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“Am I sharing this room with someone?” She had to ask.
“No, Ms. Weaver. You are the only guest in the presidential suite. Please, if there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask. I am fully at your service, all hours of the day and night.” With that, he bowed his head and left.
“Yeah, I'm on the 2ndfloor in a standard room,” Greg concluded his sentence.
Suddenly feeling terrible for the obvious nepotism, no, favoritism, she made an offer that had her thinking about something else.
She had dated Greg in high school. For a little while at least, but she had broken it off before they’d even gotten to second base.
“It’s such a huge suite, and it’s very big... and you’re welcome to stay here with me if you like, that is—”
God, help her. She was asking a man to share her hotel room with her. The thought of being rejected by him kind of made her feel better.
Weird.
“Of course, you don’t have to. I should start getting ready.”
“I would love to share this room with you, Holly.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll just be a minute.” Why did she feel as if she had done something wrong? It took her a few turns to find the master bedroom, and once she got there, she jumped into the shower and refused to think of what she had done.
She was going to sleep with Greg before the weekend was over. She had to.
Chapter Four
Kingston West tried not to grit his teeth too hard. He could already feel a headache coming on, and it was all centered around one damn woman.
The bane of their existence. The thorn in their fucking sides. He and his foster brothers, Nolan and Fletcher fully agreed they would rather be shot in the kneecaps than be here with her.
Holly Weaver.
Their little stepsister.
“Ah fuck,” Nolan groaned as the three of them watched the dark-haired walking disaster check in. They were sitting in the lobby bar of the hotel, hidden from her view, and had been stupidly waiting for her to arrive.
“What the hell is she wearing?” Fletcher ran his hands through his hair, then whipped his head away from her. “Fuck, is right.”
What the fuck was she wearing, indeed? The stepsister they knew was either drenched with pool water, sneezing in family portraits, or covered in pasta sauce. She also only wore black slacks and white shirts with sensible heels. Her hair was always tied up, but the glossy tresses had a way of never staying neatly tucked away. She barely wore makeup and needed glasses when she worked. She wore track pants over the weekends.
Of course, they knew her clothing habits. They were astute. They didn’t get to where they were without being that attentive. Although, again, they conveniently brushed aside their interest in what she wore every day—what she wore to the last family lunch, dinner, or fucking picnic. If they didn’t openly love Mickie as much, they would have declined all his family invitations, which had increased phenomenally the moment he met Brenda, Holly’s mother.
She dropped her sunglasses, bent to pick them up, and fucking hell, could her dress be any shorter? Or tighter? She was damn lucky there was no one else around to see her bend over like that. She really was going to be the death of them when they had to suppress the urge to haul her up to her hotel room and layer some more clothing on her. They didn’t care that the temperature was in the hot upper nineties today.
Their goddamn stepsister.
She was completely off-limits for them, naturally. But they couldn’t also understand the fact that they had rendered her off-limits to the entire male population in general.
That was something they’d decided from the moment they’d met her six years ago, when she’d turned nineteen. It was also something they decided was not worth their mental health to analyze.
Six years ago, when their father, Mickie, who had adopted Kingston, Nolan, and Fletcher when they were young, had met and then married her mother.
The first time they’d seen Holly, at a family lunch to connect the two families after their elopement, they hadn’t even gotten a chance to introduce themselves properly. The moment Mickie and Brenda had introduced them, Holly had fallen backward into the pool where they’d been set up for their luncheon. She had fallen into the pool before they could shake hands, hug, or do whatever the fuck new families did. The last they had seen of her that day was her coming out of the pool, her hair and clothes plastered to her body, then disappearing completely for the rest of the day.
The remaining part of that lunch had been an odd experience for them.
They’d always known exactly how to compartmentalize their emotions. Their early childhoods were wrought with memories of violence and hate, and it had been those factors that had formed the basis of all their personalities. They were always alert and ready for danger. And always ready to defend themselves by any means.
Then they’d been taken out of the system by Mickie West, who had adopted them, given them his name, and been the father figure they had looked for all their young lives. But it had also been Mickie’s brother, Walt, who had helped raise them as well.
