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)
“I’ll tell you what.” Here it comes. Let me take you to the best coffee shop in London. Brin’s version of come up and see my etchings. I love my little brother, so I hate myself—just a little—when I spoil his fun…
“Amelia,” I deliberately call across the space.
Brin’s darkly amused gaze swings my way, then back to Mimi again as he fakes the kind of shiver that might indicate someone just walked across his grave. It can be arranged, Brin. “That brought back a horrible memory.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Like being summoned by your dad for a dressing down.”
I don’t resist the evil smile that creeps across my face. If only you knew, Brin. You’d be one jealous fucker. I clear my throat and pull my head out of the gutter.
“I didn’t realize your working contract was part-time, Brin.” My tone drips with derision, even if the only person I should be disgusted with is myself. I’m not.
My brother pulls a face that is one hundred percent fuck you.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Amelia says, her body coming into my line of vision. She touches his arm lightly, and a moment later, she appears at the doorway, unaffected by my sullen expression. “Yes, Mr. Whittington?”
Well, the purr is new.
“Come in and close the door.”
She turns as she does so, giving me a stellar view of her round arse, and the bonus sight of my brother’s unhappy expression. It’s even less happy as I flip him the finger the moment before he disappears behind the wood.
Amelia—no idea why I full named her—clasps her hands behind her back as she takes a couple of steps closer. The afternoon sun falls over her curves, yet all I can see is her smile. A smile full of secrets. Full of knowing. The smile of a lover who seems to intuit just what you’re thinking. Does she know what she does to me? That she’s playing with fire? Hell, this is Mimi, I remind myself. She hasn’t a calculating bone in her body.
Meanwhile, my bone…er
“What have I told you about calling me Mr. Whittington?” My voice is a low, unhappy rumble.
“That it makes you want to look over your shoulder to see if your father is there.”
“Exactly.” I frown a little more just in case she’s not getting the picture.
“Well, no one ever calls me Amelia, either. But I get the sense we have similar reasons for using something different.”
“Meaning what?”
“That I have a hard time putting this Leif Whittington together with the one who hung out at my parents’ pool. And I guess you find it hard to think of me as anything but Connor’s little sister when you call me Mimi.”
I wish that were true because what I see when I look at her isn’t the gangly kid with braces who I barely remember. But it’s a good reminder of how I should be thinking. Of which head I should be thinking with. In an effort to return things to how they should be, I’ve tried to banish what happened in my apartment, but it’s no use. I’ve also tried being the hard-arsed boss, with the same kind of effect. Maybe I need to try harder to be a brother to her. Bring her into the family fold. Make her one of the flock.
As if I haven’t got enough looking after them.
“I’m the same person as I was back then.” I rub my hand over my jaw and watch as her gaze follows the motion before rising to mine.
“Not even! Before, you would’ve never barked and huffed, and never explained what I’d done wrong.”
“I don’t huff,” I retort. Huffily. “And you haven’t done anything wrong.” Because none of this is your fault.
“Back in the day, I could’ve made you coffee with mud, and you wouldn’t have complained. Now you won’t even let me make your coffee!”
“I have arms and legs. Hands, too.”
“Did Jody make you coffee?”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“I know she did. You act like I have cooties. You haven’t had one word of feedback for me, and I know I’m doing a helluva job covering for Jody. You even sent someone else to deal with your dry cleaning yesterday.” Despite the lack of accusation in her tone, she cocks her hip as she folds her arms across her chest, making a perfect cradle for her—
Stop.
“My dry cleaning?” I repeat as the words belatedly penetrate my thick skull. “I thought I was doing you a favor. The delivery was late, that’s all.”
“Yeah, but those little tasks? That’s what I’m here for.”
I doubt my idea of “little tasks” aligns with hers.
Lean over my desk.
Lift your skirt.
Loosen the buttons of your blouse.
Now, open your mouth like a good girl.
“I know what you’re here for,” I grate out. Jody’s swollen ankles. Crocs and maternity smocks. The dead brother trick no longer works.