Page 17 of Skin Deep

“You’re going to forget about her.” Frank stood.

“What? Why?” Fred stared up at his brother, who stood just a smidge shorter than Fred’s own six foot four. “Surely you’ve got better advice than that.”

“You’ve already fucked it up. You said so yourself,” Frank reminded him. Fred narrowed his eyes and contemplated bringing up that hair’s width difference in their height, just to poke at his brother.

“No need to rub it in.”

“My point is, maybe she’ll forgive you. Maybe, if you work hard enough.” Frank’s face was set in serious lines. “But I mean...where do you see this going?”

“I...what?” Fred sputtered, taken aback by the question. “I’ve slept with her twice. I’m not—We’re not—I don’t know if that’s where this is going.”

Didn’t he, though? Wasn’t that the very reason he’d been so down the last few days? In the years since that magical night with her in Amsterdam, he’d almost—almost—managed to convince himself that he’d imagined the heady connection between himself and his gorgeous, tattooed siren. All it had taken was one glance at her again, though, and there it had been, heady and unlike anything he’d felt before or since.

“I swear, watching you work this out is like watching a rat on a wheel.” Frank shook his head. “Listen to me. Maybe there would be something there, if you managed to unfuck yourself. But just fast-forward with me for a minute. Where do you see this in six months? In a year? Is she the girl you’re going to marry? If not, is it really worth the effort right now?

Panic thickened his throat, making it hard to swallow. Married? He barely knew her.

He could see where his brother was going with this, though. His mother and father hadn’t been an arranged marriage, not in the strictest sense of the term, but they’d been firmly pushed in each other’s direction. Both from wealthy, aristocratic families, their families had been very enthusiastic about the match.

It hadn’t been vocalized in so many words. But Fred and Frank had always been very aware that someday they would be expected to do the same.

He was entranced by Amy. Wanted her with a thirst that hadn’t even come close to being quenched.

But...could he really see himself bringing her to his parents’ house for dinner? He could just picture his mother, sitting there in her silk blouse or cashmere sweater set, arching an incredulous eyebrow at Amy’s full sleeves of ink. Or his father barely waiting until she was out the door before making a dirty joke about the nipple adornments that Amy did absolutely nothing to hide.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Frank hummed in his throat, apparently pleased that his warning had come across. Lifting the bottle of hideously expensive scotch, he poured another generous measure into each of their glasses, lifting his and holding it out for a toast.

Fred did not feel like toasting, but more than that, he did not feel like explaining why he didn’t feel like it. Half-heartedly, he lifted his glass, braced himself for the impact as his brother banged his own into it.

“To common sense,” he started before tossing back half the contents in his glass. “And to getting you laid. Let’s go.”

“What? No.” Fred shook his head as Frank slammed his laptop closed. He was not in the mood to go anywhere except his condo, where he would order in some Thai food and then go to bed. He planted his feet when his brother rounded the desk, hauling him up and out of the chair. “I’m not going anywhere except home.”

“No way, bro. You’re coming out with me. Now.” Frank clapped him on the shoulders before handing him his suit jacket. “Listen to your big brother Frankie. The best medicine for getting over one woman is getting under another one. Come on. We’ll order a car and go find you someone with big eyes and long legs.”

Fred stiffened, his thoughts mutinous. He’d already found someone like that, with blue eyes that saw right through him and legs that felt amazing wrapped around his face. He didn’t want some nameless, faceless woman in his bed.

He wanted Amy.

He said nothing, though, instead following his brother as Frank turned off the lights and locked up the office. Said nothing as he climbed into the town car Frank had ordered, and followed him into some new club where the waitresses wore next to nothing and the music was so loud he could taste it in his throat.

He’d thought a night out might help lift his mood. Might take his mind off the woman he’d messed things up with.

Instead, all he could think about was what he could do to make things right.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“HOT GUY. TWO O’CLOCK,” Meg yelled over the din of the dim, crowded bar. The place was, frankly, a dive, scarred tables crowded cheek to cheek on sticky floors. When Amy didn’t respond, her oldest sister grabbed her face, a palm on each cheek, and turned her head in the direction she’d indicated.

“Dude. Personal space.” With a shake of her head, Amy flicked her sister’s hands off. When Meg did it again, Amy glared. “Would you stop?”

“Seriously. You’ll like this one.” Meg smiled so beseechingly that Amy sighed, turning in the direction her sister wanted her to look, then cast Meg some serious side eye.

“That’s John.” She rolled her eyes when Meg merely grinned, waving at her fiancé from across the bar. “Very funny.”

“I was trying to make you smile.” Meg nudged Amy’s untouched bottle of beer across the table. “Since you won’t tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.” To prove her point, Amy lifted her beer and took a healthy swallow. “See? Party on, and all that jazz.”

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