“Don’t stereotype farmers, darling,” Emma says as she places a hand on Spencer’s chest and flips her hair over her shoulder.
Convenient timing, her showing up right after Warren did.
Her cleavage looks less subtle than I remember it being when I first got here, and she’s fluttering her eyelashes at Warren. I think she’s trying to look sexy, but she’s overdoing it and from my point of view she looks more like she has something stuck in her eye.
Spencer grabs a handful of her ass and makes a revolting growling noise as he kisses the side of her neck.
Gross. I refrain from rolling my eyes and shift my weight to stand closer to Warren.
“I’m not a farmer,” Warren says. “Closest I come to farming is cutting hay on the ranch in the summer.”
Emma purses her lips in annoyance knowing that Warren had to correct her. I follow her eyes as she studies his hand on my hip, then up to where I’m leaning against him. Unable to help myself, I raise my eyebrows and give her a vapid smile.
“Who cares?” Spencer says with an eye roll.
This could easily turn into a pissing match, but Warren’s body language remains calm and indifferent. I try to do the same, but I’m still uncomfortable.
“Can you just act nice for once?” I plead while trying to ignore the sick feeling starting in my stomach.
“Why, so I don’t make you look bad? You’ve been making our family look bad for years. And this little party is fucking stupid anyway,” Spencer seethes. “Why you’d want to live or work in this dump of a town instead of in the city is beyond me. As soon as Emma agrees to leave and work for me, I won’t be back.”
My family’s definition ofmaking them look badis a lack of an Ivy League degree, a penthouse, and a position at a Fortune 500 company. My bad grades and suspension at boarding school or the public arrest probably didn’t help, either. But that doesn’t change the fact that their standards are impossibly high.
Westridge is small and looks a hell of a lot different from his rich lifestyle, but it’s far from a dump and I like living and working here. I don’t voice that defense though, because I’m not sure how to word it in a way that doesn’t remind him that I haven’t conformed to the family’s ideal image.
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand me,” is the best answer I can come up with.
“Well, you’re not exactly an open book Savannah,” Emma points out. Spencer nods in smug agreement with her.
Warren’s chest begins to rumble with light laughter, a contradiction to my brother’s tense attitude.
“Something funny?” Spencer asks with an accusing glare.
“It wouldn’t matter if she was an open book or not,” Warren says. “You’re still an emotionally illiterate ass who wouldn’t know how to treat your sister if it was spelled out for you in a large print manual.”
My brother releases his arm that was around Emma’s waist and aggressively steps up to Warren with fury in his eyes.
“What are you going to do? Punch me?” Warren laughs. “You’re pathetic, dude.”
He might,I think to myself.
Spencer thrives on chaos. Craves it, even. If there isn’t some sort of drama or conflict happening, he creates it. And I’m always in the line of fire.
My eyes scan the party still happening around us, hoping no one is intently listening or watching this play out. When my gaze locks on Mr. Grant narrowing his eyes in our direction, I swallow the lump in my throat and grip Warren’s shirt. My vision goes hazy and if this conversation keeps going in the direction that it is, I think I’m going to be sick.
At his side, Spencer clenches and releases his hand several times. The veins on his palm are visibly pulsating.
With a tight-lipped and red-painted smile, Emma steps forward and rests a hand on Warren’s forearm. “Maybe we should go get a drink and let them hash this out in private.”
“No thanks,” Warren replies without a glance in her direction.
With a huff, she whips her head in Spencer’s direction to get his attention, but it doesn’t work. He’s focused on Warren, red-faced and practically bouncing off the ground in anticipation. I wouldn’t be shocked if this came to blows, but luckily Warren still seems less bothered. In fact, he seems amused.
“Who ties your shoes?” Warren asks Spencer as he looks down at him.
To my surprise, Emma snickers at that jab, but I wince knowing it’s just going to piss him off more than he already is. I cover my mouth and sway on my feet as a familiar bout of nausea rises.
There’s no smart reply from my brother, so Warren keeps going.
