Page 31 of Gilded Gods

“Watching you handle my brothers…” He shakes his head, a smile stretching the corners of his mouth. “Especially Ares? It’s hot.”

“What can I say? I’m a bitch,” I toss back to protect myself, one of the many lies I tell. “That doesn’t make me sexy.”

His brown eyes meet mine, and I feel so exposed when he looks at me. Like Atlas can see straight into my soul. “I only draw what I see.”

Be still, heart.

The vein in my neck throbs like it’s about to poke a hole through my skin. My ears are practically ringing from how hard my heart pounds.

“Do you want to review the marketing materials for Olympus?”

He nods and flips through his sketchbook, placing it on our thighs. With Atlas this close, I can feel his body heat. Smell the hint of citrus in his cologne. Our thighs nearly touch, and I suddenly get the urge to reach over and kiss him.

I don’t.

But I want to.

He’s given me the greatest gift of my life.

Confidence.

Atlas leans over, his fingers brushing each page as he flips them for me. I stare at the ink on his skin and take in his designs. Everything he creates is a work of art, even his tattoos.

I’m amazed by his talent. His sketches are so creative, every line and curve dripping with inspiration.

“Your work is incredible.” I smile, and his expression mirrors mine. “Have you ever thought about creating a comic book series? Or writing a graphic novel? These are seriously incredible.”

He shakes his head, and his dark hair drops in front of his eyes. His hair is the longest of his brothers and flops onto his forehead.

“You should think about it,” I tell him. “I bet you could make a lot of money telling stories with your art.”

He doesn’t answer me.

Just stares.

I can’t tell what he thinks when he looks at me this way. He inspects my face, searching for something I bet I don’t see. That’s his hidden talent. Atlas understands people and can draw out all of their flaws. But he’s also good at revealing what’s inside a person.

I like that he’s quiet because I can breathe around him. We don’t fill the void with awkward conversation, which is nice. I’m usually not a big talker, anyway.

So I point at his designs and offer my opinions on the best ones for each club. My father owns dozens of nightclubs, strip clubs, and bars across Beacon Bay. All of them have a social media presence and have ongoing weekly promotions.

Monica would have handled this. But our marketing guru quit two weeks ago after one of the bouncers broke up with her. So that left me to clean up the mess.

Atlas covers every aspect of our marketing. After I pick the designs, he reviews his plans to improve our social media presence. Then, we discuss the changes he thinks we should make to our websites. The list goes on until my head is spinning.

I like to manage people. This side of the business never appealed to me, so I hired an expert. And now, that person is my soon-to-be stepbrother.

My stepbrother.

I hate saying that word aloud or in my head. No matter how I say it, I want to punch a hole through the wall. Mom’s barely been gone long enough for her perfume to dissipate from the house. Yet, every inch of this space reminds me of her.

Dad is replacing her.

Our home now smells like Athena and the thick scent of her sons’ cologne. Everything is the same. The furniture, the artwork on the walls, the schedules of my father’s men as they enter the house each morning and night.

Yet, it’s different.

Tainted.

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