Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75457 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75457 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
We never ran into any trouble. In fact, most of the time, we hiked around the park without incident. Only once did we cross paths with a guy who hit us up for money. He was down on his luck, so Kalon pulled the ten dollar bill he had out of his pocket and handed it to the guy.
It was the first time I witnessed my best friend’s generosity. I saw it again tonight when he paid for our dinner. I was tempted to follow his lead and cover Sinclair and Arietta’s entire meal, but I opted to pay for their dessert instead.
I know Sin. She’d feel indebted to me if I went all out, but treating them to the crème brûlée was meant as a small peace offering. We may never see eye to eye on what happened between us two years ago, but I want to get through the next month without being at each other’s throats all the time.
I round the corner headed toward Denia’s building when my phone chimes in my pocket.
I tug it out and drop my gaze to the screen.
A soft curse falls from my lips when I spot my brother’s name.
Holden: I expect you at the office at 8AM sharp tomorrow. Confirm you got this.
I chuckle as I type out a quick response to him.
Jameson: Confirmed, but I start work at 9AM.
I doubt like hell I need an extra hour at home in the morning since I’m usually up at the crack of dawn, but if there is ever an opportunity to grate on my brother’s last nerve, I’ll jump on it.
As expected, he responds immediately.
Holden: 8AM. I have a meeting at 9 and we need to go over something before that.
Not wanting to lose this battle to him, I hold my ground.
Jameson: We’ll go over it after your meeting. Confirm you understand.
The three dots indicating he’s typing a response bounce on the screen before they disappear. They start again immediately, but within seconds, they’re gone. It seems that my brother is at a loss for words.
With a laugh, I pocket my phone.
I won this round, but we’re just getting started. The year ahead is shaping up to be the longest of my life.
“You can’t fix anything with crème brûlée,” Sinclair tosses those words at me as soon as I enter the penthouse. “Why did you do that?”
Setting my keys on the table in the foyer, I glance to where she’s standing near a couch in the living room.
The shoes she was wearing are at my feet, toppled over on their sides. It’s a typical Sinclair move. She always kicks off her shoes and walks away, never considering that the person behind her might trip over them.
It happened to me during our senior year of high school when she invited me to her parents’ house after school.
It was the first day she wore a certain pair of faded, ripped jeans. It was also the first day I noticed how perfectly round her ass was. I was transfixed, so when we walked into the foyer of her apartment, I tripped over the boots she had just kicked off.
I flew forward, landing on my elbow on the marble floor.
I needed five stitches.
The only positive from the day is that we bypassed the hours-long wait in the Emergency Room. Sinclair took me to see her cousin at the hospital. Dr. Gaines Morgan stitched me up and told me to keep my eyes focused on where I was walking.
I’m pretty sure he knew why I tripped and fell since he patted me on the back of the head when he caught me staring at Sinclair’s ass in the empty exam room he ushered us into.
“Because you like crème brûlée?” I offer as my reason for sending the dessert to her table.
Her hands drop to her hips. “So?”
I mimic her movements and place my hands on my hips. “So what, Sin?”
Exasperation escapes her in the form of a heavy sigh. “Jameson, you didn’t need to do that. It changes nothing between us.”
I step toward her. “I wanted to do that. I know you like crème brûlée, so I ordered one for you. How did it compare to the ones we used to get at Sweet Bluebells?”
The mention of the bakery on the Upper West Side that we often frequented before I left town brings a soft smile to her lips.
“It was good, but nothing like the one at Bluebells,” she admits.
“I’m not surprised,” I say. “I’ve never found one that compared to theirs.”
She keeps her gaze trained on me as I slide my suit jacket from my shoulders. “You’ve had crème brûlée since you left New York?”
“Sure.” I nod. “There was a pretty good one in Scotland. The one I tried in Australia was missing something. There’s a restaurant near my condo in Santa Fe that makes a decent one, but I don’t indulge often.”