I roll my eyes while I move my head in something resembling a nod for him.
Then I have to stifle a laugh.
Nick Brandt, refusing a chance to talk about himself until he’s blue in the face? What gives?
Sure, he’s pretty fabulous and all, and he knows it. He also never knows when to shut up and spends half his time outside the office inserting his polished shoe halfway down his throat.
I feel sorry for Granny Beatrice and Ward.
“How far do you think we are from the airport?” Before I can answer, he taps his phone. “Never mind. Looks like twenty minutes or so. So, how are you liking the job so far? You started—what? Two weeks ago? You’re probably over the moon. Everybody loves Grandma. You know what my bro says about this place? 'If it’s not made by God, then it must be a Brandt.'”
Inwardly, I groan.
That slogan would be the height of suit-and-tie arrogance if it wasn’t true. Brandt Ideas really is that good at what they do. Beatrice Nightingale Brandt would be worshiped in sermons around the world for her designs, if she’d let the masses do it.
Sadly, with her grandsons, the apples fell too far from the tree and rolled in mud.
I love how I don’t have to open my mouth when he gets into his nonstop rambling. He’s already on the phone with someone, boasting loudly about how he’s going to need a stretcher for his Brazilian client tonight.
I nudge my hands together over the wheel, muttering a silent prayer that he doesn’t mean it literally.
“...what? Ward, go to hell. There’s a reason Grandma let me take this bull by the horns. With you, the dude would be asleep and heading back to Rio with another firm’s contract.” He pauses. “Like hell. Everybody loves my stories—just ask our buddy Halle here.”
He leans forward, tapping the back of my headrest.
Seriously.
Don’t let me get my hands on any sharp objects tonight, or I’m walking away with a pink slip in handcuffs.
Ignoring the mega-idiot in the back seat, I focus on the road, and level my breathing.
It’s not all bad.
Driving has always been my stress relief. I love making decent money doing what I do best. There’s a certain peace in every mile of traveled road, the same inner calm other people get from watching a rolling river or burning through a blistering workout.
After Ward hangs up on him, the conversation is all-Nick, all the time, all the way to O’Hare International. And when I say conversation, I mean monologue.
Every question he asks me, he auto-answers for himself.
We approach the airport, and I’m about to ask which lane I should be in. I open my mouth, and the second I do, he starts pointing.
“Go to international arrivals,” Nick says sharply. “We’re looking for Brazilian Airlines. His flight’s coming in straight from Rio. I know the nightclubs here can’t compete with Carnival there, but I’m going to blow his hair back with a good time. You ever been? I’m telling you, last time I went down there...wild times.”
Oh, no.
No, no, no, and also no.
Now he’s telling me about these triplet dancers he met with ginormous assets, who didn’t understand a word he said, but gave him the best body shots he’s ever had, with glasses balanced off their—
I swerve into the lane for commercial cars and shuttles, behind an airport bus, praying it saves me from the rest of this twisted fairy tale.
My phone buzzes from the passenger seat. I pick it up and tap it once.
“Hey, don’t text and drive,” he calls from the back with a laugh.
Probably the most intelligent words I’ve ever heard him say.
But we’re parked and the text is from Beatrice Brandt—the whole reason I’m currently trapped in this well-paid torture session.
Reese, hello. A quick word about tonight—Jorge Franca is a major partier, and so is Nick. Will you keep an eye on my grandson tonight, please? Don’t let him fall in over his head. It’s so easy when he gets carried away.
Yep. A tinge of guilt strikes.
For Beatrice Brandt, I’ll play chaperone and chauffeur for this cocky, intense man with more energy than my three-year-old niece and possibly worse decision-making skills.
I guess that means I might have to get out of the car at some point, but I doubt he’ll notice.
After a round or two of bottle service, he’ll probably be so lit he’ll still think I’m a dude.
But Beatrice Brandt offered me three times my old pay with Cadillac benefits. If anyone’s truly stuck with the Brandt boys’ antics, it’s her.
I just have to suffer with them a few times per week.
I’m getting off easy.
Setting my jaw tight, I nod to myself.
A job so good it finally feels like a real career has to be worth a nuisance or ten, right?
* * *