Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
That said, I told Helena to leave it. What kind of a bastard tells someone to knock off being charitable?
“You, Brin Whittington, are a prince among men.” Delight seeps into Mimi’s tone. It’s just her way. She even had Olivia Beckett eating out of her hand, which annoyed me no end because Olivia has a way of making me feel like I’m still wet behind the ears.
“Mmm. That is so good.”
That is so unfair. Why didn’t I think to bring her coffee? Then I’d be the one watching her expression. She looks so lovely when she’s enjoying herself, all languid eyed and blissed out. Not for the first time today, I find myself adjusting my swelling dick.
“Are you okay?” Mimi’s voice turns concerned, and my brother clears his throat.
“Sorry. I must’ve spaced out for a minute.”
I bet you did, you filthy fucker. I force my attention back to the screen, but the numbers might as well be hieroglyphics.
“Thank you for this. I really needed it.”
“No problem.” Brin’s reply sounds a little strangled. The fucking Amelia effect. Blessedly, she walks with her head in the clouds or else she might see what she does to men. “The place around the corner has the best coffee. Small batch freshly roasted. Have you been yet?”
“I can’t say I’ve come across it.”
My fingers splay out on the keys while, in my mind’s eye, Mimi earnestly shakes her head. I hope Brins gets fucking priapism.
“Where is it, did you say?”
And there it is. His way in. Bad enough that El thinks he’s taking her to dinner next week. Think being the operative word. I’ll just get Polly to throw a spanner in those potentially dirty works if I know El.
“Why don’t I take you for lunch there Monday?” the little shit offers. “They do the best canelés,” he adds, not giving her the opportunity to brush him off gently.
“Cannolis?”
“No.” He gives a soft laugh. “Canelés,” he says, pretending he’s a native Parisienne. Brin doesn’t speak a word of French, so unless he’s about to sing her Joyeux Anniversaire—happy birthday in French—I think he’s about done. “They’re, like, these delicious little cakes.” He flicks out his hand as though holding one. Like she’s eating out of it.
“Oh, I love cake.”
“Yeah?” The fucker sounds turned on. She said cake, not cock. “These have this crispy, rum-glazed crust and soft, fluffy custard inside.”
“Stop,” she half moans, which I do not like. I don’t have a problem with the sound; it’s more the fact she’s moaning in front of that arsewipe. I feel antsy. Like my skin is a size too small. Irrational is what it is—Mimi is my PA. The little sister of my dead mate. I knew her when she wore braces, for fuck’s sake. There’s no call to give in to these feelings because I’m not a horny teenager.
She just makes me feel like one.
I can’t seem to help myself. I mean, I haven’t helped myself. Not in the office, at least. I might’ve come close to it once or twice, especially when I get a whiff of her perfume. At home, though…
I’m surprised I haven’t wanked myself raw to the image of her—
“They’re native to Bordeaux.” I snap back to myself at the sound of Brin’s voice. He’s still banging on about cakes. And the way he says Bordeaux? He’s a beret and a string of onions away from being a caricature like the ones you can find being drawn on the banks of the Seine. “It’s the only place that makes them in London.”
“I highly doubt that,” I mutter, returning my attention to my laptop. For 1.4 seconds.
“Oh, my goodness.” Mimi gives a snorting hoot.
“Mimi!” my brother exclaims playfully. “How many decibels do you reckon that was?”
“Stop! I’m not responsible for the noises my stomach makes when I’m hungry and you’re talking about food.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who eats lettuce leaves for lunch.”
“Does it look like it?”
“You look like—no, forget it.” He shakes his head.
“Forget what? You didn’t say anything.” A pause. “But now you have to.”
“I’m not falling for that.”
“Falling for what?”
Brin places his coffee on her desk, pressing his palms on either side of it. “You’re just fishing for compliments,” he all but purrs.
My jaw tenses as I link my fingers and crack them noisily.
“I am not!”
“You’re sure it’s not because you already know you’re gorgeous?”
“Don’t get fresh, mister.” I’m pretty sure that was the sound of a plastic ruler being rapped across his knuckles. As far as brush-offs go, it’ll do as Brin straightens. But if I know my brother, he’s not giving in. “I just forgot lunch.”
“Who forgets to eat?”
“People who are busy. And… people who leave their lunchbox on the Tube on the way in.”
Or maybe people who see fit to feed two homeless people today.