I met Nolan Whitmore at a fund-raising gala I had no business attending.
I was working the event through a temp agency. He was the polished golden boy in a navy tuxedo, the kind of man who had been taught from birth how to shake hands, hold eye contact, and make women feel as though they were the only people in the room. He told me I had the kindest eyes he’d ever seen. I was tired, broke, and foolish enough to believe that meant something.
We dated for a year. Patricia fought it from the beginning.
“She’s sweet,” she told Nolan once, not realizing I could hear her from the study, “but sweet doesn’t mean suitable.”
Suitable.
Continue on the next page:
