The Interview

“You all right?”

Brin’s voice pulls my attention from my laptop, his long frame visible through the open door. He’s not dressed for the office, or maybe he is. He doesn’t work corporate and can often be found wearing jeans. More interesting than his outfit are the takeaway coffee cups in his hand. Two of them, not three.

“Am I… all right? Is that what you’re asking?” Amelia’s voice sounds hesitant. Meanwhile, I’m irrationally annoyed that I can’t see her, bar the brief flash of her hand, her shoulder, and the flick of her ponytail. How is it I’d never realized Jody’s desk is placed so inconveniently? Maybe because I never spent half the day trying to perve at Jody.

“Yeah,” Brin says with a delighted laugh. “It’s a greeting. Same as hello—how you doing? That sort of thing. I bet you’re ending phone calls wrong as well.”

“How are you supposed to end them? I say bye like everyone else.”

“Everyone else who doesn’t live here, Mimi, love. The standard ending of a conversation in the UK goes a bit like this.” The idiot clears his throat. “Alright, that’s great, thanks very much, cheers, thanks again, bye!”

“You’re weird,” she says with a cute laugh. She’s not wrong, either. About him being weird. He’s also weirdly annoying.

“Says the one defiling British telephone etiquette. I’m surprised there haven’t been complaints.”

“Maybe there has been.” She lowers her voice. “It might be what’s put the monster in a bad mood.”

Brin’s head lifts as he slides a smug smile through the open door. “Is Whit being a twat?” he asks, looking right at me.

Me? I just stare back.

“You say that differently.”

Mimi’s comment brings Brin’s attention sliding back. “Because you lot say it wrong.”

“And you’re just a tease.”

My stomach turns to a lump of fucking concrete. Is she flirting with him?

“Am I?” Brin asks with a chuckle I think I might ram down the back of his throat. With my fist.

“Well, yeah. Unless one of those isn’t for me.”

I try to concentrate on my laptop screen again, but no deal. My attention slides back to Brin and I watch as he glances down to the takeaway cups he seems surprised to find in his hands.

“Sorry.” He passes one over with a shy grin. “This one is for you.”

It’s the Amelia effect. She dazzles everyone. At the investor meeting last week, we had the usual array of sharp brains, straight-talking titans of industry, and the mega- wealthy, yet a number of them sat like starstruck schoolboys, gazing up at her as though she’d offered them the moon, not the standard coffee and pastries. It’s just her way. She has this knack for treating everyone like they’re the sole focus of her attention. She knows everyone’s fucking name, and according to security, she’s been feeding half her lunch to the homeless bloke who’s often camped outside the building. Helena from HR called and asked me what I wanted to do about it. As a company, we do our bit for charity and even sponsor a local homeless shelter, but no financial institution wants a symbol of poverty sitting on their doorstep.

That said, I told Helena to leave it. What kind of a bastard tells someone to knock off being charitable?

“You, Brin Whittington, are a prince among men.” Delight seeps into Mimi’s tone. It’s just her way. She even had Olivia Beckett eating out of her hand, which annoyed me no end because Olivia has a way of making me feel like I’m still wet behind the ears.

“Mmm. That is so good.”

That is so unfair. Why didn’t I think to bring her coffee? Then I’d be the one watching her expression. She looks so lovely when she’s enjoying herself, all languid eyed and blissed out. Not for the first time today, I find myself adjusting my swelling dick.

“Are you okay?” Mimi’s voice turns concerned, and my brother clears his throat.

“Sorry. I must’ve spaced out for a minute.”

I bet you did, you filthy fucker. I force my attention back to the screen, but the numbers might as well be hieroglyphics.

“Thank you for this. I really needed it.”

“No problem.” Brin’s reply sounds a little strangled. The fucking Amelia effect. Blessedly, she walks with her head in the clouds or else she might see what she does to men. “The place around the corner has the best coffee. Small batch freshly roasted. Have you been yet?”

“I can’t say I’ve come across it.”

My fingers splay out on the keys while, in my mind’s eye, Mimi earnestly shakes her head. I hope Brins gets fucking priapism.

“Where is it, did you say?”

And there it is. His way in. Bad enough that El thinks he’s taking her to dinner next week. Think being the operative word. I’ll just get Polly to throw a spanner in those potentially dirty works if I know El.

“Why don’t I take you for lunch there Monday?” the little shit offers. “They do the best canelés,” he adds, not giving her the opportunity to brush him off gently.

“Cannolis?”

“No.” He gives a soft laugh. “Canelés,” he says, pretending he’s a native Parisienne. Brin doesn’t speak a word of French, so unless he’s about to sing her Joyeux Anniversaire—happy birthday in French—I think he’s about done. “They’re, like, these delicious little cakes.” He flicks out his hand as though holding one. Like she’s eating out of it.

“Oh, I love cake.”

“Yeah?” The fucker sounds turned on. She said cake, not cock. “These have this crispy, rum-glazed crust and soft, fluffy custard inside.”

“Stop,” she half moans, which I do not like. I don’t have a problem with the sound; it’s more the fact she’s moaning in front of that arsewipe. I feel antsy. Like my skin is a size too small. Irrational is what it is—Mimi is my PA. The little sister of my dead mate. I knew her when she wore braces, for fuck’s sake. There’s no call to give in to these feelings because I’m not a horny teenager.

She just makes me feel like one.

I can’t seem to help myself. I mean, I haven’t helped myself. Not in the office, at least. I might’ve come close to it once or twice, especially when I get a whiff of her perfume. At home, though…

I’m surprised I haven’t wanked myself raw to the image of her—

“They’re native to Bordeaux.” I snap back to myself at the sound of Brin’s voice. He’s still banging on about cakes. And the way he says Bordeaux? He’s a beret and a string of onions away from being a caricature like the ones you can find being drawn on the banks of the Seine. “It’s the only place that makes them in London.”

“I highly doubt that,” I mutter, returning my attention to my laptop. For 1.4 seconds.

“Oh, my goodness.” Mimi gives a snorting hoot.

“Mimi!” my brother exclaims playfully. “How many decibels do you reckon that was?”

“Stop! I’m not responsible for the noises my stomach makes when I’m hungry and you’re talking about food.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who eats lettuce leaves for lunch.”

“Does it look like it?”

“You look like—no, forget it.” He shakes his head.

“Forget what? You didn’t say anything.” A pause. “But now you have to.”

“I’m not falling for that.”

“Falling for what?”

Brin places his coffee on her desk, pressing his palms on either side of it. “You’re just fishing for compliments,” he all but purrs.

My jaw tenses as I link my fingers and crack them noisily.

“I am not!”

“You’re sure it’s not because you already know you’re gorgeous?”

“Don’t get fresh, mister.” I’m pretty sure that was the sound of a plastic ruler being rapped across his knuckles. As far as brush-offs go, it’ll do as Brin straightens. But if I know my brother, he’s not giving in. “I just forgot lunch.”

“Who forgets to eat?”

“People who are busy. And… people who leave their lunchbox on the Tube on the way in.”

Or maybe people who see fit to feed two homeless people today.

“I’ll tell you what.” Here it comes. Let me take you to the best coffee shop in London. Brin’s version of come up and see my etchings. I love my little brother, so I hate myself—just a little—when I spoil his fun…

“Amelia,” I deliberately call across the space.

Brin’s darkly amused gaze swings my way, then back to Mimi again as he fakes the kind of shiver that might indicate someone just walked across his grave. It can be arranged, Brin. “That brought back a horrible memory.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Like being summoned by your dad for a dressing down.”

I don’t resist the evil smile that creeps across my face. If only you knew, Brin. You’d be one jealous fucker. I clear my throat and pull my head out of the gutter.

“I didn’t realize your working contract was part-time, Brin.” My tone drips with derision, even if the only person I should be disgusted with is myself. I’m not.

My brother pulls a face that is one hundred percent fuck you.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Amelia says, her body coming into my line of vision. She touches his arm lightly, and a moment later, she appears at the doorway, unaffected by my sullen expression. “Yes, Mr. Whittington?”

Well, the purr is new.

“Come in and close the door.”

She turns as she does so, giving me a stellar view of her round arse, and the bonus sight of my brother’s unhappy expression. It’s even less happy as I flip him the finger the moment before he disappears behind the wood.

Amelia—no idea why I full named her—clasps her hands behind her back as she takes a couple of steps closer. The afternoon sun falls over her curves, yet all I can see is her smile. A smile full of secrets. Full of knowing. The smile of a lover who seems to intuit just what you’re thinking. Does she know what she does to me? That she’s playing with fire? Hell, this is Mimi, I remind myself. She hasn’t a calculating bone in her body.

Meanwhile, my bone…er

“What have I told you about calling me Mr. Whittington?” My voice is a low, unhappy rumble.

“That it makes you want to look over your shoulder to see if your father is there.”

“Exactly.” I frown a little more just in case she’s not getting the picture.

“Well, no one ever calls me Amelia, either. But I get the sense we have similar reasons for using something different.”

“Meaning what?”

“That I have a hard time putting this Leif Whittington together with the one who hung out at my parents’ pool. And I guess you find it hard to think of me as anything but Connor’s little sister when you call me Mimi.”

I wish that were true because what I see when I look at her isn’t the gangly kid with braces who I barely remember. But it’s a good reminder of how I should be thinking. Of which head I should be thinking with. In an effort to return things to how they should be, I’ve tried to banish what happened in my apartment, but it’s no use. I’ve also tried being the hard-arsed boss, with the same kind of effect. Maybe I need to try harder to be a brother to her. Bring her into the family fold. Make her one of the flock.

As if I haven’t got enough looking after them.

“I’m the same person as I was back then.” I rub my hand over my jaw and watch as her gaze follows the motion before rising to mine.

“Not even! Before, you would’ve never barked and huffed, and never explained what I’d done wrong.”

“I don’t huff,” I retort. Huffily. “And you haven’t done anything wrong.” Because none of this is your fault.

“Back in the day, I could’ve made you coffee with mud, and you wouldn’t have complained. Now you won’t even let me make your coffee!”

“I have arms and legs. Hands, too.”

“Did Jody make you coffee?”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“I know she did. You act like I have cooties. You haven’t had one word of feedback for me, and I know I’m doing a helluva job covering for Jody. You even sent someone else to deal with your dry cleaning yesterday.” Despite the lack of accusation in her tone, she cocks her hip as she folds her arms across her chest, making a perfect cradle for her—

Stop.

“My dry cleaning?” I repeat as the words belatedly penetrate my thick skull. “I thought I was doing you a favor. The delivery was late, that’s all.”

“Yeah, but those little tasks? That’s what I’m here for.”

I doubt my idea of “little tasks” aligns with hers.

Lean over my desk.

Lift your skirt.

Loosen the buttons of your blouse.

Now, open your mouth like a good girl.

“I know what you’re here for,” I grate out. Jody’s swollen ankles. Crocs and maternity smocks. The dead brother trick no longer works.

“I’d like to feel a little less ornamental.”

I open my mouth and snap it closed again before I suggest she stop wearing skirts that look like she’s been poured into them. The issue isn’t what she wears. It’s in the cesspit that is my brain. How can I try to be a brother to her when I want to fuck her from here to Lands End?

“You just told Brin you worked through your lunch,” I say, remembering the conversation. “That says to me that you have enough to do.”

“I do.” She inclines her head. “Things that Jody left for me. Things she’d diarized. But you’ve got to do your bit, too. Whoever heard of a CEO chasing his own damn laundry? You, boss man,” she says, pointing my way. “Me,” she adds with a tap to her chest, “here to do your bidding.”

“My bidding?” My answer falls from my mouth far quicker than it should, the thoughts accompanying it pure fucking filth.

“Yes, Mr. Whittington. I’m happy to assist however you see fit.”

Her words are like a lick of warmth against the lining of my stomach. Fuck me. Was that a come-on?

Stop being a cock, the little angel on my shoulder says. It’s got a dirty fucking mouth, that angel.

“So Mr. Boss man,” she says stepping closer, “what can I do for you?

“I’m the same person as I was,” I grumble. “Just a bit older.” A lot wealthier.

“A little crankier.” She comes to a stop a couple of feet from the other side of my desk. “What did you want me for?”

I force my eyes to remain on hers as a dozen wants prickle on my tongue. Get on your knees, open your mouth, and stick out your tongue. “Last month’s P & L account.”

“What about it?”

“I haven’t gotten it yet.”

“It should be in your inbox,” she replies breezily. Too breezily, maybe. Was she hoping for a different kind of request?

“Well, it’s not.”

“Well… I sent it yesterday.”

“I also need a hard copy.”

“There’s nothing about that in the book.” She looks mildly confused.

“What book?” I find myself frowning.

“Jody’s instructions. The first Monday of a new month, the report comes to me. I’m to reformat it and forward it on to you. Which I did.”

“I need you to print it out.”

She makes as though to stand on the tips of her toes.

“What are you doing?”

“Seeing if your fingers had all fallen off. Your laptop has a print button, right?

“Don’t be a smart arse.”

“Then stop staring at it.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you started it.”

I give my head a shake. I must be fucking losing my marbles. “The report?” I repeat.

She glances behind me to where my personal printer sits on the cabinetry.

“It’s not working,” I say with a glower.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it is that it’s not working.” I know I’m being a prick, but now that I’ve called her in here and the door is closed, I need her to leave before I do something very fucking inappropriate.

“Can’t you fix it?” she asks.

“If I could, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“But you’re the man who brought modern banking to the hands of the masses.” I feel even more ridiculous as she holds out her hand as though waiting for an explanation to drop into it. “Via their phones.”

“I didn’t create interface.” My voice betrays my frustration. Frustration that makes her glower as she presses that hand to her hip. “I’m a banker, not a coder or a software engineer. And even if I could do all those things, it doesn’t mean I’d be able to fix a bloody laser printer.”

“A laser printer doesn’t work by ‘laser beams.’” She has the audacity—the fucking temerity—to make air quotes around those two words. “Fine.” Before I can properly protest, she makes her way from the other side of the desk, her hip brushing my shoulder as she leans to examine my laptop. “Let me check the settings.” She begins to busily tap the keys, and I don’t even protest.

Why does she smell so amazing? Would she notice if I sat back in my chair right now? Would she be able to feel my eyes roaming over her delectable arse? I’d never considered myself an arse man, but hers is the kind I could stare at for days. And I probably have. But it’s not just her arse that makes me feel like a pervert. I watch her plump lips as she speaks just waiting for a flash of that tiny gap between her front teeth. I’ve probably spent hours wondering what it would be like to kiss her, and my imaginings don’t stop there. I curl my fingers into my palm when the notion to slide my hand over her rear flits into my head. Over the firm roundness, I’d run my hand down the back of her thigh before slipping it under her skirt and travelling back the other way. Her stockings are holdups, I’m sure. I haven’t seen the outline of a garter belt, though I look again, just to be sure.

I’m such a fucking pervert. I glance at my balled fists, wondering how stupid I’d look if I just sat on them. It would serve me right if she turned her head and caught me staring. It’s with gut-twisting comprehension that I realize she already has.

“See anything you like?”

“What?” I resist the urge to shake my head.

“I said, what are you like. You know, Brit speak.” She tsks and rolls her eyes, affecting what I think is supposed to be an English accent. “What are you like, you total plonker?”

“I don’t know…” What this moment is about.

“I thought it was meant to be rhetorical.” She turns back again.

“Does that mean you’ve found the file?”

“No.” She stands straight suddenly. “I just thought I’d make myself feel better. I know I sent it. It’s weird that it’s not there.”

And now? Now I’m staring at her tits. It’s hard not to because they’re there—right in front of me. Maybe I should stand, then my eyes wouldn’t be at tit level. But then she might notice this massive hard-on.

“Like I said…” I clear my throat, the words rusty. “I’ve been using email longer than you’ve had adult teeth.”

“I doubt that.”

“You saw yourself.” I gesture to my laptop. “The email wasn’t there.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she says softly. “You’re trying to remind me how much older you are. I was just disputing that fact.”

I don’t have an answer because the top button of her blouse has slipped free to reveal the smooth valley of her cleavage and the scalloped edge of her bra. A hot prickle runs the length of my spine. Since when has a little lace been so titillating?

“Why are you here?” I find myself asking.

“Because you called for me.”

“No, Mimi. Why are you here in London?” Is it to torment me? Because it’s pure torment having her here and that’s without the inadvertent flash of her cleavage, her inappropriate questions, the sight of her stellar arse, and the way I’m tempted to touch it constantly.

She doesn’t answer for a beat but turns her attention back to my laptop again. And I go back to contemplating her arse.

“Found it!” I startle at the announcement. “It was in your spam. Do you want me to print it out for you?” She glances toward the cabinet that houses my laser printer.

“That one’s not working, remember? Just… have it on my desk first thing Monday. Now, I want you to answer my question.” Reaching out, I take her hand in a brotherly fashion. “Tell me why London? Why now?”

“Because I needed a change.” When it becomes obvious that isn’t going to cut it, she inhales and starts again. “Look, when Connor died, my parents’ lives fell apart. They became so fearful, Whit. They saw danger around every corner for me. I understood why and I really wanted to help them, so I chose to live the kind of life they wanted. I went to college nearby in the kind of setting they wanted.”

“Meaning what?”

“I went to an all-girls Christian college,” she says, sliding her hand to her hip. “It wasn’t at all like you see in the movies.”

“Are we talking mainstream or…” Not a very brotherly inquiry.

“There were no parties and no pillow fights,” she says with a knowing smirk.

“You sound disappointed.”

“And you sound like you’re enjoying this a little too much. Do you want this answer or not?”

I make a gesture with my hand. Please, go on.

“I moved back home after college. I moved into the apartment. An apartment above my parents’ garage. You can guess how that was. But I did it for them. And then, well then I realized I only have one life, and I have to live it for me.”

“So being here is about distancing yourself from their influence?”

“It’s about experiencing life, Whit. I’ve always wanted to come to London. I guess I have you to thank for helping me discover that London isn’t just a city of skyscrapers. It’s like a patchwork of places, each quite unique. Art galleries and cozy pubs, lush green parks and filled-to-the-brim museums. It’s castles and palaces and tiny, crooked streets—walls daubed with artwork. It’s music and food from all over the world!”

Her face lights up as she speaks. I bet if I pressed my hands to her cheeks, I’d feel the heat of her sunshine.

“That’s all on you.” She seems amused and discomforted to have revealed so much, judging by the way she reaches up to slide away her hair. “You and your accent. My fairy prince.”

“I’m no fairy tale. I more like a horror story.”

“To work for, sure.”

I narrow my gaze, not sure if she’s teasing. “I guess you’re a little less so now that you’ve realized I can do the job and that I’m not going anywhere. But yeah,” she says, hurrying on. “I loved your accent, dreamed about coming to London, and life is about living life and not giving in to fear.” She holds out her hand in culmination. Sort of, so here I am.

I feel like a complete shit. Of course her parents were devastated after losing Connor, but I never imagined they’d smother Mimi in the process. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better friend,” I murmur, drawn to take her hand again.

“It’s not your fault.”

I nod as I turn it over in mine, my gaze not lifting from her dainty fingers. “I should’ve done more.” Like a flash of sin, I see her hands tightening on my forearm, her eyes lust hazed, her breath on my face. I drop her hand on instinct.

Mimi straightens, possibly disappointed, but then she winks. “Well, keep your eyes peeled for that report, Mr. Whittington.”

“Just Whit,” I mutter, twisting my laptop back to where it was.

“Mimi and Whit. Whit and Mimi,” she says as she sashays her fabulous arse over to the closed door. I slide open my desk drawer, pull out a rubber band, and slip it over my wrist. “Oh, I forgot to tell you.” She swings around. “El said that Lavender likes this new vegan restaurant in Shoreditch.”

“Not vegan and not Shoreditch,” I mutter, dropping that hand to my lap and furtively palming my tortured dick. Down boy.

“No?”

“It might be her birthday, but not all of us enjoy eating jackfruit masquerading as barbecue.”

“What was that? That thing you just did?”

I look up at the sound of her confusion, then back again when I realize how ridiculous this is. “When I complained?”

“No. If your lips are moving, you’re complaining. I meant the thing you put on your wrist.”

“They don’t have rubber bands in Florida?” She pulls a dissatisfied face at my answer. “Maybe I’m starting a new fashion.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“If I needed a rubber band, where else would I keep it but on my wrist?”

“In your pocket. Or maybe the drawer you’ve just taken it out of.”

“Why, when clearly wrists were made for such things?”

“If you say so.” She gives a miniature shrug and pivots away.

Meanwhile, I wince at the sharp ping of the elastic on my wrist because her wrists are not made to be pinned to my bed. Thwap! I do it once more because I’m looking at her arse again. This time, the bright-blue rubber snaps.

Was it a sign?

Probably.

A sign that I’m going to need a lot more rubber bands.