Page 23 of My Secret Santa Dallas

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “I’m at work in Texas.”

“No, you’re not,” he said simply. “I know your boss sent you trotting off to Montana to some godforsaken ranch to wheel and deal some negotiation.”

“Are you spying on me again?” I asked tightly.

“Who told you I ever stopped?” Wentworth asked pointedly. I could picture his smug face as he sat in his thirteenth-floor office, twiddling one of his many monogrammed pens. “You know I have to keep tabs on you. Dad would hang me from the rafters if his baby girl was in trouble, and I didn’t know about it.”

“Well, seeing as he chose you to be his heir and CEO, I doubt he’d hang you,” I said.

“So, tell me, what it is like living incountry?” Wentworth’s derision came through with every syllable. “I doubt you’d get your chai latte, Golden Reserve Caviar, and blini out there.”

“Never liked caviar,” I said. “And you know that. You’re the only one who eats that stuff. Newsflash, brother, it’s pretentious as fuck and makes you look like an idiot.”

“My Strottarga Bianco Caviar at fifty-one thousand per pound would disagree with you,” he said. “Now, tell me about the country. Do they even have bathrooms out there?”

“No, Wentworth,” he had to hear the sarcasm in my drawl. “We shit in the bush and use poison ivy to clean our behinds.”

“I thought so,” he said. “And before you lay into me, I heard your sarcasm, little sister. I am not oblivious.”

“We are twins, Wentworth,” I said coldly. “You are three minutes older than me and ten years emotionally stunted.”

“I love you too,” he laughed.

I was running out of patience. “Is there a reason for this call, Wentworth? Because unlike you, who has fifty aides to do your job and Dad to pick up after you, I have work to do.”

“Are you still peddling negotiations and making deals that do not benefit you?” Wentworth asked. “You know you still have a waiting position here instead. Why don’t you stop trying to make a point to father, come home, and help your own family? I am sure we can double whatever puny salary you’re getting from the meat manufacturer.”

“And work under you?” I asked. “No, thank you. I’d rather get a root canal with no Novocain.”

“How about triple?” he asked. “Unlimited vacation days, premium insurance, and all the fringe benefits you could ever ask for.”

At least once a year, Wentworth came around with an offer like this, and I told him the same thing every year. “I am happy where I am, thanks.”

Soon enough, he was going to come back with thedon’t be a traitor to your familyline.

“Aren’t you tired of being a lackey?” he asked. “You’ll be in command here.”

Second in command.“Have you ever heard the phrase, familiarity breeds contempt?”

“I have,” he said. “Never cared to understand it, though.”

“Of course you haven’t.” I sighed. “I don’t need your job. I am happy where I am.”

He scoffed. “We’ll see about that.”

“Anything to deliver?” I asked. “Any new trophy girlfriends on your arm? Is Mom still going to Switzerland for her birthday, and is Dad still collecting Civil War collectibles?”

“I have no idea,” he said blithely.

“Goodbye, Wentworth,” I said, “You’ll be willing to pitch your offer next year as usual, and until then, please leave messages on my voicemail.”

I cut the call off and dropped the phone onto the table, already feeling a migraine coming on. Bracing my hands on the table, I looked at the pale strip of Burnt Sienna I’d applied to my left lid and considered wiping it off entirely. But the color on the right was blended perfectly and, with a grim feeling in my gut, finished the other eye.

Finished, and with my phone in my back pocket, I went downstairs, wondering which version of Dallas I’d get that morning. Was he his typical confident self, or was he more mellow like last night?

I still couldn’t believe our conversation last night; did his brother even know that side of him?

I entered the kitchen to find Miss Marie there, humming along as she stirred one of the five pots on the massive stove, and I could see the oven was engaged, too.

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