The Wild Heir and His Icy Bride novel · Chapter 1 of 3
Chapter 1: Boots on the Sofa
Griffin learns he's married and stages three gross-outs at lunch; Imogen scores him in public, and her grandmother says she picked him herself.
Griffin Oakes put both boots on his mother's white sofa before he said hello to anyone.
He had landed two hours earlier, after two years abroad, and he had dressed for the occasion.
His jeans were ripped at both knees.
His cap was on backward.
Eight silver studs ran up the rim of his left ear, and he had counted them in the taxi to make sure none had fallen out.
His father had texted one line from the front door: "Lunch is formal. Someone is here to meet you."
Griffin had decided on the plane that formal could be anything he wanted it to be.
"Griffin," his mother, Delphine, said, in the voice she used when the caterers were late. "Boots."
"They're comfortable, Mom."
His father, Walter Oakes, stood by the fireplace with a lawyer and a folder.
An old woman with a cane sat in the armchair, sipping tea and watching Griffin without blinking.
By the window stood a woman in a gray suit, her hands folded in front of her.
She looked about thirty-three. Her hair was pinned flat and her shoes were spotless.
"This is Imogen Sutherland," his father said. "Your wife. And her grandmother, Winifred."
Griffin laughed.
Nobody laughed with him.
The lawyer opened the folder and turned it around.
Page fourteen was a marriage certificate. The signature on it was Griffin's.
"I signed that?"
"In March, two years ago," the lawyer said. "At the airport."
Griffin remembered the airport.
His father had pushed a stack of papers at him in the departures lounge and said they were travel insurance.
He had signed twenty-two pages with a pen that was nearly dry, because his flight was boarding.
"That was insurance," he said.
"It was both," his father said.
His mother leaned toward him and whispered, fast, "She runs Sutherland Corp. She irons her sheets. Please do not make this worse."
So that was the bride.
A woman who ironed her sheets, and a husband who had not eaten anything but gas station noodles in six weeks.
Griffin took a stick of gum from his pocket, unwrapped it, and chewed with his mouth open.
Imogen crossed the room.
She did not hurry. She picked a folded towel off the arm of the sofa, lifted his left boot with two fingers, and laid the towel underneath.
Then she did the same for the right one.
"The leather is dyed," she said. "It will come off on the cushion."
"I'll get you a new cushion," Griffin said, popping the gum.
"I'd rather you didn't."
She went back to the window.
Fine. Round two.
The maid called them to lunch, and the dining table had twelve places and one white linen cloth.
Griffin sat down and wiped both hands down the front of his hoodie, then dragged them across the tablecloth.
His mother shut her eyes.
Imogen took a small leather notebook and a gold pencil out of her jacket and wrote something down.
Griffin pulled the dented red enamel mug out of his duffel and set it on the linen.
It had been in his bag through eleven countries. The rim was chipped and the inside was stained brown.
The maid reached for it with a tray.
"Leave it," Imogen said, not looking up. "He's allowed one dirty thing in this house."
Round three.
Griffin climbed onto his chair and raised the mug over the roast.
"To my wife," he announced. "Whoever she is."
He wobbled.
Imogen set down her pencil, stood, and tapped her water glass with a fork.
The whole table went quiet.
"My husband has been home for ninety minutes," she said. "I would like the record to show his score."
She opened the notebook.
"Boots on the sofa, two points. Gum with his mouth open, one and a half. Wiping his hands on my linen, two. Standing on a chair at a formal lunch, three."
She looked up.
"That is eight and a half out of ten. Ten is the worst. He is improving."
Griffin got down off the chair.
"You're grading me?"
"Everyone in my life is graded, Mr. Oakes. It saves time."
His father cleared his throat.
"Sit. There's a page fifteen."
The lawyer turned another sheet. "The marriage must stand for sixty days under one roof. If it ends before then, your trust passes to your cousin Tobias."
Griffin stared at the sheet.
He did not want a wife. He did not want a roof. He wanted, very badly, his own money.
So the answer was simple.
He would be so disgusting that Imogen Sutherland filed for the divorce first.
"Sixty days," Imogen said, and shut the notebook. "I'll have the guest room aired."
"Make it the garage," Griffin said.
"The guest room has a better lock."
She did not smile. He had been sure that she would smile.
The old woman with the cane had finished her tea. She put a hand on his arm as the room broke up and the chairs scraped back.
"Don't take it so hard, dear," she said. "She picked you herself."
Griffin turned to her. "Picked me for what?"
"Grandmother," Imogen said from the doorway. "The car is waiting."
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