Page 49 of Billionaire's Sins
"Pity club?" I scowl.
"You forget we swore to always have each other’s backs, no matter what. And that included giving the two of you space when needed."
"The lot of you gave us space?" I laugh. "None of you had an inkling of what we went through—"
"Only because you never shared," Sinclair snaps. "Do you realize how frustrating it is that the rest of us have been open about what happened to us? While you and Baron..." His jaw firms, "The two of you clammed up, as if there was some secret that bound the two of you, something that you didn’t dare talk about, in case—"
"In case—?" I tilt my head.
"In case, talking about it would force you to acknowledge what actually happened."
"And is that so bad?"
"It is." He rises to his feet and grips the edge of the table. "If you want to heal, then you need to open up, Father. If not to one of us, then to her."
"Who?"
"Cut the bullshit, Ed. We know."
"Know?"
He nods.
"Know what?"
"That you and that delectable dancer of yours have a thing going on," a new voice answers from the doorway that connects the conference room to Sinclair’s office.
I glance toward the man who fills the doorway, then groan, "Oh, no."
"Oh, yes." Weston walks in… Or rather, is dragged in by a very excited Max, who prances around on a leash. Weston unhooks his leash, and Max dashes toward Sinclair, who bends down to pet him.
"Hey, little bugger," he croons, "you missed me, did you?" Max barks, licks Sinclair’s face, places his paws on his £7000 suit. Sinclair doesn’t flinch. He scratches behind the dog’s ears and Max positively whimpers in ecstasy, before dropping his paws back on the floor. The dog races around the table toward me. I hold my hand in front of his nose, then mirror Sinclair’s gesture by digging my fingers behind Max’s ears. The dog huffs, tongue lolling, before pulling away and racing around back to Sinclair, who once more pets him.
"Good practice for when the little one comes along, eh?" Weston walks over to deposit the leash on Sinclair’s table. "My, how you’ve unbent since the snarling, growling man you used to be, not long ago."
"Speak for yourself." Sinclair straightens, and Max settles at his feet. "I still have my edge."
"Wait until the patter of little feet sounds on your office floor. Then we’ll see," Weston retorts.
"Office floor?" He glances around, "Why would I bring the kid in here?"
"You mean Summer hasn’t told you?"
"What?"
"That she plans to split parenting duties half in half with you."
"As she should." Sinclair scowls. "Still, doesn’t mean I’d bring the kid to office."
"You would if you had a creche in the office." Saint prowls in. "I am all for it, given Victoria is only five months from giving birth and I, for one, wouldn’t want to be parted from the kid for that long—"
"So, you are going to bring the kid to work?" I ask.
"Probably not." Saint smirks.
"Then?" I frown.
"Ideally, I’d work from home. Hell, I could work from anywhere, and this way, I can spend time with my family. Best of both worlds."
