Page 59 of One Big Little Secret

I know why I’ve never named any of the creatures in my tank, though. I prefer the anonymity.

They have their lives, I have mine.

Sometimes they intersect, like God looking down on his free-will ant farm here. I can watch them from afar without intruding on their fate.

Naming them would change that, making it too personal.

You’d better believe I hate that shit.

Thinking of Junie reminds me of the family, too. Mom and Evelyn Hibbing. Her friend’s been staying a while, trying to ride out the worst of her winter back home.

Damn, I promised her that talk about real estate, didn’t I? Knowing it won’t go anywhere.

Aside from having no interest in expanding that far north, we’re not about to make the mistake of partnering with outsiders again so soon.

Not after Haute. Not even for a family friend.

But I should hear her out as a courtesy. I can at least point her in the right direction, possibly help her find a better partner than Higher Ends if she’s looking to sell.

I finish the last of my drink and push the glass across my desk.

Tomorrow. I’ll talk to Evelyn and let her down easy to keep Mom pleased. Then I’ll be back to brooding in front of my fish, wondering how grey this evil ladybug will make me with her soul-sucking hot and cold shit.

Salem.

My mind pings on something.

The meeting with Evelyn could be a good chance to demonstrate the art of negotiations—if we can stand inhabiting the same room and breathing the same air for that long.

Isn’t that my job as a mentor? To man up and mentor her?

If I’m not careful, Dexter or Archer will get to her first.

Then I’ll never hear the end of it. Her, talking about how wonderfully generous my jackass brothers are, and them ribbing me until the heat death of the universe about why I couldn’t handle a young, energetic woman.

Fuck that entirely.

I pick up my phone and dial her contact.

It’s late, and I idly wonder if she’s out, taking advantage of the babysitter to have a night off. Does she ever get out for a date?

Or maybe she’s passed out in bed because she doesn’t have a workaholic problem that follows her home like yours truly.

“Hello?” Her voice is slightly breathy. “Can you just hang on one second?”

Oh, hell.

My blood heats.

What if I’ve interrupted her in the middle of something scandalous after all?

I hate that the thought of her having a normal sex life sends jealousy streaking through my blood.

It was six years ago, you deranged baboon.

Six. Years.

You have no right to her.

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