Sinclair smirks at Delacroix, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I opened the door.
“I hope you’re not planning to kill your best friend with that weapon.” I wave a hand at the gun.
Sinclair swings his head around and treats me to his best smile. “Not at all. We’re planning our next sleepover, where we dress in silk pajamas and paint each other’s toenails.” He looks back at my far-too-intense husband. “Remember the ones you used to wear when we were kids? The ones with the bunnies.”
“You had sleepovers?” I ask skeptically.
“Mhm,” Sinclair hums, kicking his Oxfords up on Darian’s desk and interlinking his fingers on his stomach. “Darian loved a good pillow fight. Feathers flew everywhere, which used to drive his mom insane.”
Darian slides his eyes in Sinclair’s direction so slowly, I’m surprised the sun hasn’t swallowed the earth whole by the time he finally raises a brow. “Pillow fights? Really?”
Sinclair throws his head back and laughs.
Rolling his eyes, Darian turns his attention to me, and his mood darkens like a storm cloud. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
I glance down at my checkered mini skirt and matching black top.
“I can see your cunt from here.”
My mouth falls openas Sinclair’s shoulders shake with silent laughter.
Did he just…? I’m at a loss for words. The fucking audacity!
“Did you leave the fucking house like that?”
“What if I did?” I ask as I cross my arms, trying not to fidget.
At this rate, I’ll have steam coming out of my ears soon, like a damn cartoon, if he keeps infuriating me like this with his caveman act.
One of Darian’s dark brows quirks. Sliding his phone closer, he unlocks the screen and makes a phone call.
Miss Sanders answers on the first ring. “Sir?”
“Fire all the male staff who’ve laid eyes on my wife today.”
“But sir?—”
“Come to think of it, fire the women, too. You included. I’m not taking any chances.” He hangs up and hooks me with those blue, ominous eyes. “Why are you walking around half-naked?”
Did he just fire his staff? Is he nuts?
“I like this skirt.”
“It’s lingerie.”
Sinclair is turning red, and I’m pretty sure he’ll die soon if he doesn’t inhale a full breath. It must hurt to try not to laugh.
On my way past, I smack the back of his head, and his suppressed laughter escapes.
Darian stares at him then, as if he only just remembers his existence. Sinclair is in stitches, clutching his stomach.
“Something funny to you?” Darian asks him.
I cross my arms. “No shit, Sherlock. Stating the obvious.”
“Shut your mouth!” he snaps at me.
Oh, he didn’t just fucking say that to me.
