“You’ve known each other for a long time.” He leans on the side of the bassinet and strokes one of the baby’s tummies. “It’s okay if you don’t want to wait. Just be sure.”
“I am sure. I’d marry her today,” I say. “I love Lily. But there are things that she needs to accomplish first with her career. I want her to be able to focus. It’s not time yet.”
“All right,” he says.
“But will you give me your blessing? Because I am going to ask her just as soon as the timing is right.”
“Of course you have it.” He pulls me into a bear hug. Claps me on the back. “We’re family. We’ll always be family. Nothing would make me happier than my best friend marrying my sister.”
“And those are words I never expected to hear from you.”
“Bro Code rule one,” he says as we leave the nursery to join Lily and Jane for family dinner. “If your best friend is perfect for your sister, you better damn well embrace it.”
***
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Trademarked Excerpt
Bree
For the safety of the general population, Parker Kent ought to be locked up. It’d be a public service, really, if that man were put in solitary.
I scowl at the man who is the bane of my existence. I’m going to be late again thanks to his perfect physique. Fourteenth time this month. I push my glasses firmly onto the bridge of my nose—dropped one of my last set of contact lenses this morning and couldn’t find it—and glare at his pretty face. He smirks back at me, his pearly white teeth denting his full bottom lip. His chocolatey caramel eyes laugh at me.
He’s scoffing at me. He knows he’s hot stuff and he doesn’t give a fuck that he’s ruining my morning. Again.
“You’re mocking me, aren’t you? Of course you are.” Asshole. He’s taunting me with his pretty eyes and his perfect abs and those extremely snug boxer briefs that leave almost nothing to the imagination. The outline of his monster peen is right there for everyone to see. It’s practically visible through those painted on ball huggers.
Eyes on the road, Bree. You’re not one of those women who end up totalling their car because of a pretty man.
Can I help it if I look? It’s right there in front of me.
If he was Chris Hemsworth I might be inclined to do something stupid, but not when it comes to Parker Kent. God’s gift to women? More like colossal pain in my ass!
Traffic slows to a crawl as I pass under the fourteen-foot high billboard of Parker Kent in his underwear. A couple of yards ahead a canary yellow coupe hugs a pole, steam billowing from its crushed hood. Several cars dot the side of the road, their owners gathered around a young woman with a teensy skirt and her arms hugging her waist. Poor girl. Yet another unsuspecting victim of that man’s ridiculous muscle.
Scuffing the ground with an ankle boot, she glances over her shoulder at the billboard. I bet she’s telling them that her eyes were only off the road for a second. She only got distracted for a minute by Parker Kent’s delicious body. Just like all the other women who have crashed since the sign went up earlier this month. Oh, and that one guy. The emergency response team practically had to drag him away from the billboard before he chained himself to it.
I catch flashing lights in my side mirror. First responders on their way. Traffic starts to move again. I’m only fifteen minutes late. Much better than last Friday when it took an hour to pass the three-car pileup stupid Parker Kent caused. How long is it going to take the city to work out that this billboard is why so many accidents occur here?
My phone rings, cutting out my radio and filling my car with a tinny version of the Star Wars theme, which is reserved for my best friend and colleague, Tim Harris.
We both started at Global Insurance on the same day, and had instantly bonded over pop culture and our mutual like of men.
Most people can’t tell Tim has an affection for the erection. Watching women come on to him is the highlight of most of my Friday nights. Especially since he’s such an equal opportunity flirt. It’s fun watching them flutter their eyelashes, flip their hair, and adjust their cleavage in an attempt to pique his interest. Sometimes I wanna pull them aside and say, Honey, unless you’re packing a penis in your handbag you have no chance.
I take the call, and his voice pipes through the speakers in my car. “Hey, Breezy, where are you? Malcolm’s been asking for you.”
“Shit.” Our office manager is a stickler when it comes to punctuality, which normally isn’t a problem, but since Parker Kent’s oversized package was erected on Casey Drive I’ve been late more often than I’ve been on time. Tim’s covered for me as much as possible but looks like I’m plumb out of luck today.
Why couldn’t they have put that billboard out near the airport or something? Actually, planes crashing out of the sky due to Parker Kent would make him a terrorism act, wouldn’t it? Maybe the FBI investigating his dangerous package is a step too far. Hmm. Still, it’s a nice little daydream to get me through this commute.
“I told him I thought you were in the bathroom. Please tell me you’re already in the elevator. I have your favorite coffee on your desk ready to go.”
My mouth waters at the mention of a vanilla latte from The Caffeinator. The server there knows me so well he has my order ready by the time I get to the counter. And he always sneaks me a little chocolate heart with it. I’m not sure which one of us is crushing here. Probably me. On the coffee. I almost weep as I realize it’ll be lukewarm by the time I can wrap my hand around it. “I’m still ten minutes away. There was another accident at the billboard.”
“Parker Kent strikes again?” he asks, no longer incredulous like he was the first few times we had this conversation. There are only so many times a man’s hunk of junk can be used as an excuse for being late without someone having to investigate to see whether you’re lying, or the truth really is as crazy as it sounds.
“Yep.” I pop the P like it’s bubble gum. “Return of the gargantuan terror.”
Tim snorts as my phone beeps, alerting me to a secondary call coming through. It’ll be Malcolm, checking to make sure I’m at work like Tim said, and not as I actually am, hurtling toward the office at the speed of a sloth. I roll my eyes and move lanes as the one over shows promise of moving faster. “I have an incoming call.”
“Malcolm?” he asks.
“No, MacGyver. He’s going to get me out of this mess with nothing more than a paperclip.”
“Funny,” he tells me. “See you when I’m looking at you.”
With Tim’s call disconnected, I consider letting Malcolm’s go to voicemail, but it’s better to face this type of thing head on. While I’m out of the office, instead of on the other side of his desk trying not to be blinded by the light bouncing off his bald head. “Good morning, Malcolm.”