Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
As his phone had begun to buzz, we’d disentangled, and he’d slipped it from his back pocket. The illuminated screen just seemed to etch resignation into his face. He’d answered the call, stepping from the supply closet and leaving me inside to compose myself. Maybe he realized I needed the shelves behind me a little longer because they were the only thing holding me up, the residual energy of my almost-orgasm had sapped the strength right out of my legs. My chest heaved like I’d been running, and my thoughts were nothing but tattered remains. Initially, when I heard the echo of a woman’s voice from his phone, I’d wanted to cry. I felt about three inches tall. Another woman minutes after kissing me, after saying he couldn’t wait to taste me. The woman sounded hysterical, and for the briefest of moments, I wondered if it had something to do with me. And the closet. But then Whit had said Lavender’s name, and I realized I’d gotten it all wrong.
“What are you still doing in here?” He’d appeared in the doorway, phone still in hand.
“I didn’t want to pry.”
“Come on out.” He’d held out his hand, his tone resigned. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, pulling me against him. “Lavender is drunk and…” He sighed and dropped his forehead to my crown. “I have to go and sort it out.”
And that had been that.
No talk of what just happened. No promises of later. But at least he didn’t apologize. And he’d made sure I wouldn’t be molested on my way home.
“Yeah, I suppose.” El lifts his champagne flute to his lips. “It’s a tough gig but someone’s got to do it.”
“Being the eldest brother?”
“Nah, being Mr. Rich and Successful. Men want to be him.” He sighs. “Women want to be with him.”
“I’m sure you’re no slouch.” My gaze flicks over him. El is one good-looking man. Fair-haired and tan, he’s probably fun to be around. When you’re in the right mood. His suit is well-tailored, and his personality seems pretty uncomplicated.
I bet he wouldn’t leave me in a supply closet, I think to myself. It’s not a very complimentary assessment. For him, at least. Maybe I’m not wired right for casual relationships because a man who steps up to fill his father’s shoes in his siblings’ lives, a man who puts his loved ones first, is the stuff of dreams. If not fantasies. He’s spent the eight years fathering his siblings, which I guess must be a little like herding cats, thanks to the sheer number. No wonder he likes people to do as they’re told.
I’d like to volunteer as tribute, Daddy!
Not wired right for casual, my mind repeats. In truth, I’m not wired right at all.
“Well, you are sitting here with me and not him.” I come back to the conversation, turned off by Brin’s edge of smugness.
“As friends,” I remind him. “I just moved here. I’m not interested in relationships.”
“Not all relationships have to be serious, Mimi. Hooking his ankle to his knee, he spreads his arms along the back of the low sofa. I guess that’s what you’d call a nonverbal invitation. And the look he sends me speaks volumes. But then he jerks forward in his seat, his foot dropping to the floor. “What the fuck?” he mutters quietly. “Speak of the devil, and the fucker will appear.”
“What?” I turn my head over my shoulder, following the direction of his gaze. He can’t mean—
I inhale a tiny, sharp breath. Is that Whit coming out of the crowd? Dark hair gleams under a flash of light as security steps aside to let him pass. My stomach swoops because, oh my God, it is Whit. A form-fitting dark suit and shirt, his jaw covered in equally dark stubble. As he makes his way toward us, everything inside me begins to flutter. He is so, so infinitely gorgeous, like he just stepped from the set of a fancy cologne commercial. Debonair top notes, base notes of something forbidden and sinfully sexy. Hot. So hot. And the way he’s looking at me? Sets those flutters to pulse. But my excitement is short-lived as I realize this commercial is a couples shoot, and the redhead on his arm is so beautiful.
“What are you doing here?” El frowns as the couple wing their way around the table, the gorgeous redhead’s arms stretching out, pre hug. Or maybe not as one of her hands curls around his shoulders, the other a poked finger between his brows.
“I could almost sit on that,” she says with a laugh.
Ohh. Do the brothers, like, share? That was kind of familiar and maybe a little—
“Not the size of your arse,” El swipes her hand away as he steps back. “You’d smother me.
The redhead’s eyes tighten at the corners. “Tempting,” she retorts. “You were obviously wrong, Whit. Of course he’s pleased to see us.” She glances back at him, and I find myself doing the same. With a start, I realize he’s looking at me. No, he’s not looking at me. He’s drinking me in, and the whole thing feels like a prelude suddenly.