Page 2 of The Confidentiality Clause
“Will do,” I say with a half-hearted laugh.
Jeremiah approaches with a bag.
“Okay, I’m going to order now. Love you.”
“Love you too! Thank you again.”
We hang up, and Jeremiah sets the food on the table, then pulls a receipt out of his apron pocket.
“Actually, before I pay, could I place another order? A friend of mine called and wanted me to pick something up for them.”
He gives me another one of thosepoor girllooks. “What would yourfriendlike?”
My polite smile falls. He thinks this is for me. Of course.
“An order of Nona’s Lasagna, please,” I grumble.
He smiles at me and then returns to the kitchen. I hang my head. I’d say tonight couldn’t get any worse, but I’m about to drive across town to see Brock Jones, so I’d be speaking too soon. It’s not like the man is evil or anything, but anyone who causes stress for my best friend sets me on edge. And right now? Brock has been a source of anxiety for Sutton for months. She should be enjoying newlywed life. Living it up with her husband, working her dream job, eating sushi, and drinking champagne. Instead, she’s constantly worried about her sibling. He doesn’ttext or call as much as he used to, and he definitely doesn’t visit as often as he should.
While Brock used to get on my nerves with his constant teasing, I always appreciated how he stuck by his family. Sutton has said on multiple occasions that he’s the best twin brother a girl could ever ask for. Now, he’s always working. I’ve talked to Sutton after he cuts calls short, or cancels plans on account of a work emergency. He’s gotten worse as the months have gone by, and now I guess it’s escalated enough that I have to go check on him for her. I know if I couldn’t, she’d be on a plane to see him. That’s how close they are. Which is why his increasing distance makes no sense.
Worry niggles at my mind. I swat it away like a pesky mosquito. Brock has enough people worrying about him. I don’t need to add myself to the list. I’ll take him the food, yell at him for stressing Sutton out, then go home and eat cheesecake in bed while watchingHe’s Just Not That Into Youfor the umpteenth time.
I nod to myself. There. Plan made. All that’s left is to gather up the shreds of my dignity and enact it. When Jeremiah starts my way again with his pitying expression, I realize that the last part might be more difficult than I thought.
Chapter two
Brock Jones
I’ve learned to expect the unexpected in my line of work. Athletes tend to get themselves intouniquesituations. Something about the combination of millions of dollars and a pack of adoring fans makes people do wild things. But even with all of that experience, I didn’t expect a leggy brunette dressed for a night out to come strutting onto my office floor well after working hours.
I rub my bleary eyes. Is she a mirage? I didn’t think I was at the hallucination stage of sleep deprivation quite yet. When I blink my eyes open once more, she’s closer–and clearer. I scowl.
“What are you doing here, Duke?” I ask.
Ariel gifts me with a sarcastic smile as she drops a bag on my desk, right on top of the contract I was looking over.
“Nice to see you too, Carolina.”
Sometime during our college years, the bitter rivalry between Duke and the University of North Carolina bled into myinteractions with Ariel. She’s not even that big of a sports fan, which only worsens my irritation, but she despised the way I teased her and Sutton about going to an inferior school. Calling each other by our school’s names came about during a heated basketball game our junior year. They’ve stuck around ever since.
“What’s this?” I gesture to the bag.
“I knew you weren’t the brightest when you chose to go to UNC, but I thought you could at least read.”
She plops down in the chair across from me. I glare at her for a second before glancing at the logo on the bag. Bella Notte. One of my favorite places.
“Your sister is worried about you,” Ariel explains. “She sent me here to check on you and make sure you ate.”
“I’m not a child,” I snap.
Her eyebrows raise. “Could have fooled me.”
She kicks her feet up on the edge of my desk, next to a framed photo of my family and my best friend Shaw at his and my sister Sutton’s wedding. My eyes follow the long line of her legs to the hem of her black dress. She’s wearing matching black tights, along with tall heels and a burgundy blazer. I have to force myself to look away from her. Maybe I am sleep-deprived. There’s no way I was just staring atAriel, my sister’s best friend, of all people.
“Pass me my fettuccine and a fork, would you?”
“You could at least say please,” I grumble as I riffle through the bag. There’s a bag of bread, a container with what looks to be my favorite lasagna, one of fettuccine, and a smaller one with a slice of some caramel-covered monstrosity. I don’t have a sweet tooth, so I’d be willing to bet that’s Ariel’s.
