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Corinne is surprisingly quiet through the rest of dinner. What conversation we have centers around business. She seems especially intent on showing me pictures of her designs, the video the Real Housewives star rolled about her custom band, then snaps of her current office and workspace. It’s cramped and she’s clearly outgrown it.
How does she sit in a dinky office chair with shitty lighting for ten-plus hours a day, seven days a week, and make these watch bands? I work hard, yeah, but I have enough time left over to spend with my siblings and their spouses here in Maui, to talk to my friends in LA. I take vacations. I hang out on the beach. I maintain a daily exercise regimen. I even keep up with a varied reading list, though a good chunk of it is work-related. But still…work-life balance. Corinne seemingly hasn’t had any for years. And her motherfucking brother lives perched above Pacific Coast Highway with unobstructed ocean views, having wild parties and rubbing shoulders with Hollywood’s elite. His only responsibility is spending a few hours a day giving self-indulgent interviews and plugging away at his next novel, release date still three years in the future.
I barely know Corinne, and I shouldn’t waste energy or emotional capital feeling sorry for her, but I don’t understand how Parker can let his own sister slave away while he’s living the high life. If I didn’t already think the asshole needed to be taken down a peg or two, that alone would convince me he needs some comeuppance.
“So what made you decide to move to Maui? Really?” she asks.
After her fourth French 75, her words sound slightly slurred, but I’m relieved she ate half her dinner. At least she has something in her stomach.
“A lot of reasons.”
I’m still feeling out whether she’s spying for Parker. That theory is looking less likely by the minute. He’s done her wrong, too, and I understand wanting to succeed in spite of someone…but I haven’t completely written off that possibility.
“Besides the views around here. You don’t seem like that type that’s in-in”—she sighs in frustration—“impulsive.”
Since she’s over-enunciating, it’s time to cut her off. I also need to make sure she reaches her room safely. There are still too many guys around this resort—employees and tourists alike—who would be happy to take advantage of her.
I motion to the waiter, then murmur instructions in his ear before giving her my attention again. I hate to admit she’s an adorable drunk. And she seems like a decent person, too. I have no idea how since she’s related to such an asswipe.
“You’re right; I’m not usually impulsive. But you know I grew up the only child of a single mom, right?” At her nod, I continue on, making sure she’s listening too closely to notice the waiter behind her, swapping her cocktail with fresh water. “A few years back, right around graduation, I was contacted by a private investigator working for a family who suspected that we share a father and wanted me to take a test to verify.”
“You really didn’t know Barclay Reed was your father?”
She may not believe me; most people don’t. “No. My mom never said anything about the asshole whose only contribution to me was half my genes. So I said yes. I was curious. When I got the results, I was here on a business trip. In fact, I accidentally met my sister-in-law that day.”
“Accidentally? You weren’t stalking?”
“No. I had no idea. My friend Hayes, who was a coworker at the time, was with me. We had a few hours off, and his then-girlfriend, Echo, wanted to visit the bed-and-breakfast where her sister and brother-in-law had recently honeymooned. When we stopped by and started talking, it turned out that the guy who owns and runs the place with his wife is my oldest brother, Maxon.” I shrug. “Small world.”
“I’d say so.” Automatically, she reaches for her water, frowning after her sip. “What happened to my drink?”
“You finished it a while ago.”
“I didn’t.”
“Don’t you remember?”
The little line between the perfect arches of her brows is almost cute, though the rest of her—cleavage included—is sexy as hell. Once upon a time, I would have sweet-talked her until she let me carry her to bed.
There’s too much at stake for that tonight. It’s tempting… But I have to settle for prying answers from her—at least for now.
She shakes her head. “I don’t. I think you’re trying to pull a fast one.”
“Me? Never. I guess that means you also don’t remember ordering”—I look up to find the waiter coming our way with two dishes of mango tapioca flan, topped with little yellow plumeria and a generous dollop of whipping cream—“dessert.”
Corinne whips around so fast she has to steady herself in her chair. She gapes. “I would never have ordered that. The sugar. The carbs. My drinks are already loaded with them.”
