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TWELVE

Kinsley

I’ve spent the rest of the week thinking about that damn book from book club and debating the whole virgin auction thing. I haven’t looked it up yet. Why? Because the idea of letting some stranger put his hands all over me—maybe even in me—makes me hesitate. Enough that until about an hour ago I was dead set against it, but then I got another call from the doctor’s office.

Unless about sixty thousand dollars is going to shoot out of my butthole in the next five minutes, I don’t see what other options I have.

My brother means too much to me to let him down like this. If he couldn’t get his surgery because of me, because I didn’t do everything I could, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I’d be no better than my selfish, alcoholic, sociopathic parents. They didn’t give two fucks about either one of us. All they cared about was making enough money to pay their bar tab for the week. Their biggest decision was whether or not to start the day off with vodka or tequila.

I’m not them. I refuse to be.

Which is why I glance around my office, click out of the financial reports I’ve been compiling for the past hour, and bring up a google search.

My fingers are above the keyboard, poised and ready to type. I hesitate.

“Miss Rhodes.” Maverick sticks his head inside my office, his gaze wandering along the walls which are now decorated with some colorful art pieces. Mainly animals wearing fancy coats because I knew they’d hate it. “Nice touch. Is that a sloth in a fur coat?”

“Yep.” I push back from the computer and cross my arms, nodding to the picture next to it. “And that’s a rhino in a three piece suit. I think he looks rather dashing.” And reminds me of Brantley, not that I’d admit that fact to any of them. “But none of them are quite as fancy as the peacock with his little bowtie.”

“It is quite…something.” His lips twitch as his eyes land on the balloon animal bookends.

I didn’t mean to splurge but one of my favorite sellers on Etsy had a clearance sale, and I couldn’t resist. If I didn’t give this place a little color, I was going to end up crying into my chips like the last secretary.

“Thank you. Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Wallace?”

“Ah, yes. I’ll need my dry cleaning picked up from the place down on Acklen Ave and delivered to my building. In fact, you might as well pick up Wyatt and Brants too. They’d all be going to the same place.”

Interesting. “You guys live together?”

He barks out a laugh, looking down at his suit, and runs a finger down his tie. “Do we look like frat boys?”

I swallow, giving him a quick lookover, and for a second I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer. “No?”

“We live in the same building. Not the same apartment.” He clears his throat, loosening his tie a fraction of an inch. “It’s easier for us.”

I have so many more questions, but I’m not going to pry. Besides, his dry cleaning errand is going to take up a nice hunk of my afternoon and limit my time for internet research. His living situation, while it may seem odd, is not my concern.

“Okay. Dry cleaning.” I make a note—using a normal pen—and when I'm done, keep it poised over the notepad. “Anything else?”

“I need a meeting set up with Ember Lynn and her husband's attorney to start going over asset division. Brantley will be in attendance, so we’ll need something that works with his schedule as well.”

Another note. “Got it.”

“I’ve got two cases going to court next week, and I’ll need those files to review on Monday.”

I tap my pen a few times on the notepad before pointing it in his direction. “I’ve already sent both of those to your email along with any communications you’ve had with opposing counsel. You’ll also see an updated employee expense report and a detailed report of the firm's weekly expenditures.”

He lets out a low whistle, and there’s a moment where I think he’s going to initiate a slow clap, but he simply smiles. Well, truth be told, it’s anything but a simple smile, but I’m going to pretend it doesn’t make my stomach flop and my palms sweat. “I knew I had a feeling about you.”

I’d love to ask what that feeling was. Especially when we first met, I was insulting him and his partners, but I hold my tongue. “Thank you, sir.”

He lingers for a few seconds, his eyes back to my colorful wall, and just when I think he’s about to say something else, he abruptly turns and heads back to his office.

He’s gone, but that doesn’t mean he won’t come back. Or either of the other guys will pop in for a spontaneous conversation. It’s too risky. I can’t look this up at work. What if they have IT monitoring our site usage? What if they find out what I’m searching?

I couldn’t imagine. I’d be mortified.

I’d need to go through with it to be able to afford to live because if they found out, there’s no way I’d be able to show my face here again.