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I let out a huff of laughter. “Same as always.”
“Alright. I’m going for the Rolex,” she proclaims with distinct confidence.
My brows shoot up in surprise. “You seem quite sure about that one. You don’t have an inside line, do you?”
“Of course not!” she cries. “How could you accuse me of such a thing, Wesley?”
I chuckle. “Okay, okay. No need to get all screechy. Which Rolex?”
“Vintage,” she says in her attempt to clarify.
I roll my eyes. “Which vintage Rolex?”
She groans. “Oh, I don’t know what it’s called. Come on, Wes, you know which one I’m talking about—the James Bond one.”
“Submariner,” I provide.
“Yes! That one.”
“Okay, then. I’m going the square faced Cartier with…” I screw my face up to think for a moment. “Leather band.”
“Ooh, gamble,” Tash says excitedly.
I let out a soft chuckle. “Same stakes?”
“Of course. I’d better go finish this piece. See you after!”
The restaurant my sister—or more accurately, her incredibly uptight and equally well-off fiancé—picked for her birthday is a fancy French place in Mayfair with about a million Michelin Stars. Definitely not my kind of place at all—give me good pub grub anytime.
Fortunately, at least, it’s just the five of us tonight: Emma, Devon, me, and my parents. My parents can be a lot to take, but at least they’re used to me by now and usually shrug off my antics with a “oh, well, that’s Wesley,” kind of attitude. Other people—Devon’s family, for example—aren’t quite so forgiving.
When I finally reach our table, I’m not surprised to be on the end of exasperated looks from both of my parents. When I get to Devon and Emma, though, the thunderous glare Devon sends my way seemsslightlyuncalled for. Sure, I’m a half hour late. And, yes, I’m in jeans and a leather jacket—not the dressy attire everyone else at the table has donned for the evening. But, come on, it’s not like I just forced him to watch while I tortured his cat to death or something.
“Sorry,” I say to the table at large, flashing a contrite smile. “Got a bit held up at work.”
“And I see you forgot the part about this being a nice place,” Devon says through clenched teeth.
I arch a challenging brow at him and slip my jacket off before draping it over the back of my chair and sitting down. Yeah, okay, I probably could have made more of an effort with my outfit tonight, but I was running late already by the time I finished work; I just barely had time to shower and change as it was. Besides, it’s not like this is the kind of restaurant that requires a jacket and tie. There are other people here wearing jeans, and I can even see a few leather jackets draped on chairs around the restaurant. Probably more expensive ones than mine, but whatever.
Emma lets out a tinkling laugh, as though Devon’s just said something absolutely hilarious. “Oh, Dev. Don’t you know by now? ThisisWes dressed up. Clean t-shirt, no rips in his jeans.” She flashes me a bright smile. “I appreciate the effort, brother.”
I smirk back at her. “Well, at least someone appreciates me.”
Devon just shakes his head and reaches for his wine glass. He is, of course, dressed impeccably as usual in a navy-blue dress shirt that’s just a shade darker than his eyes. The sleeves are rolled up to reveal toned forearms, a luxury Cartier watch gleaming against the pale skin of his left wrist. I somehow manage to hold in my groan of frustration as I see it’s the square faced Cartier…with a platinum band.Bugger.
My only consolation is that Tash didn’t win either. I tug my phone from my back pocket so I can take a discrete picture and send it to her.
Me:[Photo]
Me:So close!
Natasha Wilcox:But no cigar!
“Didn’t you have enough ink already?” Devon mutters, glaring at the new addition to the sleeve on my right arm—a pattern of ivy vines that wrap around my arm and twine in with the previously existing ink.
My brows quirk up at the comment because, frankly, I’m surprised he even noticed. I get new ink all the time, so it generally goes unremarked upon by my family. Mastering my surprise, I offer him a lazy smile. “You can never have too much ink. Maybe you should get one yourself?” I suggest. “Come by the shop. I’ll even give you a discount.”
Devon narrows his eyes at me. “If you think I’m lettingyouanywhere near me with a tattoo needle you’re even more insane than I thought.”
I lean back in my chair, my grin spreading wider as I recall a fundamental fact about my sister’s fiancé. “Ahh, that’s right. You’re terrified of needles. Totally slipped my mind.”
“I’m notterrified,”Devon grates out. “I just don’t like them.”
Next to him, Emma starts sputtering with wry laughter. “Is that why you almost broke my hand when you had to get that tetanus shot?”
Devon just glowers, and I get the distinct impression he sorely regrets initiating the conversation about my ink.
