Picture This (Bryant Brothers Book 4) Page 18

  “We couldn’t wait any longer to get here,” Maddy said as she wrapped her arms around Amelia and squeezed. “We have big news!”

  Amelia’s gaze shot to Elliot, and he arched his brows.

  “Looks like they do too,” Grandma Bryant noted, pointing at Amelia.

  Maddy pushed Amelia to arm’s length. “Are you serious?”

  Amelia chuckled. “I don’t know. No one has announced their news yet.”

  “Are you pregnant?” Maddy demanded. Camila squealed. No, wait, that was Mom. Maybe both of them.

  Amelia nodded, her hand straying to her abdomen. Elliot wrapped his arm around her from behind, and she leaned into him, smiling serenely and making his heart thump extra hard.

  Yep, his beautiful wife was going to give him a beautiful child in about seven months, give or take.

  “Ohmigod, me too!” Maddy shrieked, and then she launched herself at Amelia, and for a moment, the three of them danced around, hugging, Elliot stuck in the little display because Maddy had both of them in her grasp.

  And then Mom came over and pulled both women into her arms before passing them around so everyone else could hug them too.

  I have the best family ever. And the most magnificent wife. And I can’t wait to meet my first child.

  Yeah, his life was pretty much picture perfect.

  THE END

  Want more? Turn the page to read the first chapter of Sexy Bad Neighbor, the beginning of the Sexy Bad series!

  SEXY BAD NEIGHBOR

  What happens when your neighbor hires you a stripper?

  It starts one hell of a prank war. A war that involves goats, phallic chandeliers, stolen kisses in the rain, strawgasms, and eating out on the kitchen counter.

  A war that could damn well involve two hearts and a plan. Her plan doesn’t involve falling in love. His life doesn’t involve plans.

  This could be a problem.

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHLOE

  What am I doing here? Taco Tuesday? Seriously? Tacos are sloppy and delicious and it’s far too easy to eat too many. I’m not an overindulging kind of person. And I really hate contrived social situations.

  But my boss said I need to do something to de-stress because otherwise I’m going to have a heart attack by the time I’m forty, and that isn’t as far away as I’d like it to be. Actually, he suggested I get laid, but I don’t do messy, nor do I do sex with strangers, and who has time to get to know someone? I suppose that’s ironic considering I’m about to walk into a room full of strangers and pretend I want to befriend them.

  At least it’s supposed to be exclusively women at this shindig. Women don’t intimidate me, which is the only reason I agreed to James’s ridiculous idea. “Who knows,” he said earlier today as he pushed me out the door, “you might actually make a friend or two.”

  “Maybe a new client,” was my response, and he’d rolled his eyes and told me not to return to the office without at least one outrageous story to tell.

  I consider not opening the door, not stepping into the sports bar where a group of strangers are likely becoming friends over spilled guacamole and too much tequila. But I will never hear the end of it if I turn around now, and besides, I’m not a quitter, whether the task is climbing the corporate ladder or attending a stupid function I have no interest in.

  So I grasp the pilsner glass-shaped door handle and walk into the dark, loud place that smells of nachos and spilled beer. This is not my scene.

  Bitch face in place, I pause to let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. I can feel gazes on me. Lecherous, sleazebag gazes. Guys with names like Paul and Chad and—the worst of them all—Marcus.

  Conveniently, my bitch face is seriously scary, so they all leave me alone as I smooth the front of my silk skirt and straighten my already flagpole-like spine. Sticking my nose in the air, I strut through that bar like I own the place. Actually, one of my clients does, so I know there are a handful of semi-private rooms toward the back, and that’s the most likely location for this silly gathering I’m supposed to attend.

  When I reach my destination, I note that semi-private means there’s a party on each side of a smaller bar area, with one bartender tending to both. He’s one of the tall, dark, and handsome types, so the females in one group, which appears to be some sort of birthday party, are all gathered around the wood and laminate boxing him in, trying to garner his attention. Several of them are doing that classic grab-a-guy’s-attention stance, leaning against the bar, resting on their elbows, which are pressed against their sides, so the girls are pushed up and together, no doubt providing the lucky tender plenty of fodder for his fantasies later tonight. Assuming, of course, he goes home alone, which doesn’t seem likely.

  The other gathering is a bunch of bored-looking middle-aged women wearing expensive yet understated clothing and each holding a glass of wine in one hand. No margarita in sight, and the taco station is pristine, like everyone is afraid to touch it. I’ve been out of touch with the social scene for far too long if this is what a Taco Tuesday after work party looks like.

  A young woman with blue hair and black lipstick separates herself from the birthday party and heads my way. I deliberately make eye contact. “What’s that party over there?” I ask, nodding at the other crowd.

  She shrugs. “Some party for old, working women.” After giving me a quick once over, she adds, “No offense.” And then she hurries through the heavy wooden door.

  “None taken,” I mutter while narrowing my eyes and watching the group of women who are probably just like me: Career-driven, single-minded, determined to shatter every glass ceiling we encounter. My stomach grumbles at the sight of all those delicious taco toppings, yet I know I will be just like all these other women and snub my nose at a perceived uncouth display.

  I need wine if I’m going to make it through this shindig. Since he’s at least ten years younger than me, I don’t feel as intimated by the hot bartender as I might if he were closer to thirty-five, so I belly up and let out a shrill whistle to get his attention.

  “What the fuck was that?”

  I whip my head to the side, prepared to provide a tongue lashing to whomever dared approach me in a bar. Ugh. It’s another sexy guy. And sloppy. That shirt looks like he swiped it off the floor and dragged it over his shoulders as he made his way out the door without stopping to look in a mirror. And it’s flannel. Why won’t that particular fashion statement die?

  In ten seconds flat, I’ve determined he is everything wrong with the male species, and he hasn’t even smiled at me yet. Actually, he’s looking at me like I’m a loon.

  “What’s your problem?” Might as well get defensive right off the bat. That’ll scare him off for sure.

  “I think you blew my eardrum with that whistle. What, do you train dogs for a living?” For emphasis, he grabs his earlobe and shakes it, like that’s going to do anything except draw my attention to his slightly too long hair and the glasses that frame his face way better than they should. He probably doesn’t even have a prescription. I bet he wears them deliberately to pick up women.

  Not this woman.

  “Do you have a better idea? In case you haven’t noticed, the bartender’s rather preoccupied at the moment.”

  “I noticed. But I’ve also been to a bar before, so I know if I do this—” He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, giving me a glimpse of a far too tight ass under that wrinkled shirt, and then he waves a twenty in the air. Like a dog sniffing out a juicy steak, the bartender drops his entourage and hurries toward us. Tall, Dark, and Sloppy tosses a smirk my way while the younger version asks for his drink order.

  “What are you drinking?” my worst nightmare asks. Why won’t he leave me alone? Can’t he see that I don’t remotely belong to that other party, so clearly I must be associated with the prim and proper ladies hovering in the other corner? And what guy in his right mind would want to hit on someone surrounded by other powerful women?

  Except I’m not, bec
ause they are all clustered as far away from Wrinkled Hottie and the group of people clearly having a grand old time on the other end of the bar as they possibly can and still be in the same room.

  “I can get my own drink.”

  “You sure can. Although I’d do it while he’s standing here in front of you, because I don’t think your dog whistle is going to work once he heads back to his fan base.”

  The bartender winks and grins, like we’re all in on some fabulous joke.

  “The nicest red that comes by the glass. And it better not be house,” I mutter, even though I’d really rather have a Bombay and tonic. But everybody else is drinking wine, so I might as well make at least a small attempt to fit in.

  “You must be with that group over there,” the guy standing next to me says, shoving his thumb over his shoulder.

  “Because I drink wine?”

  “Nope. Because you have a seriously large stick up your ass. I’ve never seen anyone stand so straight in my entire life.”

  My jaw drops. Is this some kind of joke? I glance around the bar, to see if one of my brothers is here. It would not surprise me in the least if one of my family members set up this entire charade. It’s been years since we’ve attempted to one-up each other with pranks, but that doesn’t mean I should ever let my guard down.

  “Must be why you’re coming to the meeting. Add a little... something different.” What I’m really saying is, he’s a complete loser and those women over there will eat him as an appetizer and then look around for dinner. He doesn’t stand a chance. Which makes me determined to convince him to head over there. Just to watch him bleed.

  “You couldn’t handle what I’ve got to offer.”

  “That is the worst pickup line ever.”

  “It wasn’t a pickup line, lady. You seriously could not handle having me at your Women With Sticks Up Their Asses meeting.”

  “Challenge accepted.” I dig a twenty out of my purse and drop it on the bar before snagging my wine and taking a slug. It’s surprisingly not bad. “Let’s go, handsome.”

  He grins.

  “I’m not flirting with you,” I clarify. I do not find his messy hair and sexy glasses and abrasive personality attractive. I have a vibrator waiting at home that’s without a doubt a far better partner than this guy could ever be.

  “If you are, you aren’t very good at it.”

  “All right, that’s it.” I grab his arm, wrap my fingers around chunks of solid muscle, and pull him away from the bar.

  “That wasn’t a challenge,” he says, like maybe he wants to run back to his own party now. But it’s too late. I’m going to show him. Marcus was pretty-boy handsome as well, and while he wouldn’t be caught dead in flannel, he was an asshole, and in my head, I am getting revenge on him vicariously through this guy.

  “What’s your name, anyway?” I ask as I herd him toward the sharks in pencil skirts hovering in the corner.

  “Painter.”

  “Seriously? Like someone who paints houses?”

  “No. It has a Y in it. P-A-Y-N-T-E-R. And what’s your problem with my name? I bet yours is Suzy or Marie. No, it’s probably Elaine. Or Joyce.”

  I give him a little push when he doesn’t move and ignore the ripple of muscle I can feel through his shirt. So he’s one of those gym rats, too, huh? The guy keeps losing points and I’ve known him for all of seven minutes.

  “I get your implication. Like I’m old or something. Well, my age is none of your damn business and my name is Chloe.” Why did I tell him my name? After my soon-to-be new friends and I humiliate the hell out of him, I’ll never see the guy again. Paynter. God, what were his parents thinking?

  “Chloe, huh? Wouldn’t have guessed that. It’s an awfully pretty and soft name...”

  I’m not an idiot. I know what he isn’t saying. And he’s right. I am hard. And I don’t care whether he thinks I’m pretty. When I was with Marcus, I dolled myself up to impress him, and all that got me was a front row seat while he accepted the promotion that should have been mine. Screw caring what other people think—especially what guys named Paynter think. If I’m remotely attractive, I have made the effort for me, myself, and I only. Well, and my clients. And my co-workers. And my boss. But not a guy I met in a bar who clearly doesn’t know how to use an iron.

  “Now you’re really going to get it.” I’m not sure if he heard me because at about the same time the gathering of Armani and Gucci glide toward us, morbid curiosity carved into every perfectly designed feature on every carefully made up face.

  “Hello, I’m Elizabeth.” The first one, a platinum blond wearing a gray and white striped suit and an excellent cleavage-enhancing bra, offers her hand and a toothy smile to my new friend. No, not friend. My victim.

  “Nice to meet you, Elizabeth.” Paynter tosses a smirk my way and then takes a pull from his bottle of beer while scoping out the rest of the crowd. Several more introduce themselves before I can get a handle on the situation.

  “I’m Chloe Green.” I speak loudly to be heard over the hard thumping music now blaring from the other party. “And I work in corporate real estate. A partner-in-training. As this is the first time I’m meeting all of you, I thought I’d bring along a gift.” Ignoring the sparks of interest in the faces of my cohorts, I add, “A sample of what we don’t want in our lives.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having him in my life. Preferably with my legs wrapped around his hips.”

  I’m not sure who made this comment; Elizabeth, I bet, based on the way she’s undressing him with her eyes, but I’m too distracted by his eyes to focus on her at the moment. Behind those dark frame glasses, they’re surrounded by long, thick lashes and they’re blue, but it’s not just any blue. It’s this clear blue, like colored glass. Way too pretty for a guy like him. Yes, I recognize I’m making harsh snap judgments on a guy I’ve only known for a few minutes, but so far, he hasn’t proven me wrong.

  And then I pull my head out of the clouds or my ass or wherever it is that I even remotely consider him in a positive light, and I say, “No, that’s not what we want. We are powerful women, and the number one enemy of powerful women is...” I let my sentence trail off, hoping one of my new tribe will run with the thought we’ve all undoubtedly had.

  “Bosses who want us to sleep with them in order to get ahead?” someone offers.

  “Add married to that title,” another says, sounding as if she’s had experience in that arena.

  “Yeah,” another pipes up. “Sleazy married bosses who promise you the world if you’ll get down on your knees behind their desk for about seven minutes. Twice a week.” She nods for emphasis and I see several other heads bob in apparent agreement.

  Okay, this conversation has veered into a direction I did not see coming. Paynter is not trying very hard to hide his laughter, which I know is directed at me, Oh, for that scathing comment that will knock him down a few pegs. Maybe my boss—who, thankfully, has never asked me to get on my knees nor has he ever hit on me as part of a promise of a promotion—is right. Maybe I do need to get laid.

  But Paynter and getting laid should never, ever go together. That’s what my vibrator is for. It’s clean, it doesn’t talk back, and I even keep it in the bathroom so I can immediately take a shower afterward. Sex with Paynter would be messy, dirty, filthy...

  “As terrible as those men are,” I say, cutting off the true confessions conversation that has erupted, “there are other men who are far worse. I bring you exhibit number one.” I wave my arms at Paynter, a la Vanna White.

  All the other women in the group give me blank stares for several long seconds, until a brunette whose name is Christine, I think, says, “Every guy I’ve ever dated has been just like him. Twice now I’ve missed out on golden opportunities at work because I called in sick so that we could have a naked Tuesday. Or Wednesday. No wait, it was three times. Two different guys. But yeah, I could be so much higher in my company if I hadn’t been dating them.”

  Several other
s in the group commiserate with her. I glance at Paynter, who is listening with seemingly rapt attention. This wasn’t quite the angle I was going for.

  “My last boyfriend called my boss a dyke at the company holiday party.”

  A collective gasp goes up around me.

  “Although, she had been a closet lesbian her entire life, and for some reason, his calling her out made her decide to come out. I actually ended up getting a raise out of the experience, and she’s now living with Carmen from the IT department. I think they’re planning on getting married, and I know for a fact Carmen wants kids.”

  “Uh...” I cannot fathom how to respond to a story like that. I was not looking for positive experiences here.

  “At our last company golf outing, the guy I dated for six years deliberately beat my boss, even though I told him my boss was a sore loser. And then he got drunk at the luncheon and told everybody that I told him my boss wore a toupee.”

  “Oh my God, I had a similar experience with my ex-husband. I lost my job over it. Such a jackass.”

  “Yeah, what is it with guys and golf outings? They always do the stupidest things, even if we prep them first. Who doesn’t know you’re supposed to let the boss win? That’s business etiquette 101.”

  “Business etiquette 102 is don’t get so sloppy drunk you end up puking on the boss’s $400 dollar Italian leather loafers.”

  “And 103 is...” Finally, this conversation is exactly where I want it to be. Like any gathering of women, they begin to feed off one another and soon are commiserating over lost business opportunities as a result of poor choices in partner material. And they’ve all turned up their collective noses at Paynter, whereas twenty minutes prior, I swore I heard Christine suggest he meet her in the coatroom.