Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
My phone starts to ring, and I dig it out of my pocket. When I answer, Alexander tells me he’s been pounding on my front door for the last ten minutes.
I can’t even be bothered to add inflection to my tone. “I’m not home. I’m down the street.”
“Where?”
“Out on the curb.”
“You’re what?”
He thinks the connection is bad.
“I’m eating a hot dog.”
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not even five minutes later when his driver pulls into the parking space right in front of me, and my younger brother, the one I’ve dragged out of clubs, reprimanded, shaken sense into countless times in the past, looms over me in an Armani suit and a camel-colored wool jacket.
“You’re wearing your house slippers.”
I look down.
Huh. I hadn’t realized.
“Why are you sitting out here?”
“J’ai une peur bleue.”
I’m scared to death.
“Of what? Getting heartburn? Because if you finish that hot dog, you’ll be regretting it later. Believe me.”
Inspiration hits suddenly. “Do you have Lainey’s phone number?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “Let’s hold off on making any important phone calls for now. You’re not in the best state, frère.”
Fine.
“Why were you at my house?” I ask.
“Where else would I be on Christmas Day?”
“I once found you in bed with three women on Christmas Day.”
He smiles, not the least bit embarrassed.
“What can I say? Some years are better than others.”
I roll my eyes and lift my hand so he can help hoist me up off the snow-covered ground.
“Have you talked to Father yet today?”
“He’s on a plane back to Paris, no doubt cutting us both out of his will.”
I shrug. “It was worth it.”
He leads me toward the waiting car and ensures I get into the back seat without knocking my head on the doorframe. “I’m only kidding. He’d never cut you out of his will. To him, you’re the second coming of Christ. He only puts so much pressure on you because he sees so much of himself in you. It’s eerie, really. The older you get, the more you take after him.” He shudders. “I can’t bear the idea of there being two of him.”
“I’m not so similar to him.”
He barks out a laugh like I’ve just said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.
“You should see it through my eyes.”
I look out the window as the driver pulls away, looping around the block and making the short trip back to my house.
“What would you have done if you were me? In all of this?” I ask, peering back at him.
He looks over at me with a look of sincerity. There’s no humor behind his gaze, no mirth as he states simply, “I would have happily married Lainey.”
I frown. “Because of Father’s insistence?”
“Because Lainey is a fucking catch and I’d be lucky to have her in my bed every night.”
In seconds, I have him by the collar. Jealousy rages through me, assisted strongly by all that eggnog and beer. I’m shoving his face up against the window so that his cheek is comically squashed against the glass.
“Jesus, let go of me, you idiot.”
“Don’t fucking talk about her like that.”
“Like what?! You’re ripping the collar of my shirt—this is Gucci! Goddammit, one of the buttons just ripped off.”
“She’s not for you,” I bite out like some incensed crazy person.
“You’re a madman!”
He’s half pissed, half amused as he grabs me by the forearms and shoves me off him once and for all.
“It’s Christmas,” he says as he straightens his shirt and collar. “And you’re paying for that button, by the way.”
“Ah, allez vous faire foutre, Alexander.”
“We’re here,” says the driver, looking back at us in the rearview mirror, completely unfazed. It’s like he’s witnessed two brothers brawling in his back seat so many times it’s boring at this point.
Once we’re inside my house, Alexander tells me I need a shower. I tell him he needs to leave. He ignores me and heads to the kitchen to make himself comfortable. I go to my room and tear off my pajamas so I can wash away the stench of beer and hot dog.
By the time I’m dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, damp hair and all, Alexander is peeling potatoes in the kitchen with my linen chef’s apron tied around his waist.
He arches a brow at me as he continues his work, asking me in French, “Why were you out eating that food when you have a fully stocked fridge?”
“I didn’t feel like cooking, and I wasn’t aware that you knew how.”
“I had to teach myself after I left St. John’s. It’s not like Maman would have ever taught us.”
I snort. “She’s never cooked a day in her life.”
“Exactly. Now, are you going to help or just stand there?”
I head for the refrigerator. “Chapon? Or poularde? My housekeeper went to the butcher for me yesterday. She was going to prepare a whole meal, but I told her not to bother.”