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I stop, hand on the doorknob.
“Guard your secrets closely. If you ever fuck up again, I’ll make sure every person in this country learns about it. I’m protectingmyself, taking care of this. Not you.Neveryou. Understood?”
“Understood,” I grit out.
I slam the study door behind me. It’s childish and paltry, but the brief glimmer of satisfaction is the best I’ve felt all day.
CHAPTERONE
OLIVER
When the door opens, my very drunk, very irritated brother is leaning heavily against the frame. All of his weight is supported on one hand while he aggressively yanks at his navy tie with the other.
He scowls when the knot refuses to give, like it’s personally offended him by staying put. Belatedly realizing the door has opened, Crew shoves past me and stumbles into the penthouse, grumbling under his breath.
“Hello. Hi. Sure. Yeah. Come on in,” I call after his disappearing back.
I’m still in my suit from work, but it doesn’t smell like a distillery the way Crew’s does. The woodsy, buttery aroma of whiskey lingers in the entryway longer than Crew does. It’s the same scent I associate with my father. And what I usually drink.
I shut the door, sigh, and then follow my brother down the hall that leads to the living room.
When the doorbell rang, there were only two unread emails left to answer before I poured myself a stiff drink and changed into some sweatpants. I can feel that number ticking higher with each second that passes.
Kensington Consolidated does business with companies all over the world. Someone, somewhere, is always awake and replying. And when you’re struggling to make it to the top—or struggling to accept you’ll neverbeat the top, in my case—it means regular business hours don’t exist.
Crew is sprawled out on the brown leather couch when I walk into the living room. One arm is flung dramatically over his eyes, black fabric blocking most of his face from sight.
“Guest rooms are upstairs.”
He grunts. Doesn’t move.
I rub my forehead, feeling a literal headache form, then drop into one of the matching leather armchairs. I hired an interior decorator to furnish this place, too busy to pick out anything myself. Since I always sit on the couch and rarely have company, this is the first time I’m sitting in one of the chairs. They’re uncomfortable.
“So… What are you doing here?”
No response.
I clear my throat and cross my arms, worried I’ll be stuck in this awkward purgatory where Crew sulks—or sleeps, I can’t really tell what’s happening under his arm—and I’m stuck sitting on what feels like a wooden board waiting for him to speak or shift.
Crew visiting me at home doesn’t happen. He’s been here once—twice, maybe—since I bought this penthouse a few years ago.
We’re brothers who work together. Spending time together outside of the office or beyond the social events we’re obligated to attend as part of our prominent roles at the company our great-grandfather founded is basically unheard of. It was rare back when Crew spent his free time at Manhattan’s most elite clubs, and basically unheard of now that he has a wife, daughter, and dog.
“I got into it with Scarlett earlier.” Crew finally speaks. “Went to a bar and then came here.” He lifts his arm and fixes me with a serious, tired stare. “Don’t get married, Oliver.”
“Thanks for the unsolicited advice,” I reply, eyeing the bar cart in the corner of the room with the same longing desperation someone stranded in a storm would seek shelter.
Marriage is an unappealing prospect, low on my priority list—if it’s even on there at all. Aside from the phase in my life when I thought my wife was already chosen for me, I’ve given little thought to it. With each failed relationship, the possibility has drifted further away. If you ask any woman I dated in the past decade, I’m already married—to my job.
Ironically, Crew is the reason I have any favorable thoughts about the institution. All the marriages I’ve seen up close have fallen apart in some way, cracks cratering the surface until they collapse.
Except for Crew’s.
I’ve witnessed his relationship take hits, but I’ve never seen a fissure form. Cynical as I am, that gives me a little hope.
I glance at my brother. He’s silent. Still. I can’t even hear him breathing.
A vein in my temple pounds as I study his unmoving form. I don’t know what to say to him. Crew doesn’t want to hear about how close I was to clearing my inbox before he arrived. I have no marital wisdom to offer. But I can’t bring myself to leave him lying here, sulking and showing no signs of leaving, so I can return to my usual evening routine.
