Page 28 of Mr. Hotshot CEO

“Ooh! Yes, please.”

He smiles at me, as though he finds my excitement rather cute.

“I can’t believe you have a fancy espresso machine,” I say, then realize who I’m talking to. “Actually, I can totally believe it.” I walk over to the counter and peer at the machine. “Cool.”

“What would you like to eat?”

“What are you having?”

“I ate an hour and a half ago. Bacon and scrambled eggs. I can make you some?”

“Ooh, that sounds wonderful!”

He tilts his head and looks at me as though he can’t quite figure me out. “Are you always like this?”

I remember decadent chocolates tasting like woodchips.

I remember my sister bringing me to the emergency room.

“No, I’m not. But this is an entirely different world for me, and it’s kind of exciting.” I hesitate. “Do you think I’m shallow?”

“Not at all.”

I sit down at the table and watch him prepare my breakfast. I’d figured a man like Julian wouldn’t even be able to boil water and would consider such tasks beneath him, but he moves around the kitchen with ease. It’s been a long time since a man cooked a meal for me. Actually, I’m not sure it’s ever happened before.

“Do you cook often?” I ask as he beats two eggs with chopsticks.

“Just on the weekends. My housekeeper makes my dinners during the week.”

Of course he has a housekeeper.

Like I said, this is an entirely different world for me. It’s like when you’re traveling to a new city and everything feels brand new.

Julian is wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. I admire his arm muscles as he works the espresso machine, the perfect lines of his back. He exudes power, even when he’s making a latte.

He doesn’t look much like his brother, plus the way Vince carries himself is completely different. Vince swaggers or saunters into a room; Julian strides. Perhaps that’s a silly distinction, but there’s a massive difference simply in the way they walk. And sit. Julian would never sprawl on a couch the way Vince did. Julian’s taller, too—he’s about six feet, whereas Vince is maybe five-nine.

Vince also smiles easily, carelessly. Julian’s default expression is more serious, but when he does smile, it’s a zillion times better.

Actually, Vince looks a little different in real life than he did in the calendar. He’s a bit lankier and not as muscled. Is that the camera or has his physique changed since that picture was taken a few years ago? I wonder if he still has a six-pack.

I expect Julian would not appreciate that line of questioning.

Julian sets a latte in front of me. “I’m sorry I don’t know how to make a gingerbread latte.”

I sip my drink. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

He returns to the stove, and the smell of bacon wafts toward me. Few things smell as amazing as bacon in the frying pan.

“You have another brother, don’t you?” I ask.

“Cedric is the middle child. He’s a writer.”

Right. I remember now. Cedric Fong’s first novel came out a few years ago. It was aGlobe and MailandNew York Timesbestseller. I didn’t read it because it was about a young, white, down-on-his-luck writer in Toronto, and it sounded...well, like the kind of thing that had been done many times before.

“He hasn’t been able to write anything for a few years, though,” Julian says. “He’s currently traveling the world, trying to find himself and get over his writer’s block, and...frankly, I’m not sure what else. I haven’t heard from him in a while.”

“My sister’s boyfriend—”