I squeeze Lincoln’s thigh under the table. He leans in and whispers, “If I survive tonight without committing a crime, it’ll be a miracle.”

I turn my head until my lips are at his ear. “As long as it’s not an indecent exposure charge, we can get you off.”

He chuckles and says quietly, “Give me a few hours and I’ll be getting off all right.”

Gwendolyn smiles tightly, although that’s pretty much the only way she can smile. “What are you two whispering about?”

“Nothing I care to share,” Lincoln says with a smile.

I kick him in the shin. “I was telling Lincoln about the time my dad took me to my first gala event like this. My mother couldn’t go, so I attended instead. I was only fourteen, and I felt like a total princess.”

“Isn’t that sweet?” Gwendolyn continues to smile. “Unfortunately, Lincoln didn’t have much of an opportunity to attend these kinds of events in his youth. He was very focused on his studies from a young age. Penelope thought a private boarding school would be best for him, so he would be challenged. At least now you’re doing something of value with all of that education, isn’t that right, Lincoln?”

“I was doing something of value before I came back to New York,” Lincoln says coldly.

“I’ve been doing something of value for years, but apparently it’s not enough,” Armstrong gripes.

“Sticking your dick in everything that moves is not something of value,” Lincoln snaps.

“Lincoln!” Gwendolyn looks like her eyeballs are about to pop out of her head and roll onto her bread plate.

“Do I need to sit between the two of you?” I cut in.

“No!” Lincoln and Armstrong say at the same time.

I grace them with my don’t-push-me smile. “Then let’s practice what we learned in kindergarten. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

The bickering stops, thankfully, since a woman approaches the table. And suddenly I know why the name is familiar. She’s the vetted interior designer from the profiles Gwendolyn provided for Lincoln.

She’s wearing a very pretty, formfitting green dress that matches her eyes and complements her hair. “Hi.” She waves at the table. “It looks like I’m supposed to be sitting at this table tonight. I hope that’s okay.” She eyes the empty seat between Lincoln and Armstrong.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lincoln mumbles so only I can hear.

She rounds the table. “Oh yes! Here I am. Jordan.” She has a bubbly personality, and I’m sure she’s quite nice, but considering it’s obvious Gwendolyn took matters into her own hands where Lincoln’s date is concerned, I’ve decided I hate her.

Lincoln and Armstrong both push back their chairs and stand. Armstrong, being the lecherous vulture he is, is quicker, which for once doesn’t bother me in the least. If Gwendolyn is going to pull this kind of thing, she can deal with her youngest son and his smarminess. I have more important issues to manage tonight. Like this beast called jealousy.

“Jordan, your dress is exquisite, as are you. Armstrong Moorehead, Junior CEO at Moorehead Media. It’s a pleasure.” Armstrong kisses the back of her hand, and I suppress a shudder and a snarky comment about his new, self-imposed title.

Jordan looks taken aback, her gaze flitting to Gwendolyn, who appears unimpressed, possibly because her plan isn’t working the way she expected.

Once she’s seated, Armstrong does the honors of introducing Jordan to the table. She seems to perk up when Armstrong grudgingly introduces Lincoln. He’s polite, but not overly friendly, and Armstrong quickly dominates her attention.

When he finds out she used to be a college cheerleader, he turns into his smarmy, disgusting self. “That must mean you’re flexible. Did you travel with the team often?”

Jordan falls right into it. “Oh yes! To both. I still practice yoga at least five times a week, and I can do the splits. We used to travel to state championships all the time. Did you play football in college?”

While Armstrong butters up his next victim, Lincoln spends a good part of dinner whispering things in my ear. I elbow him in the side, intent on getting him to stop because he’s drawing his mother’s attention with how focused he is on me.

Once dinner has been served and cleared—it was delicious and horrifyingly expensive, I’m sure—speeches begin. Lincoln is the first to take the stage, which is both a blessing and a curse because there’s no buffer before him.

The MC takes the podium, and Lincoln turns to me with a ridiculous grin. “Do I have anything in my teeth?”

I bite back a giggle so I don’t interrupt the speaker. “Nothing in your teeth.” I smooth out his lapels and adjust his tie, but avoid the compulsion to touch his hair, aware Gwendolyn is watching. “You’ll be fabulous. You know this inside and out. Five minutes, then you can relax.”