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“You’re late,” my brother points out as I stroll into my office some two hours later after getting stuck in another horrible traffic jam.
Thomas is sprawled on my leather couch casually browsing his phone. He’s wearing a light-gray tailored suit, hair combed back in a five-hundred-dollar haircut, and his signature captivating smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. The perfect image for the heir apparent to Mercer Industries. He’s the good kid. The one who followed in our father’s shoes without ever making a fuss about being independent and creating his own fortune. I love my dad, but I could never bear to work with him—for him. It’d drive me nuts.
I’m glad Thomas took the burden upon himself. Otherwise, my father would still be pestering me to join the family business.
“Thomas, always a pleasure to receive one of your spontaneous, selfless visits,” I say in our usual bantery, sarcastic tone.
I’d forgotten about the appointment and the pile of dung my younger brother is surely about to unload on me.
Thomas gets up from the couch. “I don’t even deserve the benefit of the doubt?”
I throw my suit jacket across my desk and rake a hand through my hair as I sit.
My brother settles in the chair opposite me, spending a few moments appraising me. He takes in my wrinkled shirt and disheveled hair, asking, “Rough day?”
“Just…” I allow myself an instant to pick the right adjective. “Unexpected.”
He raises his eyebrows. I’m not a man who gets easily surprised.
“Do you have Instagram?” I ask him point-blank.
Thomas’s expression becomes even more baffled. Everyone knows I hate social media.
“Yeah?”
“How many followers do you have?”
“About a thousand, give or take.”
“All people you know?”
Thomas grips his chin. “I’d say it’s an eighty-twenty split. Why?”
I ignore his question. “Is it hard to get followers?”
“Depends on what numbers you’re talking about.”
“In the millions.”
“Well, not necessarily if you’re some kind of celebrity, I guess.”
“And what if you’re just a regular person shooting videos out of your garage?”
“Then I’d say it’s pretty damn hard.”
Thought so.
Thomas leans his elbows on my desk. “Why are you suddenly asking all these questions about Instagram followers? Are you about to make a social media play?”
Hell, spare me. Although, I signed up for a dummy account on the way over and stalked Blake’s feed the entire time I was in the car—another good distraction from impending death.
“Nope,” I reply.
“Then why the sudden interest?”
“Just something I came across this morning.”
