Cocky Fiance(3)

By: T.L. Smith & Melissa Jane

“I’ll have you know it’s windy outside.”



I wasn’t about to tell him about my run-in with ‘Roman—the cunt—Hopheart,’ as my brother had so eloquently phrased it when he discovered the truth behind the split.

Smoothing down my skirt, I turned to him. “Why do you care if I’m late?”

“Sister, you and I had a brunch date.”


I tried to move past him while he replaced a photo frame on the desk. A frame that contained a picture of me and all four of my brothers.

“But...” he continued, “... I can clearly see you’ve forgotten. As usual. Do you even have a life these days?” Slate tucked a strand of ear-length hair. No matter how often I’d told him to cut it, he wouldn’t. Besides, it actually suited him.

“I have a life,” I replied indignantly knowing I was already on a roll with the lies this morning so why stop. Work was my life. I enjoyed it.

Slate scoffed. “You sell sex, Britta, but when was the last time you actually had sex?”

My nose scrunched at his words.

“You’re my brother, you can’t ask me questions like that.”

“We’re also adults, and you need to get laid sometime.” He headed toward the door. “You’re too young for celibacy.”

“Thank you... even for your inappropriateness.”

“Always gotcha back.” He smiled before leaving.

“Love you, too.”

I did feel guilty for missing the brunch date, but I’d never intended on running into douchebag Roman. Slate also understood how committed I was to my work. I felt terrible that I couldn’t make it for our date, but out of all my brothers, he knew me best. He also knew I was employed by a man who expected nothing short of perfection. I worked for one of the best lingerie companies in the world and selling sexy was what I did.

And just as my brother had awkwardly suspected, my life failed miserably in that department.

Sitting down, my cell buzzed, and I retrieved it from my handbag.

Oh, for fuck’s sake...


He sent a message, and the contents weren’t what I wanted to read, especially after the run-in.

It was a save-the-date card for the wedding, and when I read the date, my eyes bulged.

“You’ve got to be kidding. That miserable sack of... really?”

My birthday.

He and Rebekah-Big-Boobs considerately decided to hold their wedding on my birthday. Out of three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, they pick my damn day!

“Ughh,” I heaved in exasperation. No wonder he didn’t tell me the date to my face earlier. He knew I’d have kneed him in his balls.

My cell once again buzzed.

Fuckwit... again.

Re-entering the code, I read his new message.

Looking good, Brit.

Catch up soon.

A bouquet of roses sat in the middle of my desk, and I didn’t have to read the card to know who they were from. He moved fast, wanting to impress and awe.

I wasn’t impressed and I wasn’t awed.

In typical Roman style, he still hadn’t changed his stripes. Rebekah was about to find out the hard way how little she could trust him.

Grunting in frustration, I pick up the flowers that graced my desk and sent them flying like angry, graceful balls of color across the room. They smash against the wall of perfectly aligned photo frames, exploding on impact, pink and red petals hurtling away from their once cozy bouquet.

“What in the name of...” a shocked voice startled me from behind.


He was my brother’s best friend and had been since junior high.

He was sex on legs. It was the only way to describe him.

A Greek Adonis who graced the earth with his glorious presence.

He oozed sex appeal.

And he was also off limits.

As well as being my brother’s best friend, he was also my damn boss.

And he was standing at the entry to my office trying too hard to fight the smirk forming on his lips.

Mmm... sex.

“Yes?” I snapped, disguising my lusty eyes.

At work, Hawk dressed in power suits, his broad shoulders strong and confident. Now, in jeans and a well-fitting black shirt, he still looked a mix of casual and sexy sophisticated. Basically, everything he wore complemented his looks and attitude. And each time I saw him, it was a delightful battle of the senses.

And then he opened his mouth.

He was curt, demanding, and sometimes he cut to the bone.

But no matter what he was saying, in whichever tone, Hawk could get me wet between the legs like no man ever could.

Call a retailer’s meeting. Wet.

Book the restaurant for eight. Wet.

Where’s my goddamn stapler? Wet.

You’re late, Britta. Wet.

“Meeting, Britta.”

Back to reality.