Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Because we had an audience. And saying anything to him would only make the situation worse.
Later, I told myself.
Layla settled a hand on my shoulder and leaned in close. “Reagan, I need you to get Brantleigh off the sidewalk. Now.”
Right. Okay. That was something I could do. I snapped into work mode and nudged my way between Thatcher and his son, grabbing Brant by the arm, more gently this time. “Come back inside, Brant. It’s cold out here, and you don’t have a coat.”
Thatcher made a noise and stepped forward to intervene, but Layla blocked him bodily. “Thatcher, we’re supposed to be at the Investment Summit in five minutes. There’s nothing to be done here. Reagan will take Brantleigh inside and make sure he gets some coffee, and we’ll resolve everything when we get back.”
I didn’t hear Thatcher’s reply if he made one, but he allowed Layla to turn him and point him down the street.
“We’ll meet you at your parents’ house after the Summit,” Layla said. “I’ll take care of Thatcher.”
My stomach flipped and landed with a sick thud. “Right,” I said, though she’d already hurried away. Then I turned and shuffled Thatcher’s dick of a son back into the Tavern.
The warmth of the restaurant caused my throat to tickle, which made me glance fondly at the soothing mead I couldn’t allow myself to sample. I was on the clock. And my job right now was to protect Thatcher Pennington… even if it meant spending the next few hours with an insufferable, ungrateful asshole.
My brother and Flynn returned in time for the lunch rush, and while Cas and PJ caught them up on everything that had happened, I spent the next hour trying to sober Brant up in Flynn’s tiny office while trying not to think about how I’d finally shed my polite mask for good… only to jeopardize my relationship with the man I loved because I’d let my emotions get the best of me.
Brantleigh didn’t seem to notice my distraction, probably because he didn’t shut up. He quickly moved from ranting about his rich, stupid father to describing in uncomfortable detail the hot women Thatcher was able to attract simply because of his wealth.
“I mean, what girl wants to put up with someone who’s cold as ice? But they do,” Brantleigh assured me. “They all do. You shoulda seen this one chick he bagged on the Cape last summer. Fucking Christ, the body on that woman. And her lips. If he was into sharing, I would have done it with that one for her mouth alone.”
Hot bile inched up my throat at the thought of Thatcher fucking someone other than me. Of a woman’s mouth on his dick and his head thrown back in ecstasy.
“TMI,” I warned tiredly, knowing it wouldn’t stop him. “Besides, I thought you were gay.”
He waved his empty coffee mug through the air, nearly knocking it into Flynn’s laptop, which perched precariously on his cluttered desk. “That doesn’t mean I can’t ap-appp-appreciate a hot woman. You know what’s funny?”
I stared at him frostily.
“One time, I convinced Heather to show me her tits out by the pool. All natural, if you can believe it. And she shaved. Everywhere. I know ’cause I caught them in the outdoor shower once. Oops.” He dissolved into a fit of giggles, bending at the waist and laughing into his knees while his mug rolled to the floor.
I stared at the ceiling and tried not to vomit or murder him. Was this what Chris had been alluding to? If so, Brantleigh Pennington was a horrible human being, and he didn’t seem to want to change. What kind of person fucked around with his stepmother behind his father’s back? It made me hate Heather even more than I already did, which I hadn’t thought possible.
“Stop talking,” I growled. “You disgust me.”
Once he’d kept down a cup of coffee for half an hour and the Tavern was nearly empty again, I decided it was safe to take Brantleigh back to my parents’ house. Fortunately, his giggles and verbal bullshit had subsided to the point where he seemed ready to curl up and sleep, so it was easy enough to grab the keys to his rental car and drive him up the hill to my parents’ place. I considered giving him some Tylenol before I put him to bed in Thatcher’s room but decided I wasn’t that merciful. Brantleigh deserved the hangover he was about to have. He deserved a hell of a lot more than that.
I went back downstairs to wait for Thatcher’s return, and as I paced the living room, my headache from earlier came back with a vengeance, almost like I’d caught Brant’s hangover. The only saving grace was that my parents still weren’t home, so I didn’t have to hear whether there was any town gossip about my display or hear any smug recriminations about my total lack of control.