The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister

by Quinn, Meghan

  But Julia doesn’t seem to have the same kind of blood running through her veins as the other girls I’ve met, who hang about the frat house, looking for their next dick to conquer. She’s different, clearly shown by her eye-roll. Slow and purposeful, touching the tops of her eyes and veering dramatically to the side. I like it, a lot.

  “So what brings you out tonight?” I ask, wanting to move past the whole tits and pussies thing.

  She shrugs, her slight shoulders barely holding up the straps of her overalls. She glances around, taking in the rambunctious crowd. “Thought I would see what this frat thing was all about.”

  “I made sure she was a shut-in her freshman year,” Rath cuts in. “School first and then after a year of studies under her belt, she is now allowed to attend parties, but only parties I will be at because there is no way I’m letting some drunk asshat take advantage of my little sister.”

  Take advantage of Julia? Huh, I wonder what it be would be like to unhook her overalls and peel off her tube socks? I take a second to visualize it. The smooth lift of one of her overall straps, the imprint from the compression of her sock on her skin still present once I pull them off her feet. Oh yeah, that shit is—

  “Dude.” Rath whacks me in the back of my head. “Stop staring at my sister’s socks. What is wrong with you?” At least I wasn’t staring at her tits . . .

  “Huh? Oh.” I smile and rub the back of my head. “I like them. Very . . . uh, white. Do you use bleach? Or are you an OxiClean girl?”

  Blankly, she stares at me, not answering, just staring, almost as if from behind her pupils she’s evaluating everything about me. And from the look of it, she’s so not impressed.

  It’s not as if I like Rath’s sister, but getting her approval as the best friend, now that’s something I wouldn’t mind. You know, a little pat on the back that says, “I know you’ve kept my brother warm at night before and I appreciate it.”

  There is no answer to my question, just a small shake of her head when she turns toward Rath. “Clarissa is getting us drinks. I’m going to find her.”

  “You’re drinking water, right?”

  She nods. “Yup. Of course.” She stands on her toes and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you around.”

  “If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  “Somewhere acting like an idiot, I’m sure.” She gives him a retreating smile, not bothering to say bye to me, and then takes off toward the house.

  Huh, not even a nice to meet you. I thought the Westins had better manners than that. Well, she’s fucking rude. Too bad I can’t say that, unless I want a fist to my eyeball, and you know what? I’m really not in the mood right now.

  “So, that’s Julia, huh?”

  Rath nods. “Yup, that’s my sister.”

  Chapter Four

  JULIA

  “Don’t lie to me, Rath.”

  I power-walk across the dingy streets of New York City in three-inch heels, the brutal winter wind whipping up my long coat and chilling my legs into popsicles. I despise the cold weather. If I had it my way, my business would be situated on the tip of Florida, helping all the single people in Miami find love. Unfortunately for me, the dating mecca is in New York City, which means I’m stuck dealing with the winter weather.

  “I’m not lying to you.”

  I don’t believe it for a second. I know my brother, and I know when he’s lying—or at least trying to cover up—and right now, the way his voice is slightly high-pitched when he says the word lying, I know he’s holding back the truth.

  “If I were on my deathbed right now and asked you if Bram coming to me was from pure desire to find love, not some stupid fantasy football bet, what would you say?”

  “Uh . . .” he coughs. “Oh shit, look at that, I’m late for a meeting. I don’t want to get in trouble. I should go.”

  “You own the company,” I deadpan, the wind kicking up an old chip bag and plastering it against my coat. I swat it away, hoping there was no residue of excrement on it.

  “Yeah . . . still, time is of the essence, and I don’t want to be a dick boss. Love you, sis. Let’s get lunch soon.”

  “I know you’re not answering my question by trying to kick me off the phone right now.”

  “What’s that? I can’t hear you. You must be going through a tunnel.”

  “I’m walking the streets.”

  “Okay, thanks, yup. Bye.”

  Click.

  I huff out a long, frustrated breath as I put my phone in my purse and hunker down, making it down the last block until I reach Bram’s office building.

  There is no doubt in my mind that the only reason Bram is going through my program is because he lost the stupid fantasy football bet. There is no other explanation. I’ve known the man for a long time now and there’s no way he’s interested in my program. Not in the slightest. Which means . . . I’m going to make Bram Scott’s life a living hell.

  Once inside Bram’s building, I take a second to catch my breath and defrost my whole body. I’ve given myself time before our appointment, so I step to the side of the doors in the lobby and take off my gloves, adjust a few bobby pins in my slickly styled bun, and pat my frozen cheeks, offering them some life.

  The opulent lobby is brimming with people on the move folding in and out of the building with work on their minds. High heels clack against the marble floors, ostentatious elevators ding what seems like every few seconds, moving the masses within the building’s 110 floors.

  If you’re not used to conducting business in New York, this could be intimidating, but to me, it’s simply expected, nothing to be worried about.

  At least that’s what it feels like now. When I first moved to the city, I was that girl who stood in lobbies, taking in the grandness of them all while people bumped and power-walked past me on a mission.

  I make my way to the elevator with at least a half dozen people and press the top floor, ready for the long ride.

  People file in and out of the elevator, coming and going until I reach my floor. Hand clutched to the strap of my purse, I open the glass doors of Scott Realty and head toward the back where Bram’s office is located. His dutiful assistant sits with a headpiece taking notes while rapidly talking to someone on the phone.

  I wait patiently but the minute Linus—we’ve met a few times before—notices me, he puts his phone call on hold. “Miss Westin, it’s good to see you.” His eyes travel over me. “Mr. Scott is waiting for you and told me to let you in whenever you arrive.”

  “Thank you, Linus.”

  I move past the wandering eyes of Linus and to Bram’s office where I push through the frosted glass door without knocking.

  I’m kind of hoping I walk in on him doing something embarrassing, but I’m sadly disappointed when I find him sitting at his desk, a hand in his sandy-blond hair, pulling on the short strands as he stares intently at his computer screen.

  When he hears the swoosh of his door, his eyes glance in my direction and that stupid lazy smile of his pulls at his lips. He’s so cocky and sure of himself. He always has been. Never once has his personality changed since I first met him. He might have matured slightly, trading in a beer bong for a pint glass, but he’s still the same arrogant man.

  His strong hands grip the edge of his desk, the crisp white fabric of his dress shirt pulling at the girth of his biceps as he pushes away from his desk and stands. Navy-blue dress pants cling to his thighs. As he walks toward me, I notice the roughness of the scruff caressing his jaw from the way his fingernails rub against it.

  I’m a far cry from overalls and turtlenecks. In college, I had no care when it came to fashion. I wanted my doctorate, and I wanted it on a fast-track pace. That’s all I cared about.

  It wasn’t until I had my doctorate, my dating program fleshed out, and my business needed a face for marketing did I realize I needed a makeover.

  Thankfully my friend Clarissa knows everybody and set up an all-day consultation
to polish and refine me into the face of a major matchmaking company.

  “Hey Jules.” Bram walks up to me, places a hand at my waist and leans forward, his cologne taking over every thought as he places a soft kiss on my cheek. Before I can say anything, or even catch my breath, he pulls away. “Thank you for meeting me here. I’ve had meeting after meeting all day, so not having to bolt to your office was helpful.”

  I’m going to get this out in the open so there are no misconceptions. By no means do I hold a candle for Bram Scott. Not even close.

  But . . .

  He is an extremely attractive man. He’s the man you don’t believe exists until you actually meet him in real life and practically swallow your tongue the minute they make eye contact. His eyes, almost a pastel blue-green color. His skin, tan in the winter for some godforsaken reason, and his hair always perfectly styled in that messy look that takes twenty minutes to accomplish but looks like it took five. His body chiseled like a Greek god and his smile, a lethal combination of perfect teeth and sex appeal. He’s the epitome of male attractiveness and he knows it. And I’d be lying if I said I found it easy to be around him. He’s . . . too much. Too perfect to look at anyway.

  He motions to the blue velvet couch pushed against his office wall. “Hand me your coat and take a seat; make yourself comfortable.”

  He’s so smooth, casual, as if this isn’t the most awkward encounter we’ve ever had. I know he’s lying about why he’s asking for my services. If he wants to be put through the ringer of my program, that’s fine by me, but it’s a little scary with how comfortable he looks right now.

  I hand him my coat and take a seat on the elegant couch. This fabric, God, it must have cost a fortune because it’s incredibly soft, like a combination of crushed velvet and melted butter. For a brief—and I mean brief—second, I think about what it would feel like to lie across it naked, how the fabric would feel across my skin, with my back plastered against the length of the couch . . .

  But like I said, that’s a fleeting thought, especially since Bram is standing a few feet away, hand in one of his pockets, smiling like a fool.

  He rubs his palms together. “I’m excited to get started.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I mumble, leaning toward my bag and taking out a stack of contracts. I plop them on the walnut coffee table in front of me. “You have some contracts to sign, so you should get started.”

  He eyes the stack. “Contracts?”

  I cross one leg over the other and try to look as sophisticated as possible, even though my inner nerd wants to tuck my body away in the corner under Bram’s impossibly intense gaze.

  I figured out very quickly when dealing with men like Bram—powerful, sophisticated, and wealthy—that you have to show confidence even if you’re not feeling it deep in your bones. If you show confidence, they’ll take you more seriously. Shying away isn’t an option anymore.

  “It’s the requirement I have with all of my clients. It’s so I know they’re going to take the program seriously and not using it under false pretenses.” I emphasize the words and watch for his reaction, but nothing. Should have known—Bram knows how to maintain a business-learned, inscrutable expression. “There is a three-month commitment to the program, testing that must be conducted, and confirmation that we can use your test results and personal information to help find you a match.”

  “How intense is the testing we’re talking about?” He sits and lifts an eyebrow at me, pulling the contracts to his lap where he shuffles through them.

  “It’s about a week's worth of tests.”

  His head pops up. “A week? Are you serious?”

  I slowly nod, a small smile curving my lips. Little does he know how labor-intensive this program really is. My brother and his friends picked the wrong dating program to lose a bet to and guess what, I’m going to hold Bram accountable.

  “Don’t forget to read about the fees for my services.”

  “Money doesn’t matter to me,” he off-handedly says, sharply reading over the fine print.

  I know money doesn’t matter to Bram, it’s practically sprouting out of his ears as I sit here, but I want him to be aware of all the fees.

  “Just note that charges are applied for duplicitous treatment of the program. I don’t waste my time, and if you waste it, you pay the penalty.”

  He scans the sheet and I know when he sees it, because the corner of his mouth tugs upward. He lifts his head enough so I can see his mischievous eyes. “You get your ruthless business skills from your brother, don’t you?”

  I glance at my nails, taking a look at the nude polish that needs to be touched up soon. “I might have had him help me with the contracts.”

  “Smart. But you don’t have to worry about the fees when it comes to me.” He lifts his head completely, his body language easing toward me on the couch. “I’m in this for the long run, Julia.”

  For some reason, I hate when he calls me Julia. It sounds so formal falling off his tongue. He’s the only one who calls me Jules, and the only one I allow to call me Jules, because when he uses my full name, it almost feels like we’re strangers. It shouldn’t matter to me. Bram Scott shouldn’t matter to me, but what can I say? Receiving warmth from Bram is a welcome and rare event in my otherwise ordered and structured life. Jules is the refreshing deviation from being Miss Julia Westin. Jules means I’m still a flesh-and-blood woman who someone sees as a friend of sorts. Not that he’ll ever know that, because he’s Bram, and it would only go to his stupidly handsome head.

  “Well, good,” I answer, feeling flustered all of a sudden. I touch my throat. “Can I have a water?”

  “Oh shit, yeah, I’m such a bad fucking host.” One thing I find oddly charming about Bram that might be a hard sell to someone else, is even though he thinks he’s refined and polished, he lets his true self show around me—the potty mouth, cocky frat boy I met many years ago. “Water and salads. Coming right up.”

  He pulls his phone from his pocket and shoots off a quick text, and it feels like in seconds, Linus is at the door, knocking and then bringing in lunch. He sets it on the coffee table and asks, “Would you like anything else, Mr. Scott?”

  “I think we’re good, Linus. Take your lunch, and put it on my card. See you in an hour.”

  Linus’s face lights up. “Thank you, Mr. Scott.”

  The heavy door shuts behind Linus, leaving me alone with Bram again. Completely alone.

  “Can we take a small lunch break before we dive further into these contracts?” Bram pats his stomach, which I know is rock hard. “I’m starving. My protein shake did nothing for me this morning. Do you know what I really wanted? Some breakfast tacos.”

  I nod and open up my salad container. Yum. Lots of beets. He knows me well.

  “What is it about a beet salad that gets your nipples hard, Jules?”

  Annoyed, I tilt my head to the side and level with him. “You’re going to have to learn not to speak like a beer-guzzling idiot if you’re joining this program.”

  “What? Because I said nipples?” He shakes his head. “I only said that to get you to talk to me. You know, hold a conversation.”

  “I know what a conversation is, Bram.” I pour the dressing gingerly over my salad and punch my fork through a few leaves of lettuce. “I just pick and choose when I want to have a conversation and when I don’t.”

  “And you don’t want to have a conversation with me right now?”

  “Not really,” I answer, being completely honest. I’m angry. Bram doesn’t need my program to find someone, and I hate feeling as though I’m part of some immature joke. They’ve both denied it, but really? I have work waiting for me at my office, and I didn’t come to this appointment to be fed and watered. I don’t want to make conversation right now. This is not a social call. Yet, even when I’m honest, it still results in that godforsaken smirk of his, which makes it worse.

  “And why’s that?”

  I take a bite of my salad and bring the contai
ner to my lap. I look out the window and chew, ignoring him completely.

  “All right, you’re going to make me guess. That’s fine. I’m good at guessing games. Hmm, let’s see.” He takes a bite of his steak gorgonzola salad and chews. “You’re not talking to me because I made you come to my office.”

  I don’t answer him, but I am annoyed I’m here and had to trudge through the winter conditions to get here.

  “Okay, that’s not it. I didn’t think it was since I saw the way your fingers orgasmed when they touched my couch, but thought I would throw it out there.” Jesus, he’s so annoying. “Is it because I forgot to offer you a drink? It was a slip-up, won’t happen again.”

  I don’t acknowledge him.

  “Hmm, not the water.” He snaps his finger. “Oh, I know, it’s because you find me overwhelmingly sexy and fear you might say something stupid if we have a conversation.”

  I roll my eyes, hard. Even though that’s partially true. “Get over yourself.”

  “Aha. I knew that would do it.”

  I hate him. If only I could. I go back to my salad, chewing and keeping my eyes trained on everything but him.

  “Come on, Jules.” His voice softens. “Talk to me. Tell me about your new apartment.”

  I swear, the information that travels between Bram and Rath is absurd. They talk more than teenage girls.

  Even though I don’t want to talk to him right now, I give in because he won’t quit. He’s that person, who will slowly torture you until you finally give in.

  “I don’t want to talk about my apartment.”

  “Oh shit, does it have roaches?”

  “No,” I answer, about to lose it on him. “No, my newly renovated apartment overlooking Central Park does not have roaches.”