent leading the way, they padded quickly to the east wing of the house, through the little door at the end of the hall—the entrance to the third-floor crawl space. On her hands and knees behind him, Kennedy felt just like Alice from Alice in Wonderland, and her heart thrummed with anticipation. They arrived in a small, dark, windowless room. They stood up and Brent switched on his flashlight. There was a staircase in front of them, steep and dusty.
“Be careful,” Brent warned. “Some of the steps are uneven.”
They climbed the steps single file and Kennedy gasped when they arrived at the top. Alice may have crawled into a beautiful garden—but this was so much better than a garden. It was an attic. There were boxes and trunks, paintings and mirrors, furniture and books, and more dresses sheathed in protective plastic than she could count.