Page 24 of Sweet Twins For My Brother's Best Friend

When I arrive home, I try to decide whether or not I’ll have time to shower before Hannah gets here. Just when I decide to go for it, peeling off my shirt, I hear the buzzing of my apartment’s box.

I stand still for a moment with my shirt above my head before yanking it off to hit the button and tell her to come on up.

When she knocks on my door, I let her in, and she stands smiling for a moment before nonchalantly commenting, “Nice hair” and pushing past me to sit at my dining room table.

I look in the mirror on my wall and see that the static has animated my dark curls. I smooth them down quickly and try to snap back, “Nice…” but nothing comes to mind.

She looks beautiful. Her hair’s glossy sheen seems especially bright in the warm lighting of my penthouse apartment and she’s put on eyeliner that accentuates the almond shape of her eyes.

“Good one,” she chuckles, her eyes shining.

I shrug, resigned, and sit next to her in a chair, shaking my legs. I feel an unnamed tension bubbling inside me at having her in my house. She looks natural in it, like she’s been here before.

“What did you need to tell me?”

“Why are you sweaty? And shirtless?” She squints at me and tucks her long hair behind her ears as she shuffles her chair closer to the table.

“I just…went on a run. Why, do you like it?” I tease, running my fingers down my chest.

She wrinkles her nose, but her tongue flicks out to lick her bottom lip unconsciously, and I can’t help but smirk at her body language betraying her.

“Here.” She lays down the papers in front of her like she’s reading my tarot cards or about to do a magic trick. “Do you see anything strange?”

“I wouldn’t know what to look for. That’s why I pay you the big bucks.”

Hannah snorts. “Well, who would? Who’s in charge of your finances?”

Her question takes me aback. I’m not sure if I should say. Maybe she’s misunderstanding whatever it is.

“What did you find, Hannah?” I ask, lowering my voice and scooting in. I squint at the papers trying to understand what it is she thinks she sees.

“Chris, your projected profits versus your actual profits are markedly different.”

“So? Like the actual profits are lower?”

“Yes, lower.”

“So? It happens. We got cocky with the projections.”

Hannah’s mouth twists uncomfortably. She drops her elbow heavily on my table and lays her face in her hand, covering her mouth with her cupped palm.

“That’s not really what projected profits are. There’s no reason to be overly cocky with them. Listen to me. You could be right, okay? It could be a simple mistake, but it has happened to you practically every quarter. Your company is consistently underperforming. Why would someone continually make that mistake and project high profits when historically the profits were not rising to that level?”

“So what are you saying?”

“I think someone who has control of the company’s financials and bank accounts is stealing from you,” she says simply. “And if you could get me an itemized list of your company’s financial transactions, I could confirm it.”

Her words shoot ice into my veins. I drag the papers over to me and look them over, staring at the numbers she’s highlighted and her math in the margins.

I look back up at her with my mouth open.

“Is this right? $30,000 a quarter less than projected? For—” I shuffle through the papers, then look back at her again, “—years?”

Her nod is silent, allowing me to soak in the information.

$30,000 a quarter. $120,000 a year. For years.

I put the papers facedown and stand. And the only person who has that kind of power is Sarah. Sarah, who I’ve promised an even bigger position. Sarah, who’s been with me since the beginning.

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