Page 7 of Charming Deception

Me: You’re an asshole.

I’ve sent him a text along these lines once a day for forty-three days straight.

He gets back to me remarkably quick; maybe he’s not having sex right this second.

Damian: Love you too little brother.

Then he sends me a kissy-face emoji. So fucking smug atop his high horse at the club, where he can have sex at the snap of his fingers.

Any kind of sex he wants.

I grimace as the woman in the street flashes in my head. In my mind, the breeze lifts her dress a little higher, and I glimpse her panties. They’re white and lacy, like that bra.

I tried not to mentally undress her when she was right in front of me, literally on her knees…

But she was fucking gorgeous.

Her soft hair.

Her bright amber eyes.

The swell of her tits in that little dress…

Me: We’ll just see who’s laughing when you get your challenge.

If only I knew what it was.

* * *

Locke parks the Bentley in my garage and comes around to open my door, but I’m already stepping out. I leave him to collect my bags. Clara’s waiting to greet me as I stalk into the house, shucking off my suit jacket and handing it to her.

“Welcome back, Mr. Vance.” She follows me as I grunt a response and make my way up the back hall to the living room, her high heels clipping along as I tear off my tie. “How was Las Vegas?”

“Vegas was Vegas. So, a shitshow.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” she says politely, following me straight to the bar, where I pour myself a drink.

I snort. “No, you’re not.”

She gives me a small, professional smile. Clara is my live-in personal assistant and house manager. She’s fifty-one, infinitely patient and well-mannered, and probably deserves a raise for dealing with my mood swings over the last forty-three days alone.

Don’t be an asshole. Last thing you need is Clara quitting.

She doesn’t know the personal hell you’re in right now.

I slug back the whiskey and grimace. She watches me, probably mentally updating her résumé as I pour myself another.

“Before I forget,” I tell her, “have Annabeth set up another meeting with the distillery. The whiskey’s not where it should be.” I slug back another mouthful and swish it around, trying to put my finger on what’s wrong with it.

My latest brainchild is another celebrity alcohol brand, and who better to sell whiskey than a rock star? I might think it’s just my bitter mood souring things, but the taste still isn’t quite there. Jesse Mayes himself, the aforementioned rock star and my neighbor, told me as much over the phone while I was in Vegas.

“I see you’re still drinking it,” Clara notes dryly.

“It’s not perfect. But it’s not bad.”

“Annabeth called from the office, actually, just now. Your brother wants to see you as soon as you get back?—”

“Which one?”

---