Page 8 of Final Approach

Now, with a fuzzy tongue and a shirt so wrinkled it resembled crepe paper, I had regrets.

“I’m just a bit slow this morning, Bianca. Give me a minute, yeah?”

Shuffling down the hallway, I popped a mint from the tin in my pocket and paused in front of the embossed gold mirror to check my hair. My eyes burned behind the black rims of my glasses, and my head had a bass beat that mimicked the club’s. But by all outward appearances, I didn’t look hungover, just a bit rumpled.

It was not my first drinking blitz and likely wouldn’t be my last.

But it did the trick. Every now and again, a good binge got the yearning for drink out of my system. Now I would enjoy the grace period a renewed man.

Running my fingers through the short curls that landed on my cheekbones, I straightened, satisfied I looked partially presentable — at least by my metrics. Bianca hadn’t gotten the memo we were headed to an outdoor activity and was wearing a soft pink formal suit and heels.

My family’s obsession with appearances was no longer my problem. She would ruin the five-hundred-pound pair of shoes on her feet, but the Baron would replace them, as always.

“The car’s waiting, Nicolas.” She tapped her foot, and I grinned at the woman I was surprisingly happy to see.

Opening my arms, I wrapped them around her in a tight hug before pulling back to get a good look at the ridiculous outfit. “I’m ready. And thank you for arranging this wonderful day, dear sister.” After placing a delicate kiss on her cheek, I shot her an impish grin and held out my hand. “Shall we?”

She rolled her eyes, but then placed her palm in mine. I led her down the impressive concrete stairs leading to a beautiful front garden to the awaiting car. I escorted her to the luxurious black sedan and held open her door. The waiting chauffeur, standing stiffly against the front passenger door, dipped his head in acknowledgment and went back around to the driver's side.

Once we’d seated and settled into the buttery leather seats, my favorite dictator spoke. “First, we’ll grab breakfast. A man cannot survive on mints alone, Nicolas. Armand, please take us to Cafe Girondino,” she commanded the chauffeur before turning her appraising stare back to me.

“May I ask why you drank yourself into a stupor last night?” She cocked her head, long curls bouncing along her shoulder. “Was the thought of spending a day with me so horrid, you needed lubrication?”

She laughed at her own joke, but I could see the truth behind her stoic presence. We’d been on rocky ground, she and I, for several years. Our father’s inability to accept me as I was, and our mother’s commitment to duty over motherly love had been the final straw. I’d rejected our family expectations, packed my bags, and emigrated to Argentina.

I loved my sister in the ways older brothers felt the need to protect and provide for them. I loathed her desire for title and wealth. But she was straight, and not the sole male heir. Her responsibilities were different.

Thanks to a good bit of therapy, I’d released it all last summer, and we started speaking again. Two days ago, we saw each other for the first time in a decade.

Reaching over, I clasped her warm hand in mine, intertwining our fingers as if we were children.

I was fortunate to have a sister whom I loved and could share a bit of my life. More than anything, I wanted a family — people who loved and accepted me as I was. If a sister was all I would get out of that deal, I would cherish her, warts and all.

“I’m thrilled you came to visit, Bianca. Truly.” I turned our hands over and blew out a long breath. If we were doing this — this honest sibling thing — now was as good a time as any.

“I was dumped last night,” I admitted, a part of me fearful of her reaction. “By a man.” I added when she remained silent. “It wasn’t overly serious, but serious enough, and so I turned to whiskey for a brief reprieve. I’m fine now.”

Sadness filled her eyes, but words didn’t come. Instead, she squeezed my hand and offered a small smile. We weren’t good at platitudes, the Seymours.

“Then let’s have a grand day, shall we?” She released my hand and drew out her phone from her pocketbook. “A grand day that Father will pay for.” Her wicked grin tore a raspy laugh from my throat, and I settled into the seat, ready for the distraction. I had lost Timothy, but maybe I’d gained Bianca, and that trade would be enough to fill the hole in my heart for now.

As I suspected, Bianca’s suit was indeed impractical, and she broke a heel within the first thirty minutes of our park visit after breakfast. Instead of whining, she laughed it off and bought an exorbitantly overpriced pair of sandals from a market stall. She ate fried cheese bread and pastels from a street vendor and marveled at the marmoset monkeys leaping from the tall trees by their ringed tails.

I’d prepared to connect with her, but was delighted to find I enjoyed her company. In the ten years I’d been absent, my sister had grown into a fun and charming young woman. We’d had a wonderful day, and I capped it off with a traditional boteco bar supper.

“No!” Bianca exclaimed, gasping into the foam of her beer as I regaled her with a story about our posh mother mistaken for staff at a Nollywood movie premiere.

“I’m serious!” I laughed with my whole chest, knowing she would be furious if she knew I was telling this story. “She thought he would know her! She waltzed right up to Timini in her tiara, ready to pose for a picture, and he asked her if she knew where the loo was.”

A familiar ring burst through her peels of giggles, the tone reserved for Aileron, my employer.

I couldn’t afford to miss the call. My expensive habits didn’t pay for themselves.

“Good evening, Nicolas Seymour,” I answered.

“The Third.” My sister whispered with a giggle behind my back, her third beer making its presence known.

“Hi, Nikki,” my supervisor said seriously. “How’s your time off?”