Playboy Prince

For a moment, it's all I see.

Briar's purple hair in my hands.

Her red lips on mine.

Her soft body pressed against me.

Her groan filling the space.

"Mr. Pierce." A knock on the door interrupts. That's her voice. But what the fuck is she doing calling me Mr. Pierce?

Bri hasn't called me Mr. Pierce in months.

Either I somehow transported to the land of politically incorrect sexual fantasies—aren't they all—or I fucked up worse than I thought.

"You can see he's not in great shape," she says.

"I can," a deep voice replies.

One I know well. Difficult to read with that light hint of judgment.

My oldest brother.

I force my eyes open.

And there she is, Briar standing at the door to my office, in a hot as fuck outfit. A pencil skirt and a button up blouse.

She's wearing her usual lipstick. Her hair is in that neat line.

But she's wearing pumps instead of boots.

Did Bree buy those for her? Or are they something Bri actually owns?

A pencil skirt and pumps.

What the fuck is happening?

"Do we have a meeting today?" I ask.

No one answers.

"Briar. Do we have a meeting today?" I ask.

"We have a meeting every Monday, sir." Intention drips into her voice. Somehow she packs I'm calling you sir because you fucked shit up and I'm pissed into the word.

Or I'm imagining shit.

Briar calling me sir.

What the fuck?

If this is the land of fucked-up sexual fantasies, I'm at some newer, deeper, more depraved level.

And the price I pay is my brother's presence.

If that's not fucked up, I don't know what is.

"The meeting is in twenty minutes. Do you need anything first?" she asks.

"He's fine," Simon says again. "There will be coffee at the meeting. Thank you, Ms. West."

Her eyes meet mine. They ask for something, something I'm desperate to give her.

But I don't know how.

How can I ever be the person she needs? I can't even pretend I'm a functional fiancé.

I can't do that shit for real.

"Thank you." I mouth sorry.

She shakes her head. It's fine. Or I'll never forgive you. One of the two, but I'm not sure which.

I haven't seen her all morning. But then I've had the blinds down since I got here. It's cloudy today, but it's still too fucking bright.

Briar leaves for her desk.

Simon closes the door behind us. He doesn't wait for me to offer him a seat. He doesn't take the seat in front of my desk.

He sits on the damn couch. "Were you going to tell me you fucked your assistant?"

"Is that really why you're here?"

"What did you do to her?"

"If you want those details—"

"She's not usually this…"

"Like you?"

"Corporate." He stares at me like he's looking for cracks. "What happened?"

"What are you doing here, Simon? We have a meeting in twenty minutes." Apparently. I'm too fuzzy to remember any of this.

"You're hung over."

"Not an answer."

"It's Monday morning."

"Also not an answer."

"Did Saturday night last that long?"

"If I want to spend my weekends drunk, that's my business."

"You're still my brother." He softens, but barely.

"Is that why you're here? As my brother?"

He sits up straight. "I'm worried about you."

"Why?"

"You've been acting strange."

"I'm always strange."

He doesn't accept this explanation. "Adam tells me you have news you want to share in person."

Fucking Adam. When did he even talk to Simon? He's supposed to be locked in his love nest.

"Bachelor party is all prepped for Thursday," I say. "Then everyone is heading to the house Friday night."

"Everyone?"

"The wedding party," I say.

His shoulders stiffen.

"I tried to talk sense into him. Explain that you're going to meltdown over your desire to screw Vanessa, but…" I'm too tired to pretend I'm worried about this. I shake my head like I just can't believe how unreasonable everyone is being.

But the gesture makes me nauseous.

Simon is right. What the fuck am I doing drinking all day Sunday?

I'm twenty-seven. I'm too old for this shit.

I'm better than this shit.

But I can't tell him the truth. I can't tell him Preston is dying and I'm failing to handle it.

So bullshit it is.

"Why are you talking to Adam anyway?" I ask.

"He's our brother," he says. "Did you forget?"

"You don't talk to me," I say.

"I saw you Saturday morning."

That is true.

"I see you every day. He lives at the house."

"Not for long." Danielle prefers the city. Adam may be smarter than I am, but he's still a man, and he still wants to be where his girlfriend is.

He says love.

I say he wants to fuck her as much as possible.

Tom-ay-toe. To-mah-toe.

"The city is too much for him," Simon says. "He isn't ready."

"Are you here to talk about Adam?"

"No."

"I don't have time for twenty questions. Get to the point or get the fuck out."

Simon's stare is one hundred percent Ice King. He has the blue eyes for it too. Just not the fair skin and blond hair.

"Yes?"

"Did you really ask your assistant to marry you?"

Fuck. I'm not seeing straight. I don't know how to play this. "She's not my assistant."