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Lena: Mr. Flannel Shirt wants to talk fashion and design? HA. You wouldn’t know fashion or design if it smacked you in the damn head. And, the subject is YOU, DUMBASS, and the fact that you NEVER bring dates to family events. Hell, you’ve literally never brought a girl around our parents since high school. Not your fuck buddies. Or your assistants. But you brought Ruby.
Now, I’m annoyed. I don’t know why I’m annoyed, but I am.
But she’s not finished.
Ten seconds later, another message follows.
Lena: You and I both know there’s a reason you brought her to Dad’s birthday party the other night. And, it needs to be said, I already love her. She’s far too smart for you and doesn’t walk around with the same stupid, horny, doe-eyed look that pretty much every other woman you’ve ever been with always seems to have.
A grin forms on my lips without my permission, and my heart does something weird inside my chest when I read the second sentence of her message.
What the fuck is that about?
I ignore it, rub at my chest, and before I can type out a response, another text from Chatty Cathy fills the message box.
Lena: Just admit it, bro. You like her. A lot. And who wouldn’t? She’s beautiful, funny, and extremely smart.
Me: Is there something you’re trying to tell me? Are you trying to get Ruby’s digits from me because you want to date her? I’ll be honest, sis, I don’t think she swings that way, but I guess I could try to put a good word in for ya…
Lena: Nice deflection, asshole.
Deflecting. I’m not deflecting.
I don’t have any reason to deflect…right?
My chest does that weird thing again, and I decide to really turn the tables on my long-winded, prying sister.
I laugh to myself as I tap my fingers across the letters and put together my own long-winded message that’s sure to change her nosy tune.
When I hit send, my smile is one-hundred-percent satisfied.
Me: Oh hey, by the way, I overheard a conversation Vicky was having with Glen Morris and his wife just before they left Dad’s party. She told them the good news about Milan. Well, sort of told them the good news. She had a few of the details mixed up. Said you were going there to learn how to be a chef and that Jared is basically paying for you to gallivant around Europe. But she definitely had the city right.
Lena: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
When Vin pulls up to the curb and stops in front of Thatch’s apartment, I send one final text to my sister.
Me: Hey, Lena, sorry to cut this short, but I gotta head into a late meeting. Love you, sis. Talk soon.
Lena: OF COURSE YOU’D LEAVE THE CONVERSATION NOW. AFTER TELLING ME THAT.
Lena: P.S. YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE.
I grin to myself as I lock the screen of my phone and slip it into my pocket.
Obviously, my little sister has a very funny way of saying I love you.
But I know the truth. I’m basically her favorite person on the planet.
“What time do you need me back here?” Vin asks from the driver’s seat.
“It might be a late night.” I grip the handle of the door. “So, why don’t you call it an evening, and I’ll grab a taxi home?”
“You sure, boss?”
“Positive.” I nod. “See you tomorrow, Vin.”
I slide out of the back seat and step onto the pavement.
With the number of questions I have rolling around in my head about Ruby, the Billionaire Book Club sure as fuck has some work to do.
Fingers crossed these bastards can focus for more than ten fucking seconds tonight.
“What’s this narrator’s name?” Thatch asks pointedly as the audiobook breaks between one chapter and the next.
We’ve been listening to If I Don’t, a novel about a newspaper editor and her laundry list of suitors, for the last hour. The book is a romance, and I know that eventually it will center in on a man worthy of a woman’s affection, but so far, it’s been much more a story about self-love.
I picked it specifically, as I have with all of the other books. But this time, I used different criteria. It’s not a book that Ruby is reading now. But it is entirely related to her.
After the way things went at my dad’s party, I felt like a change in tactics was necessary. Ruby is like no other woman I’ve encountered before. She’s unpredictable, unconvinced, and mind-blowingly resistant to my normal charms.
She never reacts the way I think she will. Hell, I don’t even know what she’s looking for anymore.
I just have to hope—at some point—the answer will come in one of these books.
“Elizabeth Aster,” I answer Thatch’s question. But the truth is, I know something they don’t—something about Elizabeth Aster that I’ll take to the grave if she really wants me to.
