Page 22 of Take Me, Sir

“I want to know, Kyndall. Did you fuck my friend?”

A spark of temper flared, and I glared up at him. “That's none of your damn business, Dalton! I'm an adult, in case you've forgotten. If I want to go out to a club and take home a couple of guys to fuck, I can.”

Color flooded his face. “Don't be crude.”

“You started it,” I shot back.

“That's mature.”

Juliette threw up her hands. “I'm going to check on our son.” She shot a withering glance at Dalton and then headed toward Anthony's room.

I blew out a sharp breath. I didn't want to fight with my brother. Not over this. “Look, Dalton, I know you're just trying to protect me, but I've been basically living on my own for six years. I've had sex. I've gotten drunk. So have you. Unless you want me to start asking all sorts of questions about the things you've done in your life, don't do it to me.”

“He's too old for you–”

“I'm not having this conversation with you again, Dalton. Who I sleep with is my business, no one else's. If I want your opinion, I'll ask.” I kept my chin up, my voice even.

“Is he giving you money?”

Okay, not the way I saw the conversation going. “What?”

“Money, Kyndall. You met him after the wedding, and then you suddenly have enough money to put a deposit down on an apartment that you could never afford–”

“Dalton Emerson Letlow,” I said his full name slowly, giving him the time to know that I'd gone from pissed to full-out angry. “I'm really hoping that you just didn't think before you spoke, because if you actually meant to imply that I let your friend pay to fuck me, then we're going to have a serious problem.”

“You said what?!” Juliette barely kept her voice down. “What the hell happened while I was gone?”

“I didn't say that,” Dalton said.

“It sounded an awful lot like it,” I said tightly. “But I'm going to pretend that your question wasn't insulting and answer it anyway. No. Dean hasn't given me any money. But where I got the money for my apartment isn't any of your concern.”

“I'm just trying to look out for you.”

I glared at him. I knew he was telling the truth, but that didn't mean I had to like the way he was doing it, and I wasn't going to pretend it was okay.

“I took care of myself fine at MIT. I can take care of myself here.”

“I just don't want you doing something you'll regret because you think you have to prove something.”

I'd had enough, and it took all of my self-control to keep from shouting. “First of all, I have a fucking Ph.D. from MIT, and no student loans to pay off. I did it all on my own, so I don't know what the hell you think I would need to prove.”

He opened his mouth, but I pointed at him, and he shut it again.

“And second of all, talking about something I'd regret makes it sound like you're calling me a prostitute. Again.”

“I'm not,” he insisted. “I just know that there are some types of jobs that you might regret having done later on in life. Like when you want to get married or have kids.”

“You mean like my choice of vocation.”

Juliette's voice was cold, and I turned toward her, surprised, both by her tone and her words. She was a caterer, and a damn good one, judging by the apartment. What did that have anything to do with this conversation?

“Juliette.”

Her name sounded more like a warning than I thought it should have. Dalton should've been apologizing for whatever it was Juliette thought he was saying. Instead, he sounded like he was telling her to be quiet.

“No, Dalton, I think your sister deserves to know a bit more about us, especially since you're trying to sound all high and mighty.” She turned to me. “He's worried that you're doing something similar to me. Doing the things I did before Anthony was born.”

I was confused but didn't interrupt. I had a feeling this was part of what had made Juliette so riled when they'd first come in, but now it seemed to be connecting to my conversation with Dalton, so I kept quiet and waited. If she wanted me to leave, she'd tell me.

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