Beautiful Bastard (Beautiful Bastard 1)

He rolled his eyes. “Chloe.”

I felt my stomach tighten at the sound of her name and focused my attention back on the treadmill. “What makes you think this has anything to do with her?”

“Because I’m not a f**king idiot.”

“Nothing’s bothering me. And even if something was, why on earth would it have anything to do with her?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I’ve never met anyone who gets this kind of reaction out of you. And you know why, don’t you?” He had shut off his machine and was now focusing all his attention on me. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a little unnerving. My brother was perceptive; too perceptive at times. And if there was ever anything I wanted to keep from him, it was this.

I kept my gaze forward as I ran, trying not to meet his eyes. “Enlighten me.”

“Because you two are too much alike,” he said smugly.

“What?”

Several people turned to see why I was yelling in the middle of the crowded gym. I slammed my hand down on the stop button and turned to face him. “How could you even think that? We are nothing alike.” I was sweaty, out of breath, and ramped up from running ten miles. But right now, the rise in my blood pressure had nothing to do with my workout.

Taking a long drink from his water bottle, Henry continued to smirk. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I’ve never met two people more alike. First of all . . .” He paused, clearing his throat and bringing his hand up to dramatically tick things off on his fingers. “You’re both intelligent, determined, hardworking, and loyal. And,” he continued, pointing at me, “she’s a firecracker. In fact, she’s the first woman in your entire life who can stand up to you and doesn’t follow you around like some lost puppy. You hate how much you need that.”

Had everyone lost their mind? Sure, she might be some of those things; even I couldn’t deny that she was incredibly intelligent. She was a hard worker; I was often surprised at how well she kept up with things. She was definitely determined, although I would describe it more along the lines of pigheaded or stubborn. And there was no question of her loyalty. She could have sold me out a hundred times since we’d started this sick game.

I stood glaring at him as I tried to formulate my response. “Yeah, well, she’s also a raving bitch.” Nice. Very articulate, Bennett.

Stepping down, I quickly wiped off my machine and made my way across the gym in an effort to escape.

He laughed happily behind me. “See? I knew she was getting to you.”

“Fuck off, Henry.”

I settled in to do some sit-ups when he stood over me, grinning like a cat that swallowed a canary. “Well, my work is done here,” he said, brushing off his hands and looking increasingly pleased with himself. “Guess I’ll be heading home.”

“Good. Go.”

Laughing, he turned to leave. “Oh, but before I forget, Mina wanted me to see if you managed to convince Chloe to make it to dinner.”

I nodded, sitting up to fiddle with my shoelaces. “She said she’d be there.”

“Am I the only one who thinks it’s hilarious that Mom wants to set her up with Joel Cignoli?” There went that feeling in my chest again. Henry and I had grown up with Joel, and he was a pretty decent guy, but something about the thought of the two of them together made me feel like I wanted to punch something. “I mean, Joel is great,” he continued. “But Chloe’s a bit out of his league, don’t you think?” I could feel him staring at me a beat longer. “But hey, good for him if he thinks he stands a chance.”

I lay back, began doing sit-ups a bit faster than was necessary.

“See you later, Benny.”

“Yeah, later,” I mumbled.

Sunday night as I lay in bed I replayed the plan in my head. I was thinking about her too much, and differently. I had to be tough and make it a week without touching her. It was like detoxing. Seven days, I could do that. Seven days of not touching her and this thing would be out of my system. I could finally move on with my life. There were just a couple of precautions I had to take.

First, I couldn’t be goaded into arguing with her. For some reason, the two of us arguing was like some sick form of foreplay. Second: no more fantasizing about her, ever. That meant no more reliving sexual encounters, no more fantasizing about new ones, and no more picturing her naked or with any of my body parts coming in contact with any of hers.

And for the most part, things seemed to go according to plan. I was in a constant state of discomfort and the week seemed to drag on, but aside from a lot of dirty fantasies, I remained in control. I did my best to stay busy outside the office, but during the times we were forced together, I kept a constant distance, and for the most part we treated each other with the same polite aversion we had before.

But I swear she was trying to break me. Each day it seemed that Miss Mills looked sexier than the day before. Every day there was something about what she wore or did that brought my mind back to the gutter. I’d made a deal with myself that there would be no more lunchtime “sessions.” I had to stop this, and imagining her while masturbating—hell, imagining her masturbating—wasn’t going to help.

Monday she wore her hair down. All I could think about as she sat across from me during a meeting was wrapping it around my hands as she went down on me.

Tuesday she had on a formfitting knee-length skirt and those stockings with the seam up the back. She looked like some sort of hot secretary pinup.

Wednesday she wore a suit. That was unexpectedly worse, because I couldn’t get my mind off what it would feel like to slide those pants down her long legs.