Page 1 of You Don’t Kiss Your Brother's Best Friends

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JOCELYN

Murder.

It was one of those words that started sounding funny, if you turned it over in your mind long enough. Murder wasn’t in my wheelhouse, until very recently. It was the type of thing other people did; crazy people, reckless people. People who didn’t think much about repercussions, or the possibility of spending the rest of their lives in a six-by-eight cell with a community toilet.

But now, all of a sudden, I could actuallyseeit.

Murder wouldn’t solve my problems, though. Well, at least not all of them. And I certainly did have problems — almost too many to count. Problems at home. Problems at work. Problems I was supposed to forget all about, at least for a little while, as I drowned myself in ruby red wine, on the beautiful Greek isle of Mykonos.

Looking out over the breathtaking Mediterranean sunset, I thought about all the rules I’d followed to get here. For example, when your two business partners stopped flirting and finally started fucking each other, you had to be happy for them. And when they went so far as to get engaged, you were almost required to be ecstatic.

But when you returned from an extended ski weekend to find they’d emptied the warehouse, sold off your assets, anddrained every bank account before jetting away to God-only-knows-where-the-fuck in Australia? Well, you tended not to be as happy anymore.

Especially if they were the ones who sent you off skiing in the first place.

No, it was hard to be happy when you were the leading lady of a grade-A, first class, Defcon One clusterfuck. Smiling dementedly, I raised my glass toward the setting sun.

“Welcome to the shitshow,” I toasted, basking in my sarcasm. “Hope you brought alcohol.”

For one gloriously peaceful moment, I had a full, unobstructed view of the cerulean blue horizon. A second later, it was blocked by a man sliding into the empty seat directly across from me.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

His local accent was thick — almost as thick as the flesh on his bulging, stubbled neck. The man had stringy black hair. Olive green eyes. He wore a pink collared shirt unbuttoned almost down to his navel, with the sleeves rolled up just far enough to show off his shiny gold watch. It looked sorta expensive, but then what the hell did I know about watches.

“And how did you—”

“Before you say anything,” I cut him off, “you should probably know that I’m contemplating murder.”

The man’s oddly-attractive eyes narrowed. He looked around, confused. “Murder?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Me?” He pressed a meaty palm against his barrel-shaped chest.

“Could be you,” I admitted coolly. “Doesn’t have to be, though. There’s still a chance for you to get up and walk away. That window is closing fast, though. Especially with you blocking my sunset.”

The man paused again, but then his expression softened. I could see he’d decided not to take me seriously.

Unfortunately for him.

“They don’t usually grow women as tall as you here,” the man said, in what was apparently meant to be a compliment. Not that I was insecure about my height, but some tall women were. “I knew you were an American the moment I saw you.”

I did nothing to hide my sigh. “And?”

“And a woman as lovely as you shouldn’t have to dine alone.”

“Yes, well I’m not dining,” I lied. “I’m finishing this drink, and then I’m out of here.”

In a cosmically hilarious example of bad timing, my food showed up. The waiter smiled as he set the same plate of grilled sea bass and sautéed vegetables before me for the third time in as many days. But hey, the dish was fucking delicious. When I found something I liked, I generally stuck with it until I did it to death.

“You were saying?” my dinner guest grinned smarmily.

Thoughts of violence materialized again, swirling through my head like a storm.

“You’re blocking my view of the water,” I barked. “Get up.”

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