There’s always the option of giving up my Lenox Hill condo, getting a real job, and living paycheck to paycheck in some dump like the common folk.
Hard pass.
Eight hours a day at North Industries is worth it to stay in the lifestyle to which I am accustomed.
The elevator comes to a halt so abruptly it fucks with my equilibrium. I steady myself, open my eyes, and walk off the carriage toward my brother’s office.
“Big day, Mr. North,” his assistant, Mrs. Miller, says with a smile and a hint of compassion. She’s known me since I was a teenager, so she’s fully aware that the family biz ain’t my thing.
I shrug. “I guess. You’re looking lovely this morning.”
She frowns. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”
Meh. Details. “Is the big guy in?”
“He is. He assumed you’d be in this morning, though, so don’t expect a pleasant greeting.”
“I never do.”
Alex has a temper on a good day. On a bad day? Breathe wrong, and he goes atomic.
I stroll into my brother’s office to find him hunched over a large digital drafting table, suit coat off, sleeves rolled up. “Kingston North reporting for duty,” I say before dropping like a hungover sack of crap onto his couch.
“You’re late,” he growls without lifting his head from his work.
“Am I?” I say sarcastically. He should be happy I showed up at all. “I don’t see what the big deal is. We all know I have nothing to offer this place outside of my impeccable style. All I’m required to do is show up and look pretty to stay on August’s payroll.” I drop my six-hundred-pound aching head to the cushion. A quick nap might help—
“Where did you disappear to last night?”
I don’t open my eyes. “Good question.”
I started off happy hour drinking with Alex’s wife Jordan at her restaurant. I was celebrating my last day of freedom from North Industries, but that party turned into a fog somewhere around a twenty-five-year-old single malt.
“Jordan was worried.”
I feel his eyes on me, so I open mine, and yep, he’s looking at me like I stole his favorite pen, which, for him, is an egregious offense.
“She tried calling you.”
“My phone died.” I don’t tell him I got mugged or that I spent all morning canceling credit cards and ordering a new phone.
“I don’t like it when my wife worries.”
We share a few seconds of uncomfortable eye contact, and I wonder if I’m about to get my ass kicked.
“Sorry?”
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to her.”
I chuckle cautiously. “Um… last I checked, I have a mom. I love my sister-in-law, but I don’t owe Jordan shit.”
I watch the storm clouds of his temper darken his hazel eyes and the muscles in his jaw tick. I hold my breath and wait.
He eyes his new punching bag in the corner of his office—the heavy bag Jordan insisted he pound rather than ripping people’s heads off. He blinks, exhales, and nods once. “I’ll apologize for you.”
“I appreciate that.” I drop my head back and thank the gods of temperamental brothers that my face is still intact. Six months ago, he’d have been in my face, insulted me with a barrage of dirty words, and physically thrown me out of his office. He may have even punched a wall or broken something. But not anymore. Not since Jordan. She’s been the best kind of therapy for my atypical brother. Calmed his inner beast the way meds and counseling never could.
“Now, my first project as a member of the family business is a little thing I like to call cranial rejuvenation. You get back to whatever you were doing, and I’m going to quietly crash out for a bit. Wake me up if you see August—”
“You’re not assigned to my department.”
I crack an eyelid. “I’m not?”
He shakes his head slowly.
I sit up too quickly and close one eye until my head stops swimming. “What department am I assigned to?”
“You’ll have to ask your supervisor.”
Is it just me, or does he look like he’s trying not to smile?
“Who’s my supervisor?
Oh yeah, he’s definitely fighting laughter.
“No,” I whisper. “Don’t tell me…” I hold up a hand as if I could rewrite whatever he’s about to say with the force of my palm. “Hudson, right? Just tell me it’s Hudson.”
He rolls his lips between his teeth.
“Fuck… fuck!” I glare at the smug son-of-a-bitch.
“He’s been waiting for you all day.” He flicks his fingers. “Better get going.”
“I hate you,” I mumble as I stand. I flip the asshole off over my shoulder as I walk out of his office, leaving him chuckling in my wake.
My brother Hayes waves me into his office, even though he has the phone pressed to his ear as he barks out a nasty reprimand to whoever is on the other side. His laser-sighted glare follows me inside, and he jabs a finger toward a leather chair.
“A minute late is still late, Gillingham, and I won’t have that kind of incompetence in my department. Is that understood?”
“Dickhead,” I mutter to myself, earning a fierce middle finger salute from the tight ass.
I sink into the fine Italian leather and ignore Hayes by looking at everything but him. Whereas Alexander’s office is modest and only filled with the bare minimum necessities, Hayes’ space is a gigantic brag about how big his wallet and his brain are. Only the finest handcrafted furniture, made with polished steel and hand-carved exotic woods. The shelves are filled with books, the drawers with files, and the bar with Lalique crystal glassware. And a television the size of an SUV adorns the far wall.
“No more excuses. If I don’t see that contract in the next few minutes—fine.” He hangs up the phone, and all that nasty Hayes energy gets directed right at me. “You’re late.” He checks his Rolex. “Seven hours late.”
“I am so sick of people telling me that.”
“Not only do you show up late,” he eyes my suit with distaste, “but you’re dressed like a funeral bouquet.”
I gasp and struggle to recover from the insult of my suit. “This is Dolce and Gabbana.” My jaw hangs open, waiting for the realization of his mistake to hit him.
It doesn’t.
“You’re working in the legal department of North Industries, not the VIP section of the Boom Boom Room. Dress like an adult.”
“Dolce and Gabbana!” I point to my jacket. My vest. My pants. I wait for his apology. None comes. “You’re a monster.”
“Why weren’t you here this morning like every other employee?”
“It’s a long story.”
He rocks back in his chair. “I’m all fuckin’ ears.”
“I drank too much last night and…” I shrug. “I don’t know. I blacked out.” I don’t tell him about getting mugged or about the woman. Some stories are better left untold. “I’m here now.”
“You blacked out.”
“That’s what I said.”
“And woke up in your bed at home.”