I fling open the door of my stainless steel fridge with way more cubic feet than any one person could possibly need and grab an IPA from one of my favorite local craft breweries. Okay, so it’s not even 10:00 a.m., but I’ll make an exception to my strict no-alcohol-before-noon policy for this.
My best friend and business partner’s little sister wants to move in with me. Which you wouldn’t think would be a problem. I mean, we’ve known each other since we were kids. I should want to help her out, right?
Right. Except for one tiny—or not so tiny—thing. Namely my dick, which is already doing a happy dance at the thought of having Brie sleeping in the next bedroom.
Have I mentioned that she’s my best friend’s sister? His little sister? And that I’ve had the hots for her since I was old enough to figure out girls were good for more than just teasing?
But it’s against the bro code to mess around with your buddy’s sister, especially when you and said buddy are in business together. I’ve managed to do a pretty damn good job of keeping my distance from Brie for years now. But having her take up residence in my luxury loft, no matter how spacious, is going to make that—not to mention my aforementioned dick—awfully hard.
I pop the top on my beer and slug it down. I’m going to have go back out there soon. I can’t hide in my goddamn kitchen forever, like the coward that I am. But I need some liquid courage first. I’m not a ladies’ man like Jake. Or, God forbid, my father. I can get a little tongue-tied around women. Especially ones I’m attracted to.
Until I get them in bed. Then something goes off in me, like a switch, and I’m the king of dirty talk. And it’s not only me who says so. I’ve had more than one woman praise my linguistic skills in the bedroom.
But I digress. The point is, I’m not great at chatting up chicks I’m into unless we’re between the sheets. Add in the fact that I have a hard time saying “no”—to anyone, for anything—and it’s clear why my current situation is a recipe for disaster.
“Everything all right in there?” Brie’s voice floats in from the other room.
“Uh, yeah. Be right out. Want a beer?”
See what I mean? Instead of tossing her sexy ass out the door, I’m offering her drinks. Idiot.
“At ten in the morning?” she scoffs.
“Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere.” Just not here.
I toss back the rest of my IPA, rinse out the bottle, and put it in the recycling. Okay, so I’m a neat freak. And eco-friendly. Sue me.
When I finally work up the nerve to go back into my own damn living room, Brie’s in front of my bookcase, studying the array of family photos. Ironically, there are more pictures of her family than mine. Not surprising given that I spent more time at their house growing up than my own.
She bends over and picks up one photo to examine it more closely, and my heart and my dick simultaneously twitch at the sight of her ass on full display. She’s got a booty like Beyonce, ripe and round, tempting me to—
Stop. This is exactly why Brie and I can’t be roomies. My mind may be willing to keep her in the strictly platonic box, but my flesh is definitely weak.
I clear my throat, and she turns around, picture still in hand. It’s one of the few I have of my family in happier times. Before my mom’s ALS kicked into high gear and my dad went off the deep end and started screwing everything in sight.
“Your mom was really beautiful,” she says, a little choked up. “Like Grace Kelly in that movie with Cary Grant.”
I’m surprised at the emotion in her voice. It’s not like she knew my mother all that well. Our families didn’t move in the same circles. My father wouldn’t have allowed that. Hell, he barely tolerated my friendship with Jake. I think the only reason he let us hang out was because he thought it might make me more jock than geek, like some of Jake’s natural athleticism would rub off on me if we spent enough time together.
Spoiler alert: It didn’t. Sure, Jake introduced me to the gym, which eventually helped me go from scrawny to brawny. But I’m still shit at sports, and I still prefer a well-played round of chess to anything with touchdowns, baskets, or home runs.
Much to my father’s disappointment.
“To Catch A Thief,” I supply, taking the picture from her and glancing at it before carefully putting it back into place. She’s right. My mom was beautiful. And classy. And kind. Everything a mom should be.
Great. Now I’m starting to get choked up.
“That’s the one. I always mix it up withNorth By Northwest.” Brie eyes another photo, this one of me and Jake at our high school graduation. We’re a study in contrasts, him the big, burly four-sport letterman and me the shorter, slighter computer nerd.
She looks at me, then back at the picture, then at me again. “What’s your secret?”
“Secret to what?” I ask, grateful to be talking about something other than my mom.
The question isn’t really necessary. I’ve got a pretty good idea where Brie’s going with this. But some vain part of me wants her to say it. Wants the satisfaction of knowing all my hard work in the weight room has paid off. But even more, of knowing that she’s seeing me, really seeing me, like I’ve been seeing her all these years.
“You’ve looked at yourself, right? I mean, you must have a mirror somewhere in this mausoleum.” She turns her attention from the photos on my shelves to the books, her question obviously rhetorical since she clearly doesn’t expect an answer. Not that it matters, because I already have mine. She’s seeing me, all right.
Which, I suddenly realize, makes it all the more imperative that I get her and all her crap the hell out of here, stat. Yeah, it’s gratifying knowing she likes what she sees. But it’ll be even harder to resist jumping her bones now that I know the attraction isn’t one-sided.
