Switch (Landry Family 3)

Damn it, Graham.

Graham

REACHING OVERHEAD, I ADJUST THE desk lamp so it shines directly on the schedule in front of me. I should’ve had this done before I left the office this evening. I never leave without having the next day laid out. Even since everything has been in flux, I’ve stayed decently together. Today, however, was a bomb that shook everything more than the day Linda left.

Leaning back and placing the pencil in my hand in the center of the notebook, I consider Mallory. I should be mulling over her performance and not the way her ass felt against my hand. I need to be thinking about how she will fit in the Landry system, not how her chest fit snugly against mine. It would make sense to predict how she’ll benefit the family brand, not how she somehow makes the entire office seem a little brighter.

I’m. So. Fucked.

Leaping to my feet, the chair flying backwards and rattling the bookshelf behind me, I let the frustration I’ve felt creeping up get the best of me.

The house is dark as I make my way down the hall from my office to the living room. The door to each room lining the hallway is open, pressed firmly against the wall, just like I like it.

Flipping on the light in the living room, I sink into the brown leather sofa. I hit a button on the remote and the electric fireplace kicks on. The flames flicker beneath the mantle, sending shadows over the painting attached to the rockwork of the chimney.

This is my favorite place in the world. When I bought this house shortly after taking over Landry Holdings from my father, I knew this would be my escape from the business world and I also knew how important it was to have that. Dad had the home my mother created; I had to create my own.

The dark hardwood floors, warm golden walls, and pieces of tobacco-colored furniture. Here, tucked away in the living room, where I feel like I can drop all the hats—and sometimes, masks—that I wear daily. There’s nothing to juggle as I put my feet up on the leather ottoman and breathe. Well, nothing except that distraction that nibbles at my brain. The tumbler of whiskey earlier didn’t quell it. The three-point-one miles I ran with Ford didn’t either. Walking in the door to my home didn’t offer me the sense of peace I feel every night when I return from a day’s work. I’m as off as I have been all day.

Maybe that’s the problem. She bamboozled me.

Mallory, Mallory, Mallory, what am I going to do with you?

My chuckle breaks the silence. I know exactly what I want to do with her, to her, for her—everything I can’t. Everything I won’t.

A chirping sound rings from the kitchen counter and I pad through the house, my bare feet slapping against the wood, until I find it. “Hello?” I ask, glancing at the clock. “It’s one a.m., Barrett. Aren’t you supposed to be getting your beauty sleep?”

“I find it insulting you would suggest I need beauty sleep.”

“Noted.” I take out a new glass and pour another finger of whiskey. “So, what’s happening?”

“Did you talk to Linc today?”

The sound to his voice, a dose of amusement laced with annoyance, piques my curiosity. “Yeah, he called me earlier today.”

“That’s it?” he barks.

“Yeah. I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“The little shit is making me look bad!” he jokes. “I mean, I’m the oldest brother. I’m the fucking Governor, for heaven’s sake. And he has to go and get engaged and set a fucking date before I can even pop the question?”

My glass hits the marble counter with a thud. “There is so much about that last bit that I’m going to need explained,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Lincoln got engaged?”

“Apparently. And they’re getting married at the Farm. And soon. I don’t remember the date, but it’s in the next few weeks.”

“You must’ve misheard,” I suggest, hitting the speakerphone button and setting the phone on the counter. “He couldn’t have scheduled the date. Engaged? Maybe. I think we all expected it. But set a date without talking to me? There’s so much to plan, to protect. It’s Lincoln, but he’s reasonable. He wouldn’t do that.”

“He did it, G.”

“Then who the hell is putting it together? Who is making sure his interests are protected? Tell me he signed a fucking prenup,” I groan.

Barrett sighs. “I don’t know. He just calls today and asks if I can be in town for it. It’ll be a pain in the fucking ass, but of course I’ll be there. I’m just pissed he couldn’t have waited awhile.”

“Glad to know I’m the last to know.”

Irritation sweeps through my body as I stand in the middle of my kitchen, looking at my phone like it’ll be forthright with answers.

“I had no idea he didn’t even tell you,” Barrett says, his voice now tempered.