Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
It's a softer shade. A warm indigo.
Not that I'm thinking about Laurel's room.
Laurel's bed.
The things I did to Laurel in her bed.
The low, deep sound of her groan. It was music. Some of the best I've ever heard.
It's too hot.
What sort of place stays hot all damn night? That's unnatural.
Laurel taps a code into the electronic lock and leads me through the white and gold lobby to the elevator bank.
The place looks like it belongs on Sex and the City. It's got that perfect mix of old-money New York class and up-and-coming energy. Somehow, it's understated and vibrant at the same time.
It's different than where Laurel lives. It's a fucking world away from where I grew up, in a dilapidated house, in a shitty neighborhood.
The elevator arrives with a ding. She steps inside. I step after her.
She presses the button, turns to the door, checks her hair in the reflection of the shiny silver doors.
The elevator rises.
Laurel does what she always does when we're alone. She pretends she doesn't care I'm here.
She runs her hands through her long, dark hair. She applies another coat of lipstick. She smooths her purple sundress. She raises a foot and rolls her ankles.
"You'd last longer in shorter shoes," I say.
"These are short." She glances at the three-inch platform. "And they're wedges. They're comfortable. But thanks for the life advice." She flips her hair over her shoulder theatrically.
"We can play nice, you know."
"Can we? It doesn't seem like it." She's just as dramatic about raising her other foot, rolling her other ankle in measured circles. "It seems like you feel the need to comment on every one of my choices."
"Your dad asked me to keep an eye on you," he says.
"Yes, he did." She shoots me that same serene smile. The one that says fuck you, I don't care what you think. "He did not ask me if I needed a babysitter."
"Well yeah, not after what happened with—"
She cuts me off before I can remind her of the gory details. "I'm a grown woman."
Yes, she's a grown woman who had a public meltdown when she caught her ex with another woman.
I don't blame her for cussing him out.
But then, I can't blame the people who watched the viral TikTok either. Laurel is entertaining when she's mad.
She's sexy as sin when she's mad, actually.
Like right now, the way she's staring daggers at me—
My head screams don't do it; she hates you.
But my dick? My dick doesn't give a fuck about that. It only cares about the feel of those lush red lips—
She was—
We were—
Nope. Not a productive area of thought.
"If I don't comment on your shoes?" I offer an olive branch. I'm the one who needs this job, after all.
Her dad is always going to be her dad.
If I fuck this up, he won't be my boss for long.
The door arrives. The elevator doors slide open.
Laurel motions after you. "I'll think about it."
"If I compliment your shoes?"
"I'm waiting." She motions go ahead, but I'm not sure if she means shut the fuck up and walk to my brother's apartment or let's hear the compliment.
So I do both. I roll my suitcase into the hallway, and I say, "You look hot in them."
"That's about as good a compliment as I can expect from a man. Thanks." She smiles. This time, it's half fuck off, half you're all right. Then she shakes it off and charges forward.
Straight to her brother's apartment. The one at the end of the hall.
He pulls the door open before she knocks.
She drops her suitcase and her glare and throws her arms around him. "I missed you, Jackie." She squeezes him like he's her favorite teddy bear.
All of a sudden, she's not a princess who hates me. She's a kid who craves her older brother's protection.
"Jackie? You haven't called me that in years." He hugs her back. "I missed you too." He releases her. "How was your flight?"
"Good. Except for my companion," she says.
He whispers something in her ear.
She laughs. "In your dreams. Now, where's my favorite sister-in-law." She spots Jackson's wife, Daphne, inside and runs into the apartment to greet her.
Which leaves me alone with her protective older brother.
For some reason, he's still wearing a suit. An expensive charcoal with a grey tie. It brings out his green eyes. The man looks so much like his dad, it's scary.
Actually, he looks like his dad, if his dad went into the FBI instead of joining a band, getting a lot of tattoos, and eventually retiring to a career as a record executive. (Which is absolutely Mr. Steele's idea of retirement. He "only" works forty hours a week now, and he "only" travels two weeks a quarter).
Does FBI big brother in training know what happened a decade ago? That's not the only reason why she hates me, but it's a big one, and it's the kind of thing that convinces older brothers to kick asses.