His Off Limits Best Friend - Vivian Wood Page 0,8
royal asshole. He’s… well, you’ll see. But I’m guessing he’ll be directing it at me, not you. So don’t worry too much.”
“You sure know how to put a girl at ease,” she said.
His phone buzzed. “Fuck,” he said, glancing at it.
“What?”
“Change of plans. Dinner at my parents’ place.”
“What? Why?” The idea of such an intimate surrounding threw her.
“Honestly, my father was probably always planning this. He likes to throw a wrench in things and see how I react.”
When they pulled up to the imposing house with the impeccable lawn, Sam could hardly believe it. A fleet of Audis were in the driveway. You can do this. Put on your movie star charm, she told herself.
“Ready?”
“There they are!” his mom called cheerily when he ushered Sam inside. “Sandra, sweetheart, it’s so nice to finally meet you. Let me see that ring. Oh, it’s gorgeous, Connor! But why not a diam—”
“Actually, it’s Sam,” Connor corrected his mother.
“Pardon me?”
“She goes by Sam.”
“Oh, my mistake. Would you like some Prosecco, dear?”
“Yes, Mrs. Harris, thank you,” Sam said, shining her megawatt smile at the plump older woman with perfectly coiffed silver hair.
“Not bad,” Sean said, walking into the room with a beer in hand.
“Sam, this is my brother, Sean,” Connor said as he shrugged out of his jacket.
“You got any sisters? Although I’m guessing any younger than you would be jailbait,” Sean said as he eyed her.
“Don’t you have a video game to play or something?” Connor asked as he waved Sean away.
“Where’s your dad?” she whispered to him.
“He likes to make a grand entrance,” Connor told her as he began to craft his scotch on the rocks at the bronze cocktail table.
“Come, dear,” Mrs. Harris said. She handed Sam a flute of sparkling wine and took her elbow. “Dinner’s about to be served, and Mr. Harris is dying to meet you.”
Sam raised her brow at Connor and allowed his mother to steer her into the formal dining room. The focal point was the massive oak table with a buffet and china display lining the walls. Wainscoting met with gold-leaf wallpaper and the soaring ceiling was trimmed in intricate crown molding. Hanging above the table was a huge crystal chandelier.
From the gorgeous flower arrangements to the carefully displayed china and gilded flatware, it looked like something out of a fairy tale. “This is beautiful,” she told Mrs. Harris. “A Christofle flatware set, incredible.”
“You know your table settings,” Mrs. Harris said, impressed. “Here, sit by me.”
“I’m an event manager for luxury clients,” Sam said. She waited until Mrs. Harris sat before following suit, and the woman smiled at her knowingly.
Connor took the seat on the other side of Sam.
“Good job with this one,” Mrs. Harris told him as she nodded at Sam. “Beautiful and educated.”
“So, we finally get to meet the famous fiancée.” Mr. Harris burst into the room like a storm. Tall and foreboding with a balding head and thick mustache to make up for it, Sam was used to men like him. They were the type who pinched her ass in meetings and stared at her chest without reserve.
“Mr. Harris,” she said as he walked toward her. She stood and offered her hand. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
He grunted, but took her hand reluctantly. “Well, I can see how you caught my son’s eye,” he said as he traced her curves with his eyes. “Sit, sit. Don’t stand on my behalf.”
Sean sulked in late and made a racket as he scraped his chair against the hardwood. “Sean, please,” Mrs. Harris said.
“So, Sandra—”
“Sam,” Mrs. Harris corrected.
“Oh, Sam now, is it?” he asked with a cocked brow. “Sam, tell me. What is it your parents do?”
“My parents?” she asked. “Well, uh, my father passed away—”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
“Thank you, but it was a long time ago. My mother, she does a lot of volunteer work.” Sam figured that sounded better than saying she was a grant writer for a small nonprofit. Connor smiled at her.
“That’s good!” Mr. Harris said. “We have a strong philanthropy arm at Trezor ourselves. Any siblings?”
“Father!” Connor said as one of the servants set down plates with a single spoon of soup topped with caviar before Sam and his family.
“Just the amuse-bouche, dear,” Mrs. Harris said to her. “Don’t worry, we’re not planning to starve you.”
Mr. Harris swallowed the spoon in one bite. “And where did you go to university? Grad school?”
“Sam actually studied abroad, in a little private college outside Stratford-upon-Avon,” Connor said. She looked