Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(72)

“Hey, hey.” I hold my hands up in surrender while I jog backwards, because seriously, what the fuck? “Y’all know I love you. What’s—”

A shoe hurtles at my face. Another yoga brick clips my shoulder.

“Get him, ladies,” the Braveheart lady yelled.

Oh, shit.

They want blood.

I don’t have a fucking clue what I did, but these ladies want blood. My blood.

My run morphs into a sprint, but for once, my brain’s spinning faster than my legs.

The mother and her stroller and her middle finger. The grandmother and her cane. And now a yoga class.

I’m outnumbered.

Probably outsmarted and outmaneuvered too.

Another yoga brick.

And I’m still a mile from safety.

“Shut up and let your underwear do the talking!” A clump of—oh, man, that’s disgusting. Flying horse poop. Awesome.

I pump my legs harder. Knees higher. Like I’m gonna beat Usain Bolt. Running. Sprinting. Away from a mob of angry women.

This is new.

As is having a mob of angry women gaining on me.

The ladies usually love me. Or if not, at least they tolerate me with patient smiles.

Maybe a run wasn’t the best cure for jetlag.

But how was I supposed to know today’s International Beck Ryder Is The Enemy Day?

“I’ll show you where you belong,” one of the women screeches.

I don’t have a clue where she thinks I belong, or why she thinks I belong there, but I know one thing.

I am totally fucked.



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Sneak Peek at MISTER McHOTTIE





If you love hot billionaire bosses, jilted heroines out for revenge, brothers’ best friend romances, and horrifically mortifying situations, read on for an excerpt of Mister McHottie…



Ambrosia May Berger (Bro for short, but only to her enemies)



Know who just bought the company I work for?

Chase Jett.

Number One Dick on my Dick List. He’s the reason I tell people I’m from Pittsburgh. I hope when they put him up at Madame Tussaud’s, they use ear wax. I hope when he goes on Naked and Afraid, they release him in the wilds of Minnesota and someone replaces his insect repellent with pig’s blood. Have you seen Minnesota mosquitoes? They’re horses with wings. It’s like being bitten by a hornless unicorn.

My boss is introducing him, and I don’t have to look to know that he’s preening for his adoring fans. I can smell the estrogen his presence has prompted. Half of my coworkers just spontaneously ovulated.

So the guy could buy a small country. Who cares? He’s also been known to pee in cornflakes.

Literally.

I didn’t witness it, but my brothers told me later they didn’t think I’d really eat the cereal.

Now the Dick is talking. I’d turn my headphones up, but Parker spilled her avocado mango acai berry chia energy smoothie on them last week and shorted something in the cord, which means One Direction sounds like they’re being filtered through mashed bananas.

“Morning, ladies and gentlemen.” The Dick’s voice is hot chocolate with a triple shot of espresso, and I hate myself for noticing. Why couldn’t the smoothie filter that out? “Just wanted to stop in and say hi. Love what you’ve done here, and I’m excited to be a part of the Crunchy family.”

I snort.

Family.

My brothers thought Chase was family once.

A chill washes over me, making my nipples tighten against my damp bra. Stupid boob sweat. Stupid racing heart. Stupid backstabbing billionaire.

Why did he get to be the one who grew up to become a billionaire?

“O.M.G. He’s watching you.” The message from Goth Parker adds a sour taste in my mouth to my already overactive physical impairments. My boob sweat is starting to stink.

When I don’t reply, another message pops up. “You don’t look good. Do you need an energy bar? Tell me you didn’t go bar-hopping and have a one-night stand with Hottie McBillions last night. Oh, wait. Tell me you did. Then tell me everything else.”

“Ah, Sia, always working hard.” Rod raises his voice. “Sia? Sia! Tell Mr. Jett about the Choy Joy campaign.”

Mr. Jett. Rod has twenty years on Chase, but since Chase has the fat bank account, it’s Mr. Jett.

What would they call him if they knew what he did at the lake with my floaty toy that one summer? Hmm?

I pull off my headphones and mentally prepare myself for a public execution. I lever myself out of the beanbag chair—without stumbling, take that, Mr. Arms—and I turn, making myself stare straight into the pits of hell.

Or, you know, his eyes. Which are more of a Caribbean sea blue than cinder and ash. Deep-set under a prominent brow. Crackling and radiating with suppressed power. Erm, evil. Suppressed malevolence. Fire and brimstone. What’s that, Lassie? Ambrosia’s better sense fell down the well?

His eyes widen in horror before settling into a smarmy, wicked smirk that he probably practices in the mirror every night before swimming through his piles of money à la Scrooge McDuck.

Life is horrifically unfair sometimes.

But two can play the smirking game. I just happen to be saving mine for after I quit.