Page 36 of The Unwanted Wife

She takes one look at my face, then turns and marches out. Good call. The next unlucky sod who walks into my office is going to be relieved of their duties so fast, they won’t know what hit them.

The door opens, and Sinclair walks in.

Doesn’t he know how to knock? Well, hell. The one man I cannot fire, nor hold responsible for the shit-show that is my life. Also, he’s not directly involved in the Davenport Group of companies, so I can’t chew him out over a business shortcoming.

"The fuck you doing here?" I scowl.

"The fuck you looking like you haven’t had sex in years?"

The anger building behind my eyes pulses against my temples. "It’s best you leave, Sterling."

He smirks. "Best you push up the wedding, before you screw things up."

"Too fucking late for that," I mutter. I lean back in my chair and tap my fingertips together. "What brings you here?"

"Can’t I visit an ol’ friend?"

I lower my chin to my chest. "We’re not friends."

"Tell that to your grandfather, who seems to consider me something of a good luck mascot, considering I have an open invitation to visit any of his offices at any time.”

“Must have to do with the fact you’re not family, so you haven’t been subjected to his machinations. Ergo, you’re on good terms with him,” I scoff.

“Or it might have to do with the fact that I didn’t refuse when he asked to move the weekly poker game to his place.” He grins.

I glower back. It was one thing to attend the game at Sinclair’s place, but now that it’s under Arthur’s roof, it means I have to put up with seeing him there. Which is what the canny old bastard, no doubt, intended. My grandfather is not above manufacturing creative excuses to spend time with as many of his grandsons as possible, especially at the same time.

Sinclair prowls forward and throws himself into the chair opposite mine.

"I don’t recall asking you to stay."

"I don’t recall you asking me to leave." He leans back, rests one ankle on top of his other knee, and circles it with his fingers. He’s the very picture of confidence and smug satisfaction. Man has everything—a wife he loves, a child he adores, friends who are all well-settled and who check in with each other on a daily basis—that’s how close they are. Not to mention, a business that’s so well set up, it practically runs itself. No wonder he spends a lot of time at various Davenport events. Still doesn’t explain why he’s here, though. I scowl.

He smiles back. "I was told you could do with a bit of friendly advice in this time preceding your wedding."

"An event I don’t intend to invite you or any of my half-brothers to, nor my grandfather," I warn.

"As long as you do the deed, I don’t think it matters. Of course, it’s what your fiancée wants, too, right?"

I hesitate.

He tilts his head. "So, she doesn't want a proper wedding with a white dress and friends in attendance?"

I rub at my temple. "You’re giving me a fucking headache with your ceaseless prattle."

"It might have to do with the fact it’s nine p.m. and you’re still here and keeping your staff away from their loved ones."

"You here to run interference?"

"I told your staff to go home. You’re welcome."

My pulse rate picks up. "You had no right to do that. I have a shit ton of stuff to get through, deadlines to meet?—"

"Promises to keep, miles to go before you sleep, yada, yada. Spare me your tale of woe and accept the fact that I have something to help your condition."

"My condition?" I say carefully.

"I mean your heartburn… Not the heartache you’re carrying around behind that asshole exterior of yours. That's something you’re going to have to figure out how to fix on your own. As for the former…" He pulls a small bottle of chewable antacids from his pocket and places it on the table. "I have the solution to that."

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