Filthy Rich (Blackstone Dynasty 1)

My mother was very proud of the fact she’d given my father five children and only suffered through three pregnancies. And Mom made sure we all knew it was suffering of the worst kind to give birth to every one of us. Maybe that was why she resented me. All that effort only produced one baby—me.

My relationship with my mother was just the start of my women troubles. I’d had a not-so-pleasant conversation with her on the phone earlier today. Janice had gotten to Mom quickly, crying out a sad tale of disrespect and broken promises on my part. I didn’t tell her that within five minutes of leaving me, she was deep-throating James Blakney. Thinking my mother didn’t need that visual, I didn’t say much in response except that Janice wasn’t the girl we all thought she was, and she definitely wasn’t going to be anything more than a friend of the family to me from here on out. Mom then took the opportunity to tell me I’d made things very difficult for her friendship with Janice’s mother. I offered her the advice that a generous donation to their nonprofit would probably smooth things over. I suppose she didn’t care for my suggestion because she ended our call quickly after.

I would give this thing two drinks max before I was outie.

Nodding and saying the right things, I shook hands with the colleagues who’d known my father and accepted condolences from others. I made a mental note of the people who’d made the effort to mention his name to me, and I would write their names down with the event and date as soon as I got home.

I’d worked my way through the room, as I had been taught by my dad—by

the best to ever work a roomful of potential deals—when I decided I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do tonight. It was time for me to go. After setting my glass down on an empty table, I started for the door . . . until I saw her.

Just like that. She appeared in my line of sight and I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

The beautiful girl from this morning at the Starbucks on Hereford Street.

I knew it was her because how could anyone forget those sexy boots? Her blonde hair wasn’t down like it had been this morning, though. She’d pulled it back into a sleek ponytail . . . but she was serving at this event? I’d seen her go into that design studio next to Starbucks. She probably had two jobs. Industrious . . . beautiful . . . sexy.

I quickly returned for my half-empty glass and snatched it up from the table. I suddenly felt like an appetizer or two.

She saw me approaching and moved closer with her tray. “What are these called?” I asked without sparing her tray a second glance. Bad move on my part, but I was too busy taking in her golden eyes and hair, and everything else I could now see up close. Perfect skin, dark lashes that framed spectacular eyes, and a scar along the hairline of the right side of her face. Something had hurt her at some point in the past, and I found it utterly insane that I was disturbed by it.

She rolled her pink lips together as if she was trying to suppress laughter. “Well, they’ve told me it’s something called a . . . meatball. Very unusual gourmet creation. You should try one. They’re said to be quite delicious.”

That voice of hers was . . . fucking beautiful.

“Okay.” I picked up a meatball and popped it in my mouth. Didn’t taste a thing. I could have been chewing slaughterhouse by-products and I wouldn’t have known. My brain had shut off everything except her beautiful voice.

“You are either messing with me or that blow to your head must have been devastating. I would wager you’ve had a meatball before.”

“I am.”

She lost her smile. “You are messing with me?”

“No, I am devastating—I mean devastated—by the blow to my head.” What in the mother fuck was I even saying to this girl? I sounded like Rain Man minus the IQ. I needed to stop talking.

“I’m sorry to hear that. It looks painful.”

“It doesn’t hurt me now.” I thought I smiled and shook my head but couldn’t be sure. Just call me the village idiot because I knew I was acting like one. I did love the sound of her voice, though.

“Another rare and precious meatball?” She offered her tray and studied me this time. She had to be disgusted by my appearance and turned off by my behavior, but she didn’t show it if she was.

“Yes, please.” I took another meatball but I didn’t eat it. “You are British.”

“You are American,” she said with a fast wink, before turning away to serve other guests.

I watched her walk away from me and felt the pounding of my heart vibrating throughout my entire body.

Something had just happened to me.

I wasn’t completely sure what exactly, but I was crystal clear on the reason.

Her.

I did not leave as I had planned to do.

I stayed in that ridiculous meet and greet so I could stalk a girl I did not know.

I, Caleb Blackstone, became a stalker in that moment and was not apologetic about it in the least, either.