The Secret (Winslow Brothers 3)

“Mornin’, Alison.”

I walk behind the reception desk to check my mailbox, and I can hear the metal of her chair squeak as she spins around to face me. “I missed you at the staff Christmas party.”

I glance up from the stack of mail in my hands to find her looking at me with a coquettish lift of one eyebrow. “C’mon, Alison, you know I never go to those things.”

“Well, you should. I would’ve loved to have a drink with you.”

It’s not that I don’t like parties, because, yeah, I do. I would just rather party with people of my choosing, rather than at a work-sanctioned event where the only reason for an invitation is your paycheck.

I slide the stack of mail from my inbox into the front pocket of my leather briefcase and walk back around the reception desk. Alison and her spinny chair follow me the entire way.

“Speaking of drinks…when are you going to take me out for one?”

I almost want to laugh at the forwardness of it, but I shouldn’t be surprised. We’ve been dancing around the subject for the last two years—since the moment she started working here.

Obviously, I can relate to the thrill of the chase, but as much as I’m for keeping the Gatekeeper on my good side, an actual dalliance is never going to happen.

“Have a good day, Alison.” I grin and lift my Starbucks cup in the air toward her, and I don’t wait around to see her reaction or response. Instead, I head toward the long hallway and the stairs at its very end. Staff offices and the faculty breakroom area are on the second floor.

Halfway toward my first stop of the morning, my phone chimes in my suit pocket. I pause at the top of the landing in the stairwell and jockey my leather briefcase and coffee in one hand to pull my cell out of my pocket and check the screen.

Jude: Is it just me, or was Friday night the best fucking party you’ve ever attended?

Stroking Jude’s ego isn’t a priority, but since that’s not the only option for a response, I’m more than happy to type out a quick text.

Me: Just you, man. That party sucked ass.

Jude: Screw you, dancing queen. You can’t hide those lying eyes. You enjoyed yourself. All night long, like you were Lionel fucking Richie. And so did everyone else in attendance.

His message spurs a rush of memories, and a vision of the woman of mystery is the one I stall my brain on.

Perfect curves. Jade- and gold-flecked green eyes. Full lips. And the kind of hips that’d make any man’s head spin. PS: You’ll also never see her again.

I squash that shit down and fire off another text in our group chat.

Me: Well, I can’t help it if my magnetism made your party look better than it actually was. Keeping busy was the only way for me to tolerate the boredom, but you’re welcome for providing the entertainment you obviously forgot.

Jude: Fuck your mom. You’re so full of shit.

Overcome with annoyance, Jude obviously forgot who he’s talking to.

Jude: Fuck, I’m disturbed. Scratch that. Don’t fuck your mom. Go fuck yourself.

I burst out laughing, and the sound echoes in the empty stairwell.

He’s right, though. I am full of shit. Friday night was one hell of a good time.

But no one should’ve been surprised by that. Sophie has been in the event planning business for years, and Jude has been in the nightclub promotion business even longer. Put the two of them together, and they’re a party-planning, good-time-encouraging machine. Their launch of their new company, The Secret Club, really had nowhere to go but Awesomeville.

Remy: Don’t listen to Patrick fucking Swayze, Jude. He was too busy dry humping every woman in attendance at your launch party to notice that it was fun.

Dry humping? Pfft. He’s just jealous he can’t move like I can.

Me: Really, Rem? You’re complimenting Jude?

Remy: It’s the one thing he’s managed not to screw up lately, so…yeah.

Jude: You sure know how to backhand me after a compliment, Rem. Fuck you very much.

Flynn: Jury’s still out on the party’s success, Jude. Daisy and I never got out of our seats.

My sister-in-law Daisy, Flynn’s wife, is very pregnant. With twins. It’s safe to say, her reasoning for staying seated for the duration of Friday night’s events was more than warranted. Still, Flynn’s dig makes me laugh.

Jude: Come on! That’s because Dais is, like, two years pregnant. It’s not my fault she wasn’t moving, Flynn. It’s yours.

Flynn: Nearly 8 months, you fuck.

Remy: The scariest part of this whole conversation is that there are about to be two more Winslow boys in the world.

Did I mention she’s having boys? Watch out, world, because Remy’s right…more Winslows are coming.

Me: I can’t wait to meet my nephews, especially little Ty Junior.