by K. A. Tucker
Not trusting myself to speak again, I tap the pinhead-sized diamond stud in my nostril. I’ve taken the septum ring and the majority of my ear piercings out, though. Part of this whole “new me” thing I’m trying.
Ben’s head bobs up and down slowly as if still trying to process this. Then his focus drifts down to my chest and his eyes narrow. I swear he’s trying to make out the outline of the metal ring that’s hidden there.
And I’m trying to control the hyperbolic flashback that took weeks to suppress—there’s just no way vomit shoots out of a person like a fire hose!—as the walking, breathing proof of one of my most mortifying nights stands in my office.
I waited a good two hours to creep out from the bathroom that night, to find Ben stripped down to his boxer briefs and snoring in bed. Quickly pulling my clothes on, I hightailed it out of there.
And now my botched exorcism is leaning against my desk, his muscular arms folded over his chest. The playful smile that stretches across his face tells me he’s found his bearings and is back to the cocky guy I was one vomit away from sleeping with two months ago. “What are you doing here?”
“Working,” I manage to get out without sounding weak. Easing farther into my office, I replace one of the many empty cups littering my desk with my new one, trying to act nonchalant when, really, I’m fighting the urge to turn and run somewhere where I can regroup. “I think the bigger question is, what are you doing here?” How did I not know he was from Miami? Oh yeah . . . I didn’t bother asking. I was too busy deciding whether I should have sex with him. And now, as I steal a glance at how well that black button-down and those dark gray dress pants look on his strong frame, I remember what swayed me. Well, the tequila certainly didn’t help.
Heat engulfs my cheeks.
I puked all over this guy.
And then he watched my bare ass crawl across the floor to his bathroom.
Mr. Cuervo and I—and all of his Mexican cousins—are no longer on speaking terms.
“Mr. Warner offered me an attorney position.”
“I . . .” What? Ben’s going to be working here?
“I finished law school in the spring.”
Gritting my teeth against the pain as I suck back a mouthful of burning-hot coffee—I’m going to regret that later—I mutter, “You failed to mention that.”
He twists his mouth in thought. “I was too busy trying to figure out what kind of marine biologist you are.”
“Recent career change.”
“Right.” His eyes are twinkling as he watches me, amused. Jerk. “Is this going to be awkward?”
“No . . .” I say, tossing my purse on the ground, “because you’re going to resign immediately.”
He heaves a sigh. “It’s not a big deal. So you—”
“Shh!” My hand flies up to stop him as heat flares into my cheeks again. That’s the last thing I need floating around work. “Don’t!”
We lock gazes for a long moment and I can’t read what his says. Is he regretting that night as much as I am? Because, for all the stupid things I’ve regretted doing—and that’s a long list—that night is sitting on top of the mountain waving an “idiot” flag.
A sudden voice behind me interrupts us. “There you are, Ben. Natasha’s waiting.”
My eyes do an involuntary roll, both in response to the sound of my stepbrother’s mind-numbing tone and to the mention of Natasha, the thirty-year-old type-A law bot who’s trying to kill me with divorce depositions. Ben catches my reaction and doesn’t even try to hide his grin as he offers, “Hey, Mason. I was just on my way back to my office.”
“You know there’s no cleaning staff here on weekends. You’re inviting infestation with this mess,” Mason mutters, and I know that’s directed at me. Mason couldn’t sound more apathetic with me if he tried. We may live and work under the same roof, but we’re no more friends now than we were before I moved in eight months ago. I actually wish I had caught his reaction on video when he came home from class and found me in the kitchen, drinking straight from the chocolate milk jug. Jack hadn’t given him any warning that I was back in their lives. I thought his head was going to explode.
“But I have pets to feed,” I retort. Everything about Mason—except the unruly mop on his head—is pristinely neat: his pressed shirts and pencil-leg pants, his Subaru hatchback, the office next to Jack’s that I’ve seen him disinfect with Lysol wipes every single day. The only time he has anything to say to me is when he’s pointing out how pristinely neat I am not. Needless to say, we don’t cohabitate well.
“You don’t want to talk to her this early in the morning. She hasn’t had her first feeding yet and she’s more abrasive than usual,” Mason warns Ben.
“Listen to Jiminy Cricket. He knows things.” It has taken almost two months of snarls and glares, but I have everyone trained. Even Jack knows not to attempt conversation with me until this giant cup of coffee is empty and I’ve opened my office door, after spending an hour cursing the sender of every new email that has filled my in-box. I’m relatively pleasant after that. Of course the lawyers tolerate it because I run circles around all the other paralegals here, even the ones who’ve been here for years. Clients agree to flat rates for paralegal work and then I deliver on it in record time, freeing me up to work on more cases and generate more profit. They leave the heavy clerical shit to the others and give me work that requires research and analysis and critical thinking, stuff that has always come naturally to me because I’m inquisitive and willing to test boundaries. I guess it helped that, while I was sailing through the paralegal program, Jack was passing on all kinds of books on statutory and case law, stuff they teach you in law school. Looking for ways to drown my spare time, I devoured them. No one would believe that I’ve been here for only two months. It feels good. For the first time in years, I feel smart.
With a chuckle, Ben begins making his way out, stepping around me extra slowly. “Maybe abrasive is what won me over before.”
“Wait a minute . . . You two know each other?” There’s definite wariness in Mason’s voice now.
Ben’s wide grin doesn’t fill me with ease. “Yeah. We met in Cancún.”
Mason pushes his big, geeky glasses up with an index finger as he looks at me. “When were you in Cancún?”
I shake my head at him. Of course he wouldn’t remember. As tidy and regimented as Mason is at work, he can be scatterbrained when it comes to regular life. He kind of reminds me of a mad scientist, without the lab coat and test tubes. “July. My birthday. Remember? You gave me tickets to see U2?”
Mason’s eyes ignite with a spark of anger. “I didn’t give you those tickets. You stole my credit card number and ordered them!”
I make a point of holding my hands up to my chest in mock insult. “I was merely ensuring you got me a memorable gift for my twenty-first birthday.”
“I thought you were twenty-nine,” Ben pipes in with a wry smirk.
“And I thought I’d never see you again,” I snap.
Understanding seems to hit Mason then and, when he shifts his focus to Ben, I see something that looks an awful lot like revulsion pass over his face. “Please tell me Reese isn’t the purple-haired girl Kent was talking about?”
“Reese?” I hear Ben’s voice somewhere in the background, but my brain is too busy processing key words.
Purple-haired girl. Kent. Talking about. Mexico.
For the second time in under five minutes, I feel the blood drain from my face as I’m hit with my own level of understanding. And horror. Ben isn’t just a new employee. “Oh my God. You’re friends with my stepbrother?”
Ben’s eyes cut to me, his brows shooting high up his forehead. “Your stepbrother?”
“Oh, fuck!” Mason starts shaking his head. “Seriously, Ben?”
I steal a glance at Mason, who never swears, before settling daggers on Ben’s face. “Yeah, Ben. Seriously?” I hiss through gritted teeth. “What would Kent have said about the purple-haired girl
, Ben?” I haven’t admitted to that night to anyone except Nicki and Lina, and that’s only because I came back to the hotel limping. If Ben told his friends . . . and Mason knows . . . I’m going to die. Mason will totally use that against me one day. He’ll tell everyone at the firm and they’ll talk about it behind my back. I’ll walk into meetings to the abrupt end of giggles. And then I’ll be forced to kill everyone.
With wide eyes panning back and forth between Mason and me, Ben looks torn between exploding with laughter and bolting out of my office.
And that’s the perfect time for Natasha to poke her head in. “This must be Ben,” she chirps in that high-pitched voice that has grated on my nerves since day one, offering him a bright smile and a hand. “I’m Natasha. You and I will be working closely together.”
“Looking forward to it, Natasha,” Ben offers casually, scanning the female attorney’s body in front of everyone and grinning while doing it. He’s not doing it in a leery pervert way, but I still find it exceptionally annoying. If there’s an ounce of luck left for me in this world, Ben will get himself fired for sexual harassment.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like Natasha will be sounding any alarms. Flipping her long apricot-colored hair over her shoulder, she giggles like a complete airhead—which she’s not; she’s actually quite sharp, though I’d never boost her ego by telling her that—and says, “Great. Well, we should get started. I’m buried with cases right now. Fortunately I’ve had Reese here to help me with a lot of the legwork.” She flashes her brilliant white teeth my way. “Speaking of which, did you have a chance to get through that file?”
I knew I’d be supporting the lawyers in this job. What I didn’t know is that I’d basically be doing all the work so they could sign off and collect their hundred thousand–plus a year. I swear, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them asks me to wipe their ass soon.
“You mean the forty-two-page contract I was working on until two a.m. last night? Or the sixty-page deposition I just found sitting on my desk?” I match her giant smile, only mine is so fake and rabid that a blind dog would know to shy away. Her olive-green eyes flicker to my full cup of coffee. “Ben, how about we go to my office and let Reese get settled?”
Brilliant idea.
She and Mason waste no time exiting my personal space.
“Extra-large for that shirt . . . Reese,” Ben whispers as he passes by.
I hold my breath as I watch him exit and then I rush to throw my door shut. I hide behind it, the only place that isn’t visible to the outside world, thanks to the wall of windows. But I’m sure everyone hears the thump as my head connects with the hollow wood.
This has to be karma, coming to take a giant bite out of my ass.
Chapter 6
BEN
“Nothing happened.”
“That’s not what Kent said.”
“Well, Kent wasn’t there, so how the hell would he know?” I sigh. “She was loaded.”
“Since when is a girl too drunk for Ben Morris?”
“Dude.” I shoot a glare at Mason as we find a park bench in the shade to help ward off the September midday heat, drinks and lunch in hand. Jack had to cancel plans due to a client emergency. Apparently that happens a lot.
He holds his hands up. “Sorry. I know you wouldn’t do that.”
I watch him as he carefully unfolds and smooths three napkins over his lap and then surgically unravels some weird veggie-tofu-wrap shit, careful not to let so much as a shred of lettuce fall out. We’ve all teased Mason about his chick diet for years, but the guy’s so particular about things, he can’t even be shamed into a greasy burger. I kind of like that about him. “Are you going to eat that or marry it?”
“You saw her office, right?” he asks, ignoring me. “She’s a slob. Living with her is a fucking nightmare.” That’s two f-bombs dropped by Mason today. Swearing is another thing he doesn’t do, which tells me that either the idea of me screwing around with his stepsister or his stepsister in general really gets under his skin.
A flash of my trashed hotel room in the morning hits me and I smile to myself. “And yet she sure cleans up nice.” I get an eye roll in response. “Look, I know she’s your stepsister, but she’s fucking hot.” As much as I liked the “I don’t give a shit” wild-girl look she had going on in Cancún, this new look—with her pretty blond hair and her little dress and her boots—is a huge turn-on.
“And certifiable.” He fixes me with a look. “Seriously. Her nickname around the office is Rancor.”
Coke shoots out my mouth as I stifle a laugh. “Does she know?”
“I guess you missed the life-sized cardboard standee in her office? The day she heard Nelson from contracts slip and call her that within earshot, she rush-ordered it from some Star Wars website. She sets it up beside her door on the mornings when she’s extra annoyed.” He shakes his head at me as I explode in laughter.
For everything else about her that was a lie, I’m glad to see that biting sense of humor is genuine. I like a woman who can make me laugh. “If she’s so difficult, why would your father keep her there? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he has. I’m looking forward to working with her.”
“You won’t be for long,” he mutters. And then sighs heavily. “Even though she’s highly unprofessional and will likely get the firm sued on employee relations issues at some point, I’ll admit that she’s really good at what she does. All she has is a high school diploma and a paralegal certificate and yet she’s telling half the associates how to do their jobs, quoting laws and statutes. And she’s usually right. It’s disturbing, how fast she picks up on things.”
“So you’re saying she’s a genius,” I say around a mouthful of food.
“Yeah, maybe,” he says with a hint of resentment in his voice. “She’s also selfish, reckless, unreliable, and impulsive.” He downs his Perrier and mutters dryly, “All signs of a sociopath.”
“Oh, hell.” I roll my eyes. I forgot that Mason did his undergrad in psychology. “Give me a break. Your sister’s not a sociopath, Mace! You just really don’t like her, do you?”
“Stepsister,” he corrects, his tone sharpening a little. “It’s not that I don’t like her. Well . . .” He half-shrugs. “I’ll admit, I’m not overly fond of her. But really, I just don’t trust her. My dad didn’t hear from her for nine years, and then out of the blue she calls him to bail her out from a Jacksonville police station back in January?” Shaking his head, he adds, “He dropped everything and drove up there. He almost lost the firm’s biggest client that day because of it.”
Hmm . . . What was she doing in a police station? “Does she have a record?” Not that I really care. Unless it had anything to do with performing exorcisms on guys who are trying to get laid.
“Juvenile. It was sealed when she turned eighteen. Mostly stupid stuff, from what my dad told me. Fights . . . pot . . . drag racing.”
My eyes shoot up at that last one.
“This last time was pretty serious, though. She vandalized her ex-husband’s apartment.”
My sub freezes midair to my mouth with this new information. “Ex-husband? Didn’t she say she just turned twenty-one?”
Mason’s head bobs. “Married at nineteen. She knew the guy for all of six weeks before they eloped in Vegas. Tell me you’re surprised that their marriage only lasted four and a half months.”
“Shit . . . That tattoo on her arm. Was that him?” It has to be. And I made that boneheaded comment about it.
“Yeah, I think so. Apparently when she went back to move her things out, she splattered red paint all over the apartment.” His eyes widen knowingly. “Do you get the symbolism there? Red paint . . .?”
“She’s feisty.” Again, something I knew. Again, something I like. I can’t help but note her choice in color and start to laugh. That shirt never stood a chance.
“Sounds like the divorce was ugly.”
“The guy cheated on her.”
“Shmuck.” If
you can’t be monogamous, don’t get into a committed relationship, let alone a marriage. That’s my philosophy. Which is exactly why I don’t commit to anyone. “So Jack decided to bring her to Miami with him?”
Nodding slowly, Mason admits, “My dad always really liked Reese.” He snorts. “More than he liked me. But how do I know she’s not out to con him? Her mother already bled him dry once.”
I chew my sandwich silently, waiting for Mason to elaborate, surprised that he’s telling me this much to begin with. “He and Reese’s mom were married for five years before he found out she was having an affair with Barry Steele.”
Pieces start clicking together. “Warner and Steele . . . Old partner?”
Mason nods.
“That’s cold.”
“Yeah, well, Annabelle is an opportunistic, self-centered whore. She nearly destroyed my family’s legacy. It cost my dad a fortune to buy Barry out and then she tried to swoop in to pick at his bones like a vulture, but Barry wouldn’t let her. Dad’s still recovering financially. That’s why he hasn’t been able to finish the office renos.” Mason pauses for a drink. “Apparently she left Barry about two years ago and moved on to a U.S. senator.”
“Is she hot?”
“Yeah, I guess. But so was Grendel’s mother,” he mutters, making me shake my head. Leave it to Mason to reference Beowulf. Folding up the wrappers from his sandwich, careful not to spill crumbs on his pants, he goes on to say, “My dad’s not stupid, Ben.” Mason’s eyes look that much bigger behind those big glasses as he peers at me.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Hell, he can’t possibly blame me for that night! I wasn’t even hired here yet.”
“He knows your type and he knows where you’ve been working the last four years. He almost didn’t hire you because of it. He made me promise him that you’d be able to keep your pants on before he made you an offer.”
I chuckle. “Well, you may have your work cut out for you, Mace.”
“I’m not kidding. Look, he just finished dealing with a lawsuit against Warner from three years ago. A guy from litigation was dating a paralegal. When they broke up, it turned sour. Apparently she got pretty hostile and brought it into the office. Jack eventually had to let her go and she sued for wrongful dismissal. He doesn’t want to deal with that again. That’s why he has these rules. Rules that are meant to be followed.”