Jordan shakes his head. “Dunno. Think he said he’s an alum or something.”
“Oh, well, he’s probably an alum then. Nothing too crazy about that.”
“But if he knows I’m his half brother, why wouldn’t he just talk to me? What’s his deal, Brina?”
For a moment, I’m rendered speechless by this boy’s sad blue eyes and hurt puppy expression.
“I don’t know.” I admit. “Honestly, there’s a lot I don’t understand about this, but I promise you he’s not a monster. Even the rare times he acts like a big dumb stalker, he’s trying to help. Deep down, he’s a good guy. If you give him a chance, I’ll do whatever I can to make this better.”
Jordan nods loosely, and I leave him be, still wondering if there’s anything I can ever do to help.18The View With You (Magnus)My brain hammers my head into the pillow.
It hurts so bad, I’m afraid to open my eyes. I groan, reaching for space in the bed beside me, expecting warmth and soft curves.
My hand falls on flat cotton.
Damn. Where did Brina sleep? Or did she decide not to stay after all?
Who cares? I don’t have time to chase around a grown woman, who’s doing an A+ job of handling everything I throw at her.
Snarling, I grope around on the nightstand for my phone. It can’t be too late yet. It’s still dark out.
Shit. It’s eight thirty.
Why is it so dark? Apparently, without the office, I’ve forgotten how miserable pitch-black Chicago winters can be.
Not that it matters. Why should today be different from the one before?
Jordan Quail is going to be pissed.
I promised him we’d be at the hospital at nine, and there’s no way that’s happening now.
Ignoring my bad hangover-like headache, I jump out of bed and bolt for the shower, stripping along the way. I’m usually picky about how my clothes are kept, but not today.
If I don’t get my ass in gear, I’ll give my brother a new reason to hate me more than he did yesterday, and it was hardly a bromance then.
I turn the faucet to screaming hot, and when the shower feels nice and steamy, I jump in. The steam erases the stress pain in my head like the sun hitting a snowbank.
Once the headache subsides, I fling the glass door open and towel off.
I can’t give that kid more reasons to hate my guts. I need to bridge the gap somehow.
Bursting through the bathroom door, I plan to throw on my slacks and dress shirt and hoof it.
An unexpected surprise stops me in my tracks.
Sabrina sits on my bed, running her hand through her long dark chestnut hair. I wish like hell it was my fingers combing those locks, fisting them, showing her how sweet it’d feel to be pulled when we—
Her mocha-brown eyes interrupt my filthy thoughts, trawling the length of my body.
Her soft heart-shaped mouth moves, forming a tiny “O” of surprise.
My hand flutters shut as her teeth clamp down over her bottom lip.
Who knew a staring contest could be sexy?
Even wet from the shower in the middle of January, my cock hardens at what that mouth could do.
The rose-red flush on her cheeks helps nothing. She gazes into my eyes, and then her eyes crawl lower, straight to my hardness at full staff.
She likes what she sees.
No question.
Women always do, but with her, fuck.
I back up into the bathroom without turning around and grab my robe.
“If you’re checking out my package, it’s nicer to say hello first,” I tell her.
I pull the robe on and fasten the belt. It’s not completely closed, but screw it.
“Oh, no!” Her blush goes from deep red to almost purple, and she throws her hands up in front of her face. “I just came to check on you, Mag. You didn’t look so hot earlier.”
She’s flustered. It’s adorable. I smirk.
“Do I look hotter now?”
“Yes—I mean—”
I hold up a hand. “It’s okay. Good to know.”
“If you’re hungry, I made dinner. I added enough real food to cook a few meals to the shopping order.” She smiles, proud of herself. “You may not like it, though. It’s just chicken hotdish. I don’t know how to make your fancy food.”
Dinner. Eight thirty p.m. I’m not late. I’m really early.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Casserole’s fine. I may be rich, but I’m a Midwestern boy, born and raised. Jordan has a meal plan now?”
She crosses her legs on my bed, and when she shifts to do it, the movement exposes the skin of her thighs.
Standing in front of her in nothing but a robe is torture.
“No. I helped him grab groceries from a delivery service. Now you have a stocked kitchen. You’re welcome.” Her tongue flicks out for a second, amused at the asinine questions I’m asking.
You’re killing me, woman.
“Where is he—Jordan, I mean?”
“He’s in the guest room now. He was in your sunroom for a while; think he likes it there,” she says. “On his phone like any other teenage boy.”