Bossy Grump

“Enough,” I bite off.

I shudder at every mention of that hideous man. Roland Osprey is a media assassin, the mortal enemy of everyone rich and famous, especially here at home in Chicago. The Chicago Tea is a fucking flamethrower of a publication, leaving scorched earth in its wake.

“We’re still paying for our parents’ sins,” I say, the words so numb. “And our own.”

I wish it weren’t true, but I’m old enough to know better.

The Brandt curse will never end, not since that incident on the yacht with the trash we called parents and Dylan damned Parnell.

“It was so long ago—” Nick starts.

I shrug.

“Things come back to haunt you, even if you don’t deserve it.”

“How can it keep coming back? I wasn’t even involved with it, and neither were you,” Nick says with disgust.

I want to laugh in sympathy, but this situation is so intense I just can’t.

“Believe me, brother, I understand.”

Paige sits pale and quiet, watching our exchange. For her sake, I hope she has no idea what we’re talking about. She hugs herself.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She looks at me, twisting her lips. “Can I ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“Morale is already so low—” she begins.

“And this won’t make it better,” Nick adds.

“Do you think people will quit?” Paige stares at me sadly.

Hell, I hope not. The panic on her face is obvious.

She’s afraid she won’t be able to handle it if more positions go vacant, if we lose the Winthrope contract, and wind up rudderless, running on Grandma’s glory fumes.

Frankly, I don’t even know if I can handle it, and I technically own half the company now.

There has to be something we can do. We have to stop the bleeding.

“We’ll get through this, or die trying. There’s no other choice, and no point in dwelling on what might happen,” I growl.

They look at me, scared but reassured.

I fake stoic calmness well.

If the company fails, maybe I can try for an acting career.

Nick sits on the floor, ignoring the other empty chair.

“Nicholas Brandt, stand up right now,” I say.

“Huh? What’s your problem?”

“We’re already on the brink of losing a very important contract for this company and for our family, because people like Winthrope still see us as the ‘Brandt Boys.’” I put finger quotes around that stupid name. “You look like a frat boy sitting on the carpet. Start acting your age. If we want to run this company like Grandma, we need to stop panicking and shape up.”

9

Ex Troubles (Paige)

My heart dropped when Winthrope said he needed to reassess.

Everyone really wanted this deal. Ward can’t handle more setbacks right now, even if he’s the only one who seems to be keeping it together.

I doubt Nick can either, judging by the way I catch him brooding in front of his soaring windowpanes overlooking Chicago in its summer majesty. He always lightens up as soon as he notices my presence, but I’m able to see a different kind of family resemblance between him and Ward when he slips into grump-mode.

Both brothers are closed books in their own ways.

Human vaults with something very dark and painful tucked away inside.

Why?

The hardest thing is imagining how the Winthrope deal falling through could affect poor Beatrice. The day before she collapsed in her office, she told me she could finally taste what she and Godfrey set out to do when they were young.

They wanted to build a castle, a palace, right along Lake Michigan. It was a silly pie-in-the-sky dream of two young artists madly in love then—except for the fact that Ross Winthrope’s outrageous luxury hotel can actually make their fever dream a stunning reality.

Without the contract, she’ll be crushed.

I worry. With a bad heart, can she handle it?

“...start acting thirty, nimrod.” Ward’s booming voice draws my focus back to the room.

Nick stops his pacing, running a hand over his face. “Whatever. There must be something we can do.”

“I said we’ll figure it out.” Ward’s voice is iron, and strangely soothing.

My eyes connect with Nick’s in a hopeful glance, desperately wanting to believe him.

Nick moves to the cabinet Ward keeps his mini fridge in and reaches inside. “Where’s the damn water? My throat feels like cotton.”

“I’ll get it!” I bolt out of the room before either of them can stop me.

Thank God. You’d need a chainsaw to cut the tension in there. Grabbing the water gives me an excuse to breathe.

The air in the hall feels ten times cooler, but the atmosphere is just as morbid.

The building isn’t empty, but you’d never know it from the void that permeates Brandt Ideas these days.

I stop by my desk to change into the more professional house shoes he insisted I buy with his stupid lucky tie. They shuffle against the marble floor. I should have just worn flats, but wearing Ward’s slippers in the office makes him acknowledge what passed between us, even if he’ll never admit it.