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)
“He’s taking Mimi out tonight, the bastard.”
“What?” Something pinches between my shoulder blades, forcing me to sit straight.
“You know why, don’t you?” Picking up his beer, he tips the base my way. “It’s because he heard I was taking her out to lunch on Monday.”
“You were what?”
“I brought her coffee and offered to take her to lunch. Speaking of which, you know,” he adds, shifting his weight to his left leg, “it’s not right, making her work through her lunch hour. A girl’s got to eat.”
“I didn’t—” Fuck it. What’s the point in arguing when there are more important matters at hand. “I thought they weren’t going out until next week.” That’s what Mimi said, hadn’t she? Something hard and cold settles in my belly, and I begin to wish I hadn’t been such an avoiding prick and called her after yesterday. She probably thinks the worst of me, feeling her up like that, then ditching her to make her own way home. This family sometimes…
I realize Brin is still talking.
“I told him, you’re just jealous because she smiles at me.”
“She smiles at everyone,” I mutter. Sunshine is second nature to her, but what neither of my brothers is conscious of is that she also burns in my arms hotter than the sun.
“Yeah, but she smiles at me more.”
And she tells me she’s curious. That she enjoyed my direction. That she wants to know more. She playfully suggests she takes me shopping and accuses me playfully of being everything from a grump to a voyeur. I see so much more of her than they do, and I’m not just thinking about her arse in that skirt.
But that doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. I have to let this go. El is nearer her age, and he’s fun. If you have a thing for gormless idiots, I suppose. Hell, Brin’s even closer to her age. Maybe they’d be better for her.
“Anyway, he only brought the date forward because he wanted to get in before me.”
“In?” I sort of growl, the connotation making my blood boil.
“Yeah, you know. In with a chance.” He makes a rough gesture with his fist, the kind that pisses me right off.
“If either of you lay a finger on her…” I mutter, rapidly changing my stance. This pair is unworthy of her attention, let alone her kisses. Or more.
“Come on, bro. You can’t blame us. Mimi’s fucking gorgeous—she’s banging!”
“Urgh! Can you actually hear yourself?” We both turn to the sound of Primrose’s disgust. “That’s an actual human person you’re talking about!”
“Yeah, a gorgeous human. Anyway, what are you griping about? Banging is a compliment!”
“You’re a sexist pig!” Prim launches a pillow at him before turning back to the TV.
“Calm down, Frieda!” Brin says with a stuttering laugh. “I’m a feminist.”
“Yeah, right. I have an even funnier joke. A male feminist walks into a bar. Because the bar was just that low.” Folding her arms, she swings around with an audible huff.
“What’s up with her?”
“She has a point. Not only is Mimi an actual human person,” I murmur, “but she’s also my PA.”
“That sounds like a you problem, brother dearest. And a reason for you not to dip your wick.” Brin pokes me lightly in the shoulder. “I’m barely ever in the office.”
That’s a discussion for some other time. “She’s also my best friend’s little sister.”
“Again with the you problem. I never knew the bloke, so what do I care? He’s dead now, anyway.”
“I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.”
“Well, what’s he gonna do about it? Haunt me?”
“Have some fucking respect.” I rake my hand through my hair because what I want to do is slap him across the back of the head.
Unaware of my simmering temper, Brin drains his beer then sniffs, running the back of his hand under his nose. “Anyway, her brother would be rattling his chains at the bottom of El’s bed, not mine because he’s the one who’ll probably get into her knickers tonight.”
The fuck he will.
13
MIMI
“You’ve barely touched your champagne.”
“I’m not really much of a drinker,” I say for the third time tonight, the first time being at the restaurant when El tried to top up my glass. Now we’re in the club of the moment after a delicious (and very expensive-looking) dinner. The kind of expensive with a menu that doesn’t include prices.
“But it’s vintage,” El persists.
“I’d rather have a soda,” I murmur as his attention turns to his own glass.
I’m pretty sure El is just trying to be hospitable, not get me drunk. He’s been a gentleman the whole night. He’s opened doors for me, walked closest to the curb, and insisted on picking up the check, which I appreciated but didn’t like a whole lot. Even if going Dutch meant selling a kidney on the organ market. But I only agreed to come out with him tonight as friends, and El had pretty much stuck to that script. So far, at least.