My mother smiled with glee—fucking glee. The last time I’d seen that look on her face we’d learned Gemma was betrothed to Horace.

At the ripe age of thirteen.

“This can’t wait.”

I tangled my blond hair in my fingers, nerves on edge. “What is it?”

She pressed her palms together. “Next Christmas.”

Fucking Mayday.

“…Is another bullshit Crowne family holiday party?” I said, knowing it wasn’t, knowing in my gut what she was about to tell me.

“Is your marriage, dear,” she said lightly.

I walked away from her, to the desk pressed against the ocean window, and tore open the drawer that held my suckers. I grasped for a lemon one, ripping off the plastic and shoving it into my mouth.

“What happened to the ‘end of summer’?”

“We were worried you were getting too…distracted with extracurricular activities.”

My mother kept a warm tone, but her words were sharp.

I knew she wasn’t talking about fucking tennis.

I don’t want to go back. I don’t want you to forget me.

I could sense my mother at my back, her soft ivory hands no doubt clasped at her waist, waiting for my perfect response. The kind that she’d come to expect from me, the perfect son. For the first time, I didn’t want to give it. I wanted to pull an Abigail and revolt.

A loud crash sounded outside the door.

Snitch.

I turned to see Mother’s face instantly twisted in suspicion.

I jabbed the lemon sucker into my cheek. “Does Charlotte du Lac know about this?” I asked, quickly shifting her attention. “When I last spoke to her, she seemed pretty certain that the marriage was still just a possibility.”

My mother looked away, silence speaking volumes. I shut the door so Snitch couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation and gently guided my mother to sit on one of the couches in my foyer.

“Great. I can’t wait to wed a woman who can’t lift her veil because then everyone would see the running mascara.”

Mom laughed. “Give Charlotte some credit.” She narrowed her eyes. “We all thought you’d be happy. You’ve been in love with her since grade school.”

I narrowed my eyes on the shut door, dragging my hands down my face. “Call me old-fashioned for wanting her to like me.”

“That’s not old-fashioned, Grayson. That’s a bit progressive.” She wrinkled her nose at the thought. “With Abigail’s wedding happening at the end of this summer, we don’t want yours to outshine, as it would inevitably. We’ll wait until Thanksgiving to announce, and then you and Charlotte can prep for a full year of media touring.”

“A year.”

“You’re Grayson Crowne. Your wedding isn’t an event; it’s history.”

This is what I should want.