Filthy Rich (Blackstone Dynasty 1)

In a way.

So I had let my guard down and remembered my sadness for a moment.

I’d become emotional.

I’d cried and scared poor Herman.

But we both survived it, and when the flurry of my sadness had passed, I’d felt much better. And I think Herman did as well. It wouldn’t be weird when we saw each other next time because now we’d sealed our friendship. That, as I pondered further, was a good thing.

I stopped at Starbucks to repair my makeup, and more importantly to supply my coffee addiction, before heading inside Harris & Goode at the next doorway. God, I loved that we had a Starbucks next door. One of the nicest perks about my job. There was a queue for the loo so I checked my messages while I waited. The one from Martin was unexpected. He wanted me to work a reception cocktail party this evening, six to nine.

My side job serving for Jonquil Catering was not my favorite, but it paid pretty well when I could fit a job in. I loved working at Harris & Goode, designing rooms for clients based on their visions, but couldn’t quite make the ends meet on a junior designer’s salary. Not yet anyway. So I took jobs serving on weekends and evenings if I had proper notice. Nine hours wasn’t enough time for me to arrange anything, and Martin knew that. I had to have a place to stay the night for one thing, because the last ferry left the dock at 8:30 p.m. on the dot, and if I wasn’t on it, then I was stuck in Boston for the night. I’d stay over with Zoe, but my friend was out of town for her sister’s wedding for at least another week. I didn’t have clothes for the following day of work at Harris & Goode or my black-and-whites for serving. There was no way I could work for Martin tonight.

I texted him my reply: Sorry, can’t do, Martin. I’m already on the mainland for the day. I need some notice to arrange where to stay, clothes, etc. –B

He’d be pissy with me now, but what could I do about it? Living on an island made for some challenges and I couldn’t control the ferry schedule. There wasn’t a lot of demand for a boat to Blackstone Island in the middle of the night.

I fixed my face in the mirror at Starbucks and thought I’d pass for normal. If Eduardo didn’t notice I’d been crying, then I’d call the whole thing a success. Straight blonde hair and very light brown eyes—that I’d been told were amber—had been inherited from my mum. Nan reminded me frequently that I looked just like her. I thought my mum had been very beautiful, so when Nan told me I could be Mum’s twin, it made me feel good inside.

I studied myself thoughtfully and came to the conclusion that I didn’t look bad, just a bit . . . sad.

Because I was.

It was no coincidence my favorite character from the movie Inside Out was Sadness. She was necessary—an important part of your life—and if you tried to keep Sadness out completely, and didn’t let her in once in a while, then the rest of the parts of you started to break down from the pressure of trying to deny yourself the right to be sad. It all made total sense to me. Maybe I’d watch it tonight after I visited Nan at physical therapy.

“Good morning!” Eduardo lambasted me with his standard greeting. “Looking very sexy today, mi condesa. Those boots are screaming ‘do me ’til I can’t take it anymore’ you know.”

I set my coffee down on the reception counter and unbuttoned my coat. “Good morning to you, too, and they are not screaming anything of the kind.”

“They so are, darling. I bet you didn’t notice the hunk in the sunglasses checking you out either, hmm?” Eduardo waved toward the full-glass front doors of the building where a hunk was indeed peering in as he took a call. Six-two, maybe six-three, with dark hair, a very nice wool coat in camel over an expensive gray suit, and aviator sunglasses was all I could make out through the window. But even through the glass and shadows, his handsomeness was apparent. There were men like him everywhere in Boston’s business center, though. I saw them every day, hurrying from one corporate deal to another. Trying to get ahead just like everyone else.

“He’s talking on his phone, Eduardo, not looking at me, you tit-head.”

“He did. You passed by and he checked you out real good, honey. He liked what he saw, mmm-hmm,” he informed me with a straight face, “and I love it when you talk dirty English to me.” It was all I could do to keep from laughing at him outright. Eduardo Ramos was good for my soul. I’d only known him since I’d started working at Harris & Goode four months ago, but we had clicked right away. He knew all about my past, and was nothing but supportive and compassionate about my situation. He loved the fact I was British and called me condesa most of the time—Spanish for countess. The thing with Eduardo was you had to overlook the outrageous and inappropriate comments he made on just about any off-limits topic for a place of business—and always at the most inappropriate times—because it was simply part of the package. A gorgeous Puerto Rican gay man with a mouth, and absolutely, perfectly lovely.

I shook my head at him slowly. “Do Jon and Carlisle know that you fantasize about the foot traffic when you should be working?”

He sniffed and frowned. “They do the same thing when they come throu

gh the front. But it’s right there, Brooke, right in front of me.”

“What is right in front of you?” I looked back toward the glass and noticed the hunk had moved on.

“Man heaven,” Eduardo sighed dreamily. “Big . . . hard . . . cocks . . . just walking—walking past us all day long. Ay, Dios mío!” He fanned his face with both hands flapping.

I lost it and had to either laugh out loud or explode. “Probably not so hard as you imagine if they are walking. I think it would be quite painful to walk around with a stiff cock all day.”

“You have a point there, condesa, and please say stiff cock for me again in your pretty accent.”

“No, I will not say it again, and you can stop being cheeky with me.”

Eduardo knew I wasn’t annoyed. It was a game we played for fun. Jon and Carlisle, the owners, didn’t give a toss, either. It was part and parcel of working with three gay men who were interior designers. It came with the territory, and the setup worked for me just fine.

“MARTIN, I’ve already explained why I cannot do it. I do not live in Boston. I have no place to stay overnight nor do I have clothes to wear tomorrow. If you want me to work for you, then you will have to give me at least twenty-four hours’ notice next time.”

Seriously, the man was dense. What did he not understand about the situation? More likely he just didn’t care.

“Why can’t you stay the night with your friend?” Martin suggested.