Chapter One
Jo
“Thank God you’re here!” My brother Pablo looks at me like I’m the cure to high cholesterol and blocked arteries as I step into his apartment.
“Believe me, you aren’t the only one thanking God when I show up.” I lay down the huge collection of rather heavy glossy bags hanging from my arms on his dining table.
It’s big enough for six, but everything in this home is too much for a bachelor, and none of it was a deliberate choice on his part. When he first moved into this place at the beginning of his residency, he bought whatever was on sale and first to pop up on the furniture store websites.
Now he’s a board-certified pediatric cardiologist at UCLA, but he’s too busy to redecorate or update his closet to ensure he looks like an actual doctor. But I still love him, and it isn’t just because he’s my brother. He’s got a big heart, and kind brown eyes that show nothing but compassion and understanding for his young patients. If my childhood doctors had been half as nice as Pablo, I wouldn’t have worried about going to see them so much.
“Can you bring them with you, please?” I say, rubbing the red marks the bag straps left on my arms. Normally, I’d have had the garments delivered, but this is an emergency. Very time-sensitive.
“Yeah, of course. Your arms okay?”
“They’re fine. Won’t even notice after a while.” I just need the marks gone for the party I’m going to attend later.
He grabs the bags and lets out a breath. “My God, what are these made of? Lead?”
“Just a little of everything. I don’t know what’s in your closet, although I can guess.”
“Supergirl probably wears these to protect herself from Kryptonite poisoning,” he grumbles. But he picks them up and follows.
I move to his bedroom, which is sparse—just a king-sized bed and a dresser—and quickly examine his wardrobe. Work clothes: button-down shirts and Dockers. Casual stuff: cotton T-shirts and shorts. Some ties. One makes me pause, and I pull it out. It’s Daffy Duck on a field of yellow and orange.
“Really?” I hold it in front of him like a strip of shame. “Looney Tunes?”
“The kids love it,” he says.
“Yeah, well, a woman who’s old enough to date won’t. Especially if you wear it to a restaurant like Virgo. And especially not on a first date!”
“Which is why you’re here. You’re the fashion expert.”
True enough. I haven’t earned a fancy medical degree like Pablo. Actually, I don’t have a degree of any type—the only one in my family not to have one—but I’ve still managed to create a successful career.
I shift into job mode. “Tell me what kind of impression you want this woman to have.”
“Fun. Nice.” He thinks for a moment. “Sweet.”
“That works. But you also want to look successful, right?”
“You going to cover me in Gucci?”
I laugh. “No, but every man should have a pair of Italian loafers in his closet.” I dig into one of the bags and pull out a pair of Pradas. “These have your name on them. But try them on, and if you don’t like them, you don’t have to keep them.” But I know he’ll love them because they’re classic and comfortable. Except for the ridiculous ties, he’s pretty conservative when it comes to clothes. Flamboyance makes him uncomfortable. He thinks his accomplishments make him stand out, not his outfits.
Pablo sticks out his lower lip and considers. “They look nice enough.” He takes them from me and puts them on. Walks around a bit. “And comfortable, at least so far. Don’t know how they’d feel after a shift.”
“They’ll just get better as you break them in. And I also have a pair of Guccis for you, because I’m nice like that.” Feeling like a fairy godmother to my Cinderfeller brother, I hand him a silk dress shirt in pale cream, a dark blue sports jacket, also silk, and matching slacks. “Classy and simple. No tie. Leave the top two buttons undone. Keep your jewelry to one solid ring or nothing at all. No cartoon characters. Those can come later when she knows you well enough to not run screaming in the other direction.”
“Thank you,” he says sincerely.
“You’re welcome. Now you know she won’t ding you for clothes.” And that makes me happy and proud. Pablo’s a great guy. He’s smart, loving and protective—really, a ten out of ten. He just needs a little help so this date of his will have a chance to see his amazing heart.
He laughs, then says, “You look good,” because he knows that complimenting me is the first step in thanking me properly for rescuing him from committing a fashion faux pas.
“I do, don’t I?” I grin. “I spent some extra time today because I have a party to go to after I dress you.” The burgundy silk Dior I’m in isn’t exactly tight, but it clings in all the right places, emphasizing my breasts and butt. You can’t wear any underwear with it, but I’m quite confident my fashion-ignorant brother hasn’t noticed…nor will he.
“What party?” he says, suddenly straightening his shoulders and back, like he’s about to punch somebody out, probably some guy I’m going to meet.
“An heiress from Korea invited me to a party at Anthony Blackwood’s mansion. I couldn’t say no, especially since it’s to celebrate Kim finally getting her work bonus.” My best friend has slaved for five years for it. She deserves an awesome party.
“Oh.” Pablo deflates a little. “Well, okay. That’s good. Kim’ll keep you safe.”
By “safe,” he means “away from sex.” He, just like my eldest brother Rafael and all my cousins, either doesn’t understand or refuses to accept that I’m not a virgin. Haven’t been for ages.
But it’s easier to just let him have his delusion than argue. Not to mention I might as well be a virgin at the moment. Depressingly enough, I haven’t slept with anybody in months, not since I broke up with Aaron. He was fun and laid-back when we first met, but then morphed into a clingy mess within a few months of us starting to date. He still keeps calling and texting, saying he knows I haven’t been with anyone and it’s time we get back together. Ugh. I need to find a way to get myself out of this state of dickpression. Maybe that’ll make Aaron realize it’s really over.
“Gotta go,” I say, waving at Pablo.
“Hey, don’t you want to take the rest with you?” He gestures at the bags on the floor.
“Keep ’em. You’re going to need something for your second date…assuming you can get one.” I wink to take the sting out of the comment. “Good luck!”
Then, before he can try to give me “safety” tips—and maybe a can of Mace he bought just for this kind of occasion—I rush out and hop into my Lexus.
Normally I’m not this excited about parties. I’ve been to my share—a big chunk of my clients are celebrities, and many of them have become friends. But I’m hyped up about this one, and it isn’t just because of Kim’s professional success. It’s also because I’ve been unbearably curious about the brand-new mansion Anthony Blackwood built for his wife.