Page 65 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

She doesn’t know how it’ll end. The thought of it ending poorly is enough for her to shove the thought aside, putting it out of her mind for whenever she’s forced to deal with it.

At seven-thirtyMonday morning, there are two taps at Khalohn’s office door before he hears the latch give way. Khalohn looks away from his computer not at the sound of Maribelle’s heelsclunkingacross the carpeted floor, but at the mischievous chuckle which accompanies a second set of shoes.

“Good morning, dear,” Maribelle greets, her ruby painted lips pulled tight in a forced smile. “I do hope you had your swim this morning. It’ll be your only saving grace if this is your first cup of coffee.” She sets his usual tray of breakfast on his desk, but Khalohn ignores the food as his gaze shifts to Porter. Unlike Maribelle, the grin he wears is far from forced.

“I don’t know how she forgets I’m your best friend,” he teases, pointing at the woman. She rolls her eyes as he says, “Seeing my face first thing Monday morning is a gift, not an intrusion.”

Ignoring his broker, Maribelle looks Khalohn in the eye. “You’ve got a conference call with Oceana in a half hour,” she reminds him.

He dips his head in a nod. The agenda for his call with the Italian based yacht company he intends to partner with is pulled up on his computer screen.

“You’re to meet with your executive team right after.”

“Thank you, Maribelle.” Squelching a smirk, he offers her a subtle nod toward the door and assures her, “I require nothing further.”

“All right, dear.”

As she takes her leave, she offers what Khalohn is sure is a glare to Porter. He doesn’t have to see the expression to know it doesn’t faze the man in the slightest. Khalohn watches Porter wink at his secretary, his grin growing wider as she hurries from the room.

“She’s barely had a chance to check her messages, and already you’ve irritated her,” mutters Khalohn, reaching for the nob on top of his French press. Porter makes his way to the window, gazing out at the view while Khalohn pushes down the coffee grounds.

“Oceana?” he inquires, completely brushing off any mention of Maribelle. “Khalohn Morgan is going to have yachts sailing from Tokyo by year’s end. Dibs on the first one ready to set sail.”

“What are you doing here, Porter?”

He turns away from the window, shoving one hand into his pant pocket, using the other to smooth his already clipped down tie. “Thought I should check on you. Tried to reach you yesterday morning. I was going to convince you to let me take the Monte Carlo for a spin, but you never picked up.”

“This is about the Monte Carlo?” Khalohn pours a serving of coffee, ready for their conversation to be over.

“This is aboutyounot answering my calls. You always take my calls.” He pauses, as if reconsidering. “Strike that. You can be a pain in the ass to reach during the week, but never the weekend.”

“I was busy. Kind of like I am now. Sorry to ruin whatever grand plans you had for my yacht.”

“Busy? On Sunday morning?”

Khalohn doesn’t bother with a response. He reaches for his bagel, glancing at his friend before taking a bite. Porter merely studies him, his eyes narrowing the longer he stares.

“You know what?” He shakes his finger, as if he’s on to something. “Only one reason a man like you doesn’t answer his phone on a Sunday morning.”

“Yeah. Because I’m busy,” mutters Khalohn.

“Yeah, with pussy.”

Again, Khalohn doesn’t bother with a response. He takes another bite of his breakfast, the taste of the whole wheat bagel taking him back to the morning before. He remembers the feel of Bryn at his back, her arms wrapped around him, her lips near his ear, inviting him for a shower.

“Shit. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Before Khalohn has a chance to answer, the phone on his desk sounds. He doesn’t hesitate to pick up the call.

“Lorelai would like a word. I presume you wouldn’t mind the interruption,” says Maribelle.

“Not at all.”

They both disconnect without further prompting, and Lorelai comes strutting into the office not a second later. Porter’s attention shifts toward the woman, instantly distracted as his eyes scan her from head to toe. The dress she has on makes it impossible not to see every curve of her lithe body. Khalohn is grateful for the determined look in her eye that makes her all but overlook his incorrigible broker.

“Morning, sir,” she says, coming to a stop in front of his desk.

“Sir?” Porter murmurs incredulously. “You’ve trained this one well.”

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