It’s not a cowl neck, but I still want to shred it.
“Do you like this? I found it in the closet and thought, why not? It screams Cinderella.” She spins around in a flutter of gauzy silk.
I can feel my dick pulsing in my temples.
“...radiant,” I manage to choke out.
Nick laughs, reminding me he’s still on the call. “What are you two up to today?”
“Big meeting on the lake with Winthrope. We should probably go,” I say weakly.
“Good luck with him, bro, and with your fiancée.”
Damn. If I weren’t laser focused on keeping my eyes off her tits, I might notice him deliberately skipping the “fake” word. I cut the call and tuck the phone in my pocket.
Paige sucks her plush bottom lip. “Are you sure I look okay? You didn’t say much.”
Am I sure?
I’m sure I’d like to pick her up, skip this stupid meeting for my bed, and rip that thing to pieces. Nothing on this planet would bring me a bigger delight than sinking down inside her, legs locked around me like a vise, schooling her on how sure I am that she’s the hottest woman ever.
“It’s just my brother. The dress is perfection. Let’s go.”
I offer her my hand, not sure she’ll take it. There’s no one to put a show on for right now, but she does.
Fingers entangled, I lead her to the Lincoln. Reese’s jaw hangs open as she holds the door for us. And when my arm goes around her waist, Paige just smiles and drops her head on my chest.
Too bad it’s all fake.
A man could get used to having a Siren like Paige Holly around.
“Now that’s a sunset. Are we in Chicago or Honolulu?” I ask, allowing my gaze to drop to the lower deck.
That’s a beautiful sight, too, one that puts the unusually vivid sunset to shame. Paige is decked with shimmering blue and gold as the wind tosses her hair and dress around.
Mrs. Winthrope stands beside her, pushing a pair of binoculars into her hands. Apparently, she’s a massive bird watching geek. I’m grateful Paige is happy to oblige.
“Indeed, it’s stunning. I’m glad you accepted my invitation to come out today,” Ross Winthrope says. “I was afraid you wouldn’t.”
I turn to him and grin. “And miss this? Why?”
He removes a cigar from his coat pocket and offers me one. I’m surprised he can even see through the neon-red aviators perched on his nose. They complete today’s weirdness perfectly, though, as he stands next to me in a red suit that looks like it was washed in blood.
My gut says take it.
It’s a bad idea to turn down gifts from a potential client, even if it’s obvious I’m not a smoker. I gave it up after I left Iraq years ago, and my lungs protest every time now.
“No, thanks. I quit years ago and well...you know how easy it is to dive back into certain habits.”
He nods, sticks the cigar in his mouth, and lights it with a flame shooting from a silver brick in his hand. “I do. I also know I’ve been a judgmental beast, Ward. That’s why I thought you wouldn’t come.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”
He stares past me, straight into the sunset. I hope the fiery glow parsed through those hell lenses isn’t baking his brain.
“I overreacted when Beatrice had her heart incident. I let—shall we say bad news from the past?—color the present. That was hardly fair.”
I’m silent. I know exactly what bad news he’s talking about when my parents gave the world nothing else.
“I realize now Brandt Ideas has always been a family business and it appears to be in good hands. I shouldn’t have been so quick to fret over all Brandts not named Beatrice. You’re nothing like your old man, considering you’re engaged to such a lovely creature, and very serious about showing the world your love. I’m sure your brother isn’t terrible either, despite his Epicurean proclivities.”
Nick’s not like Dad, but he’s not like me either. No point in dwelling on my brother’s embarrassments with bedding starlets and entertaining Brazilian businessmen who like to drink their weight in expensive booze.
“He’s a good man, even if it’s hard to believe he’s my little brother sometimes. When you grow up with infamous parents, you get used to gossip.”
“That’s unfair.” Winthrope coughs into his hand.
“So is life, or else my grandmother wouldn’t have wound up with heart surgery. It’s just made us work harder, Mr. Winthrope. We may be better off than we would be if we’d had a normal family.”
“That’s a good way to look at it, son.”
Progress. I’ve gone from an overprivileged frat boy in his eyes to “son.”
“I’ll cut to the chase,” he says abruptly, turning those red discs on me. “Do you have a contract on you? I’m ready to move forward.”