“Yes, Arthur, we hear your objection, but I'm not interested in it. Not to mention it was your idea?—”
“Miles, we both know I didn’t mean?—”
“I just need the documentation, Arthur. So if you can get an overnight courier sorted, that would be very much appreciated.”
“Hendricks?” barks this guy, Arthur, who’s probably earned more money during this conversation than I’ve ever earned in my entire life and totally sounds like a crusty old White dude.
But, according to Miles, he’s the one who holds all the family secrets. We need him to get the paperwork together, including a prenup.
Hendricks, Miles’s twin brother, attempts to suppress a grin and shakes his head.
“Yes?” he replies wearily.
I don’t know if he’s weary from this conversation, because it’s enough to give anyone a splitting headache, or from the flight he just took from Australia. To be fair, he’s also a little bleary-eyed. I don’t even know what the flight time is for a distance like that. I’ve never even left the United States, and here he is casually jumping on a plane when his brother asks.
He arrived with his girlfriend, Story, and his son, Max, who are both currently outside acting like best friends with Maverick, who’s clearly had a personality transplant. It makes me wonder if I brought the correct horse with me from Scott McTavish’s place when I fled ten days ago. Maybe it’s the Burlington touch.
“Can’t you talk sense into him?”
Hendricks throws his head back and lets out a loud laugh of genuine amusement. It’s exactly like Miles, and it’s freaky as fuck.
Because on closer inspection, while they’re identical, they’re also not. It’s like Hendricks was born and Miles came along a couple of minutes later, and better.
For example, their eyelashes are different. Miles’s are thicker and a little bit longer. Not that I have any desire to compliment Miles Burlington at all, but his smile is a little bit more crooked, interesting almost. The dimples under his stubble are deeper. His thick curls are curlier. But it’s still styled in that ridiculous way where it looks like he’s constantly ruffling his fingers through it.
And then there’s their expressions. Miles is, for want of a better word, more relaxed. Hendricks is quieter and a little bit more serious, except for right now, when he’s still laughing.
“I don't know what makes you think that I can talk any sense into him. I've never been able to before.”
“I need to tell Lando?—”
I lean over to Hendricks and whisper, “Who’s Lando?”
“Our eldest brother,” he replies, right as Miles’s patience snaps.
Witnessing Miles in action is quite the spectacle. It’s like he’s allergic to the word no and the epitome of entitlement—willing to break any rule he can because he wants something he can’t have. Not that I’m any better for agreeing to go along with it.
“You don’t. It has nothing to do with him. No one needs to know about this except you, me, Hendricks, and Ruby. It’s not Burlington business, Arthur, it’s mine.”
There’s a prolonged silence and a furious typing of keys.
“Fine. I mean, it’s not like people won’t think this is believable. This type of behavior is right up your street,” Arthur replies, remonstrating like a disappointed parent. I look at Miles, expecting him to respond, but he stays silent. The only indication he even heard Arthur is the furious clenching of his jaw. “But we need an independent witness for the signing of the NDAs and the prenup . . .” He pauses and takes another deep breath. “Miles, you don't even know what this woman's after.”
His words insert a rod down my spine. The fucking nerve. Miles might take a verbal beating, but there’s no way I am.
“Excuse me, sir.This womandoesn’t want a single thing from Miles Burlington except the salary he promised me and the chance to play at Foxleigh Park. The prenup was my idea, I’ll have you know.”So fuck you, I add under my breath.
It’s Miles’s turn to laugh, and I don’t know why he finds it so amusing, but when he leans over and pats my hand flat on the table, I snatch mine away.
“Spoken like a true Burlington. I think she’ll fit in just fine.”
There's another chorus of huffs and splutters, paper rustling. “Well, young lady, that's good, because you are entitled to nothing, and this paperwork will detail as such. Miles, I assume you can find someone independent?—”
“Story’s here. She can.”
“And you’ll need to have your paperwork settled with the registrar,” he continues.
“Already done.” Miles grins. “Beauty of Colorado, there’s no wait time. God Bless America.”
