Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 106041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106041 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
"Jealous bastard." He flashes me a shit-eating grin, his gaze sliding toward the suit in my hands. "What the fuck is that?"
"Georgia sent it. Apparently, she thinks I'm playing Santa at the party tonight."
"You're serious?" He sits forward in his chair so fast his legs fall off the desk, thumping against the floor. The ball lands beside his chair with a soft thud. His dark eyes light up, a crack of laughter escaping his lips. "Oh, this is fucking great! I was planning to skip out early, but now I'm definitely staying for the whole shit show."
"I'm not playing Santa," I growl.
"Yeah, you are." He grins. "As soon as she smiles at you, you're going to cave like a sandcastle, bro. I can't wait to see this shit."
"I'm not playing Santa."
He's too busy laughing to take me seriously. If he doesn't breathe soon, he's going to die on the floor. I probably won't do CPR. If our mother were still alive, she'd understand.
"I hate you."
He guffaws again, pounding his fist on the desk.
I leave him to die alone, ducking out of his office in search of Georgia. Our new building is massive, but we use every inch of space. My mom built this company from the ground up, turning it into the industry icon it is today. She knew decades ago what so many others failed to see until recently: plus-size women deserve beautiful clothing too.
Since she died five years ago, Alaric and I have taken it to new heights. The new lingerie line is already sold out and it doesn't even drop until late January.
I take the stairs down to the design floor, confident that's where I'll find Georgia. She spends most of her time there, being fitted for one thing or another. Sure enough, I find her in the sewing room. Scraps of fabric are strewn from one side of the room to another, along with mannequins in every state of undress.
The room is organized chaos, everyone furiously sewing. Georgia's in the center of the room with Sariah Davenport, their heads together as they giggle about something Sariah is sketching out. As soon as I see Georgia, my pants grow tight, and my tie chokes me. That laugh. That impish smile. I'd kill to be the reason for both.
"What is this?" I ask, my voice booming across the room. I lift the suit high as everyone in the room looks up.
Georgia's gray eyes meet mine, her smile making my fucking knees weak. Her gaze drifts from me to the garment bag. "Oh!" She jumps out of her chair, her tits bouncing in her UCLA sweater as she hurries toward me. "Your suit is finished."
"I don't recall agreeing to play Santa tonight, little one," I growl.
Ten sets of prying eyes bounce between me and her like this is a soccer match and Abbott James, the beast of Edinburgh, has the ball. But no one else says a word.
"You should have thought about that before you hired a bank robber," she says. Two seconds later, she whisks the suit away, practically dancing in excitement to see it. "The one you hired is in jail."
"Since when?"
"Since he got caught trying to break into an ATM last night."
How does she know this? Better yet, why don't I know this?
"Why am I just hearing about this?"
"Alaric told you earlier," she says.
"He most certainly did not."
"He did," she insists. "He told me he did."
In Georgia's world, no one lies. It's not that she's ignorant because she's not. My princess is pulling straight A's at UCLA. She just sees the best in everyone, including my pain in the ass brother. He's a wily motherfucker, though. He knew she'd run with this. He was probably counting on it.
If he didn't already laugh himself to death, I'm killing him.
"Oh, look!" Georgia cries, whipping the suit out of the bag.
Instead of a ridiculous red coat and baggy red pants, it's a red tuxedo, complete with a red and green plaid vest and a stylish overcoat. The tie matches the vest. The only familiar parts are the hat and boots still in my hands.
"Something is wrong with it," I say, pointing out the obvious.
Georgia laughs at me.
"There is," I mutter.
"Haven't you heard?" She flashes me a bright smile. Hell, everything about her is bright and shining, from the golden threads in her hair to the warmth in her eyes to that fucking million-dollar smile.
"Heard what?"
"It's 2021. Santa got hot."
Fuck it. I'm torching this planet. It's the only rational thing to do at this point. Because I know damn well this little princess didn't insinuate that she thinks I'm hot in front of everyone.
Except she did.
Why does that make me feel bulletproof?
"I'm not dressing up as Santa, Georgia," I say, standing my ground.
Her mulish expression sets my teeth on edge. And makes me hard enough to hurt.