Friends to Lovers by Christi Barth Read Free Book Online Page A

Ben became, this project needed to be finished. And it needed his full concentration to be not just finished, but perfect. He had twelve separate attempts at a personal plea for Cinderella to step forward. A carefully worded ad for three papers, different-length notices to fit all forms of social media, and a flyer. So far, none of them had the right tone. Or a way to make come kiss me again sound anything more than skeezy.
    “What’s this?” Ben scanned the sheaf of papers Gib had spent much of the day actively avoiding.
    Gib sighed. He’d have better luck ignoring a squalling toddler kicking the back of his seat on a transcontinental flight. “I don’t come to your office and mess up your desk.”
    “My desk is my couch. One of the perks of working from home. But you’re welcome to fly out with me to RealTV headquarters next week and shuffle around the DVDs in our video library.”
    “Thanks.”
    Ben continued to paw through the stack of printouts. “Organic alfalfa farming? Since when do you care about alfalfa?”
    Funny. After skimming all twelve articles last night, Gib still knew only one thing about the topic. “Believe me when I say that I truly do not care one iota about alfalfa. And I’m quite convinced the word organic is a way to charge someone twice as much because you were too cheap to fertilize properly and spray for bugs.”
    “So what’s with the articles?”
    To generally annoy the crap out of him? To ruthlessly exhume his carefully buried guilt over leaving England? “My caretaker sent them to me. Hickson’s constantly trying to keep me involved with the operation. He wants to make some rather pricey changes. Becoming an all-organic operation carries a hefty enough price tag that he requires my buy-in.”
    “You have a caretaker?” Ben dropped the papers. His gaze skewered Gib faster than a puppy distracted with a new chew toy. “Does this have to do with that mysterious royal title of yours I just found out about?”
    “I’m a member of the nobility. Not a royal.” And he thanked God every day for that distinction. “Not unless seventy-five other people in the line of succession drop dead first.”‘
    “It still fascinates me.” Ben pushed to his feet and executed a sloppy bow. “The Honourable Viscount Moore. Do you have a castle?”
    Why were Americans so gobsmacked by titles? Gib enjoyed using that peculiarity to his advantage with long-legged brunettes. But from his friends, this line of questioning became tiresome and borderline embarrassing all too quickly.
    “The castle belongs to my father, the Earl of Ashburnham. It’s always cold, and doesn’t have satellite television.”
    “Boo hoo. The castle can’t rock a single movie channel? Hard life, man,” Ben mocked.
    Gib knew how to wring out some sympathy. “None of the sports channels, either.”
    “Now that’s a deal breaker.” Ben sat back down, topping off his hoodie-and-sweats ensemble with a look of outrage.
    “Which is why I stay far away.” Absolutely true. Of course, the lack of cable channels ranked about eight hundredth place below the more substantial reasons why he eschewed the family holdings. But Gib saw no reason to air all his dirty knickers.
    “So how do you explain the alfalfa?”
    As an unending punishment inherited from his mother’s side of the family? “My father is busy with the Ashburnham castle holdings. So as his heir, I manage my own separate, smaller estate. Or rather, I pay a caretaker to do it for me.”
    “You really are the king of delegating. But no castle on your land?”
    “Merely a manor house.” He held up a hand, anticipating Ben’s next question. “Fully wired for sound and cable, which I’m sure my staff appreciates. The estate primarily deals in alfalfa, sheep and a few other odds and ends. As the revenue from it helps keep me in my hand-tailored suits, I try to pay it minimal attention once a quarter. Now, may we please move on to a more interesting topic? Say,