“Don’t be hating my wardrobe,” Brennen said. “I’m feeling all G-6, baby.”
“You feel like a jet?”
“It means awesome. Amazing. Spectacular. Fantastic. Brill-”
“I get the point.” Christian took another drag and blew out a steady stream. “Who is she?”
Brennen gave him his signature grin. “Brainy brunette, very nice rack, round little ass and about this tall.” He held his hand to his shoulder. “Sweet accent and dark eyes. Seriously, not your type.”
Ice water filled his veins. “How the f**k do you know my type?”
Brennen held up his hands in mock surrender. “Dude, I don’t care what you like. It’s what the lovely Ms. Ambrose likes. I heard she’s got a thing for tall, blonde and English.”
“But you’re Irish and blue,” Christian said.
“It’s all the same and gets them hot all the same. Besides, I can dye my hair back.” Brennen grabbed a beer from the outdoor bar’s fridge. He sat down in a chair, propping his feet up on the balcony’s railing. “I’m just f**king with you.”
“You don’t have a date with Zoe?” Christian could barely contain his relief at the news.
Brennen took an unnecessarily long pull of beer. “I wouldn’t call it a date-date. I’m her personal tour guide when she goes sightseeing.”
“When does this joyous event take place?” Christian snatched the beer from Brennen and threw it away, then took another drag of his Dunhill.
“Day after tomorrow. Hoover Dam, helicopter tour and maybe a sunset picnic at the reservoir.” Brennen laced his hands behind his head. “I’m just glad that it’s not on Monday. She’s got some kind of book signing and I’ve got a flash mob to rock out to that night.”
Christian rolled his shoulders. “You’re still tracking those down?”
Brennen’s head swayed from side to side, as if he were dancing to a beat only he could hear. “Maybe I’ll take Zoe. Women love that kind of thing. Her book signing’s at two and they’re not performing until eight thirty.”
“Did she ask you out?” Blowing out a thin stream of smoke, Christian ground out his cigarette in an ashtray sitting on the outdoor bar.
“Nah, I’m doing this as a favor to Martha. It’s in the fine print of my contract,” Brennen grumbled. “Hell, it’s probably in Zoe’s.”
“You should look at mine,” Christian said, feeling his friend’s pain. If Martha hadn’t been the best at the game, Christian would have been gone a long time ago. “Think Martha would mind if I took your place?”
“Have at it, mate. I hate helicopter rides.”
“Since when?”
“Since I found out I suffer from arachnophobia.”
“Fear of spiders?” Christian asked, completely bewildered.
Brennen nodded, his face solemn. “Got that, too. Or at least that’s what my therapist told me last week after finding one in bed.”
“You have therapy sessions in your bed?”
“God, no. I screw my therapist in her bed.”
Opening the fridge, Christian grabbed two bottles of beer and tossed one to his friend. “Cheers.”
“Guess this mean you’re not interested in going to Ethan’s house tomorrow night?”
Ethan Rivers threw the wildest, most debauched parties Christian had ever had the pleasure to attend. Anything and everything was available: women, men, drugs…the only legalities Ethan observed were no one under eighteen allowed and all transactions, as he liked to call them, had to be explicitly consensual.
It was a temptation Christian normally succumbed to every year. He had a million reasons why he should go and only two why he shouldn’t—B.T.S. and Zoe. In the past any reason or rule given to prohibit him from doing whatever the hell he wanted would have had him helping Ethan think of new and improved ways to find oblivion in seconds. But now…
Leaning back in his chair, he took a long pull of his beer. There were other things he wanted to do, like read the rest of Zoe’s series to get into the head of her villain and run about a million miles on the treadmill in the gym.
He reasoned that he could give Zoe tomorrow to cool off so that when he showed up instead of Brennen, she wouldn’t throw something at him. Like ninja stars.
“Sorry, I’ve already made plans.”
Chapter Twelve
Zoe threw her shopping bags on the bed and plopped down beside them. Retail therapy and a trip to the spa should’ve helped more than just her back. However, it had only buoyed her spirits temporarily. Not even finding a store filled with hippie chic clothing had kept her shopping high going.
Now that she was alone, she crashed—figuratively and literally—as she fell back on the mattress. Her cell phone buzzed again, alerting her to yet another text. She grabbed it, reading the five texts she’d previously ignored and her stomach churned. Her phone rang before she could hit send on the third one. Pressing talk, she braced for her brother’s lecture.
“Are you out of your damn mind?”
“You really know how to start a conversation, Luke,” Zoe said.
“What I know is how not to beat around the bush. Every time I get online, there you are with Romanov.”
“Maybe you should stay off the Internet.” She winced. Antagonizing Luke was akin to waving a red flag in a bull’s face.
He made an indescribable noise. “So it’s true.”
She sat up and looked around the room, searching for inspiration on how to get her brother out of her now public personal life. A copy of today’s paper lay in the closest chair. She focused on the front page picture of a Wall Street executive pictured with a blue collar worker. “It’s truly a publicity stunt. I’m hanging out with him as a favor to Aunt M.” Okay, so part of that was true.
“You expect me to believe that?” he asked, his tone incredulous.
The phone beeped. She glanced at it and let out a sigh of relief. “Gotta go. Melanie’s calling.”
“Hold—”
She pressed talk again. “Oh, thank God, it’s you.”
“Still me,” her brother said.
“Holy crap!" She ended the call and scrolled through her contact list to find Melanie’s number. She touched the screen as soon as her best friend’s picture showed up.
“Oh my God, that man is hot,” Melanie said when she answered. “I must have details. Is he a good kisser? Who am I kidding? Of course he’s a good kisser. How’s he in bed? You don’t have to tell me. Just press one if he rocked your world.”