Nick strolls into my office and doesn’t shut the door behind him.
“How are you, little brother?” I look up with a lazy smile.
He stops midstep, turns his face up, and slow blinks.
“Who the hell are you?”
My brows pull together. “Who else? The guy who spends his days breaking your balls.”
“I can’t remember the last time you asked me how I was. That’s not you,” he quips.
I don’t know what to say to that.
Nick shakes his fool head.
“Anyhow, I wanted an update on the Winthrope contract. Trista keeps asking if she should press the button on setting up orders.”
“Oh, sorry. I thought I texted you.” I was preoccupied and grin at the memory. “He’s ready to move forward and I think we’re in a place where we can, too.”
Again, Nick gives me that thousand-yard stare.
“Jesus. You’re in a good mood. It’s scaring me.” Nick walks to my mini fridge and takes out a water bottle, twisting off the cap and glugging half of it down in seconds, his eyes never leaving me.
“Why shouldn’t I be? I just closed a billion-dollar deal.” I shrug.
“We closed it. Remember who came up with the sham engagement?” He holds his hands out, basking in the sun falling through my window.
“Fine,” I grunt. “You helped. A little.”
He takes another slug of water, glaring.
“Shit, I’ve seen you close deals before tons of times. You’re usually in a good enough mood to have a drink and pick up the tab. This...this is different.”
“Knock it off, Sigmund Freud. I’m not sure what the hell you’re getting at. Also, you’d make a terrible shrink.”
“I haven’t seen you this happy in—” He goes quiet, drumming a finger against his chin. “I was going to say years, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” I throw back, just as a click of approaching heels announces my crime.
Paige stops in front of my open door.
She’s wearing a black blazer over a snug purple dress and a necklace with a low hanging pendant.
“Looking sharp today, darling,” I call out playfully.
She smiles and blushes.
“Thanks. Can I come in? I didn’t want to disturb you but since it’s open.”
“You’ve never asked before.” I chuckle.
She comes in and hands me a tall coffee stamped with The Bean Bar logo. I can’t believe a part of me misses those stupid handcuff drawings. Maybe I should give her a better reason to continue them.
“It’s black drip, but it’s pecan roasted. I thought you might like it.” She turns to leave. “Oh, hi, Nick. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Your mocha’s on your desk.”
“Thanks, Paige,” he says, staring after her. “Will you please shut the door on your way out?”
The purple dress bobs up and down midway on her thigh with every switch of her hips.
Goddamn, can she use those hips. It’s almost worse now that I know what they’re capable of.
The door clicks shut.
“You asshole. You got laid!” Nick says, his flaming green eyes aghast.
“What?”
“You forgot to text me about the Winthrope details this weekend because you were busy getting busy.” He doubles over, clutching his sides, an obnoxious hyena of a man I wish I could banish to the cornfield like that infamous Twilight Zone episode.
“Lower your voice, dammit. We’re at work,” I spit. “How would I get laid, anyway? I don’t even have a girlfriend.”
“No, but you do have a mink of a fake fiancée who brought you flavored coffee without threatening to kill you. I wondered why she was starting to like your grouchy butt. You banged your EA.” His laughter rises, and so does my urge to throw him out the window. “Holy shit. My straightedge Boy Scout brother dipped his pen in the company ink—something he swore he’d never do. Juicy.”
I’m on my feet like an unsheathing sword.
“Shut it, Nicholas. Nothing inappropriate happened. Keep her name out of your dirty mouth.”
“You’re such a shit liar.” He rolls his eyes. “And I see a hot night or two still couldn’t loosen that yardstick up your—”
“Get out!” I bark, rounding my desk, ready to show him what it feels like to have an Italian shoe up his butt since he’s so damn fixated on what’s up mine.
He marches out, flipping me a middle finger over his shoulder.
I limp back to my seat, settling against the tall black leather with a groan.
Apparently, the price of making Paige Holly float twelve times is my total humiliation.
And a terrible part of me says I’m willing to pay it again.