Page 2 of The Temporary Bride

None of that makes us a family business, though, not in any real sense. Our father decided when we were young what roles we’d each fill, and our education was shaped around those decisions. We were never asked. We’re not so much Julian Thorne’s sons as his succession plan, and we always have been. So it grates, hearing him describe it otherwise, like we’re some tight-knit dynasty and not five men who can go weeks without a conversation that isn’t about quarterly projections.

“I look forward to continuing our vital work,” my father says, “and I look forward to seeing my sons prosper in their roles at our company.” He hefts the award one more time, letting the god-awful crystal catch the light. “Thank you all for this honor.”

I’ve heard enough of his speeches to know when one is winding down. I start clapping before he’s stepped back from the mic, and my brothers and mother follow suit, all of us applauding on cue.

As the host retakes the podium, I get to my feet and button my jacket, leaning over to kiss my mother on the cheek. She looks up at me, penciled brows drawing together.

“Are you going somewhere, Tristan?”

“Duty calls.”

Reid snickers quietly beside me.

I head into the crowd, moving toward the bar on the far side of the room. This is the part of the evening I’m actually here for. The speeches are theater. This is where the real work happens, where deals get floated and you take stock of what your competitors are planning. Everyone is doing it, except my father, who has always operated on the assumption that people will come to him.

I know better. The media landscape shifts fast, and if we’re not pushing forward, we’ll stagnate. My father won an award tonight, but from the top there’s only one direction left to go, and lately I’ve been quietly worried about how close to the edge we might be.

I’m almost to the bar, eyes already on Weylan Davies, CFO of one of our biggest rivals, when a flash of gold at the far end of the room pulls my attention sideways.

There’s a woman leaning against the bar with her back to me, talking to the bartender. Her dress is black with gold embroidery that catches the light every time she shifts her weight, her dark hair twisted up off her neck, a thin gold necklace sitting at her nape. I can’t see her face, but she stands out in a room full of people I’ve known for years, and I’ve completely lost track of what I was doing.

Then she turns around, and I realize I do know her. It’s Chloe Dawson, head of business development at MediaSphere, one of the few companies that can actually give us a run for our money. She’s been a pain in my ass for years, although if I’m being honest, I’ve always respected how good she is at her job.

Her eyes find mine across the room, and her expression tightens, going a few degrees cooler. She’s gorgeous in a way that catches me off guard every time, with dark gray eyes and sharp features, her mouth currently pressed into a flat line that does nothing to make her less attractive.

She holds my gaze for a beat, then deliberately looks away.

I change course anyway, leaving Weylan Davies where he is. There’s no strategy in walking toward Chloe Dawson tonight, no business rationale at all. Just spite, and the fact that she clearly doesn’t want me to.

I sidle up beside her at the bar where she’s still got her back to me.

“So…” I lean in slightly, dropping my voice. “Did you come to celebrate all of my family’s achievements, or just to scope out the competition?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even glance at me, just keeps her eyes fixed somewhere across the room, her expression unchanged, like I haven’t said a word. My smirk holds for a beat, then another, before it starts to slip a little at the edges.

Well, damn. That’s not the reaction I was expecting.

I’m about to step away, salvaging my wounded pride, when she suddenly turns to face me. Her gray eyes flash as they lock with mine.

Chapter 2

Chloe

Tristan Thorne stands close beside me, the warmth of his body and his scent—cedar and spice, like a mulled wine on a winter’s day—filling my nostrils.

For a second, I’m thrown for a loop. I chose to stand at the bar on purpose, away from the main crowd and the dance floor with my good ear facing outward toward the room. I needed to be able to hear as well as possible.

He spoke from the wrong side. I almost didn’t hear him, and I certainly didn’t make out his words. It was his scent that alerted me to his proximity, not his voice.

The usual panic rises in me, the same jittery feeling I get every time I think my secret might have been discovered. I cover it up quickly, irritation prickling inside me at the unwelcome jolt of vulnerability.

I give him an arch look, doing my best to somehow look down at him despite the fact that he’s at least six-three. “Excuse me?”

He grins, showing even white teeth. “It’s nice of you to show such respect to Thorne Enterprises. Are you going to congratulate him later?”

Ah. He’s talking about his father, and that stupid lifetime achievement award. “Of course,” I say smoothly. “You know, they usually hand out those sorts of awards to companies that have hit their peak, Thorne.”

“Is that so?” He won’t lose that fucking smirk.