Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 98021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
I am a fucking asshole sometimes.
"I think I'm going to throw up." She holds her stomach. "Is there food here? That was too much tea on an empty stomach."
"In the kitchen, yeah—"
Someone rounds the corner. Steps into the lobby of the office.
My oldest brother, Simon. He stares at us, picking us apart. Picking me apart.
I motion to him. "Get out while there's still time."
"He's not that bad."
"He's worse." I check my watch. "I'll send a car for your appointment."
"My appointment?"
"At the department store."
"Is that really—"
"Do you want free clothes or not?"
"Good point." She looks to me. "Are you okay?"
"No. Simon's about to give me shit." I motion go. "You've got twenty seconds until you're screwed."
"How will I—"
"Take the stairs."
She nods right. "And we're convincing him too?"
"Yeah."
"So I guess this is, uh…" She looks at me awkwardly for a second, then she throws her arms around me.
I pull her closer reflexively. She's warm and soft and safe. It's strange.
A feeling I've never had before.
Not with a woman.
Not with anyone.
"Shit, we look so awkward. You're right." She presses her lips to my cheek. "We have to practice. Good luck." She releases me. Nods goodbye to Simon on her way out.
He stands there, in his fancy designer suit, staring at me the way he always does. What have you done now, Liam?
But I don't care the way I usually do.
I'm too tuned to Briar.
"Nice to see you too." I stretch my arms over my head. Let out a yawn. I didn't sleep for shit last night. How could I when the Preston Charles is dying neon sign kept flashing in my head?
"What are you doing here?"
I motion to my desk.
"You fucked your assistant on your desk?"
"If I did, do you really think I'd let it go unsaid?"
He nods probably not. "What are you doing here?"
"Work."
"It's Saturday."
"You're here."
Yeah, I don't have an argument. Only I'm not in the mood for your attitude. "Do you want something?"
"To say hello before I go to my office."
Right. I'm being an asshole. But he's always an asshole. So we're even. "Hey."
He scans the space suspiciously. Notes the raised blinds, the clear desk, the quiet computer. "What was Briar doing here?"
"She works with me."
"Her lipstick is on your cheek."
"It is." There's a smart way to play this. It's not telling him we're engaged.
Or even admitting we're dating.
He wants to uncover the truth himself. It's an obsession of his.
And he thinks I'm an arrogant playboy.
He's already judging me for fucking Briar. I haven't. I even told him that.
Not that he believes me. If anything, he's more convinced when I denied it.
A real lose-lose situation under normal circumstances. Or it would be, if I gave a fuck about Simon's opinion.
Don't get me wrong. I love my brother. I'd do anything for him.
But the man is a bitter asshole.
His take on relationships? Not worth a second thought.
And with this wedding—
Well, it's not hard to guess why he's in an extra shitty mood.
"It's a new thing I'm trying." I turn to show off the hue. "What do you think? Is red my color?"
"That's Bordeaux. And no."
"Harsh."
He doesn't laugh. "It's too dark for your complexion."
"What should I wear?"
"Mauve."
"Where did you learn this?"
"I live with a teenage girl." Our half-sister. Long story.
"Be honest. You let her give you makeovers."
"Are you volunteering to take my place?"
"Sure. Bring her to dinner. We're meeting Adam and Danielle tonight."
His blue eyes—the same shade as Adam's and Dad's—stay suspicious.
"It's a thing where you sit and eat with people you like. Sometimes there's wine."
"You drink wine?"
"Sometimes there's a Sex on the Beach."
"A Fuzzy Navel?"
"Exactly."
He stands there, in the doorframe, expert poker face. Or maybe that's his normal face. I can't tell anymore.
"I'm going to get to work. But I'll text you those details. If you decide you want to join the human race."
He gives me another once-over. "Don't fuck the help."
"We're colleagues."
He shakes his head Liam, what a disappointment, turns, leaves.
I wait until he's in his office—thankfully at the opposite corner of the building—then I close the door, shut the blinds, take to the old leather couch.
I don't expect to fall asleep, but I do.
There's no rest. Only memories of my late brother, Bash. My dad's funeral. Preston saying you're like a son to me again and again.
I wake sweaty and tired. Rush home. Shower. Change. Take a cab to the department store.
I'm late. But Briar doesn't have an eye on the time. She's standing in the middle of the enormous dressing room, in a long silver gown and heels, her attention on her reflection.
She's a vision, already. The silver brings out the luster of her purple hair and the deep red of her lips.
Bordeaux.
I need to drink it immediately.
I hate wine, but I need to drink it immediately.
I need to drink every fucking ounce of her.
"Hey." I slip my hands into my pockets. It's strange. I don't get nervous. Not when it comes to women.