Page 51 of Twins For My Bestie's Brother

I hear a buzzing sound and move to my knees, looking around the room.

It might not be the master bedroom, but it’s huge. Of course, it is. He’s a billionaire for crying out loud. He could afford for every room to be its own house. Anyway, not the point.

I hear the buzzing again and get to my feet. Damn, I amsore.

In the best way, of course.

I find the phone on the nightstand where I didn’t look, like a dummy.

Oh no.

It’s late. Like way-past-the-start-of-my-shift late.

There’s a flurry of texts.

Mom, Dad, Kayla.

Will. Ugh. I thought I blocked him.

As I scroll through the various ‘Where are you?’ text messages, I trip across the room to a chair in the corner that has all my clothes folded nicely in a stack. That must have been Jackson’s doing. And that’s unreasonably hot for some reason, that he took the time to fold my clothes.

I am truly at the point where bare minimum behavior makes me swoon.

But Jackson is not bare minimum. He never has been.

I send off a few texts to let everyone know I’m alive and fine, and I’ll be at work soon, and I’m so, so sorry. Save Will of course. He doesn’t get access to me like that.

Once I’m dressed, I skitter into the hallway. I can hear music down the hall, so I follow the sound until I’m in the sun-washed kitchen with lofted skylights and a huge L-shaped bar at the center where at least six people could sit and eat.

And there’s Jackson at the stove, his back to me. Wearing a pair of sweatpants and . . . no shirt.

Even his back is beautiful.

Classic rock wafts through speakers that are . . . they’re in the ceiling? Is it surround sound? I don’t know why I’m surprised anymore. Maybe because the only time I see his wealth is in his nice car and bicycle.

Jackson turns around from whatever he’s tending to on the stove, and he smiles. “You’re awake.”

That’s a smile better than a cup of coffee. “Yeah, I’m awake.”

Great, now we’re stating facts like we’re talking about the weather.

“If you want some coffee, I just brewed a fresh pot. There’s also iced coffee in the fridge, or I could make you an espresso if –“

“Cup of coffee is great, thanks,” I say and go to the coffee pot next to the insane looking espresso machine. I open the cabinet above the pot and find stacks of matching white mugs right away.

“Breakfast is almost ready if you’re hungry.”

I pour a cup of coffee and sip it, paying no mind to how hot it is. I pad over to his elbow. “Mmm. What are you making?”

“Omelets,” he says with a shiny smile.

Yep, looks like omelets. Full of a rainbow of vegetables. “Smells . . . amazing.”

“Good, I’m glad. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so . . . ”

“I’ll like whatever you make,” I say.

Jackson’s nose grows red. “Take a seat, and I’ll bring it to you.”

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