Vance POV
I peer into the standing mirror, uncuffing my sleeves and rolling them up.
A hardened frown knots my face. Still too formal. I'd hate to be deigned a stiff, not that I care about Kelsey's opinion of me. I blow out a heavy breath, unbuttoning the shirt with frustrated haste as I move back into the walk-in wardrobe. I toss it on the headless seat in the center, then I unbuckle my belt, ripping it out and placing it away. I scour the shelves for something casual. After a while, I change into a billowy short-sleeve shirt with matching loose-fitting pants. I switch out my Oxfords by Berluti for flip flops.
I leave my room and head downstairs, brought to a pause when I hear Landen's voice floating to the foyer. I follow it, trailing down the corridor, and his voice grows. His bedroom door is ajar, I nudge it open, leaning my shoulder against the frame.
"Doesn't matter," Landen says, on a call, only wearing dark-blue Nike joggers. "As long as it gets here before the weekend."
