Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) Read Online Free

cell, then directs me, “Go on. I’ll bring the cake and catch up with you when he arrives.”
    “Okay,” I say but add, jutting my chin toward the side entrance, “Use the basement door.”
    “Got it!” Bobbling her head, Brooke does a hands-free fluff of her pixie hairdo. Seamlessly, she resumes giving the hunk directions.
    We’re parked in front of my and Spencer’s townhouse with the makings of a celebratory dinner. My fiancé’s twenty-eighth birthday combined with him making junior partner in his family’s architectural firm. He thinks we’re meeting downtown to spend the evening with my grandfather. A customary birthday dinner celebrated at an old money—code for boring—business club. Stifling tradition can wait, and I’d pushed it off until tomorrow night.
    I’m dying to see Spence’s face when I holler, “Surprise!”
    I traipse down the slope of the side driveway of the two-story three-bedroom we bought together. We swung it using money from my trust fund for the down payment. I haven’t officially moved in, saving my grandmother from a nervous breakdown.
    Leaning against the wall, I maneuver the bags into the crook of my arm while slipping my key into the lock of the basement side door. It’s well-oiled and has that snick of expensive hardware. An upgrade—one of many—Spence and I debate about. I’m standing in the shadow from the neighboring townhouse, but within the paved parking, and I get the distinct impression of being watched. I turn, using my shoulder to push open the door and notice the curious stare of Nina, our neighbor to the south. I nod and smile. She’s out on her patio grilling and waves.
    Crap, I don’t want to blow my cover or the ‘surprise’ I’ve planned, and pray she doesn’t yodel out a greeting. The townhouses are situated relatively close together, modeled on a modern brownstone, and reside in Jamaica Plains. The highest elevation in Boston, it was coined as the cute part of the city. A hipster neighborhood with a pond, a community garden and matches the beard and offbeat dry humor Spencer sports. I left it up to him where we’d live since he puts up with our Sunday and summer jaunts down to the cape for Gran and Pop time. They practically raised me or as they allege, civilized me into a refined young woman . A bit of a stretch, but whatever. If it makes their day, more power to ‘em.
    To say my grandparents are overbearing is being polite. I shouldn’t complain. They’ve always been there for me. Giving Spencer and me a loan against my trust fund as well as bankrolling our upcoming nuptials. They squawked about the location of this place. But not to the extent they could’ve, seeming to understand that a daily commute from the cape wasn’t prudent for Spencer or me given we don’t have a private helicopter like my cousin who resides in downtown Boston in a swanky penthouse part-time.
    After subjecting this place to a white-glove inspection, my grandmother gave her approval. In days, her bank prepared the closing documents. When I say Gran’s bank, I’m talking PanCorp and my grandparents sit on the board. Pop semi-retired as CEO two years ago due to a valve issue with his heart. Not that it quashed them from overseeing their Wall Street dominion. They still fly back and forth between Manhattan and Boston as if it’s nothing.
    Our place might not be an estate, but each townhouse has an idyllic covered porch, and some like ours have the proverbial porch swing. Something I never enjoyed as a kid. My mom’s bohemian lifestyle knows no bounds when it comes to condo digs with rooftop access—hers and those of her ‘friends.’ Recently divorced, extricating herself from husband number six—although she claims he’s number five since she remarried an ex twice somewhere along the way. I’ve liked all of my mom’s husbands, especially Martin. Or as Mom refers to him: Number Two . He adopted me when I was six months old and so far, his and mom’s