Marry Screw Kill(21)

Chapter Eleven


Sin



“Follow me to my office,” James instructs, pivoting on the shiny marble of the entryway. He doesn’t wait for an answer from me, but then again, he didn’t really ask a question. Everyone heeds to his commands and desires. What a demanding *.

He carries himself like he’s the ruler of the free world, but my disgust at his words about Harlow’s mouth and how he crushed her dignity only grows. How could he talk about his own fiancée like that? He’s a world-renowned heart specialist, not some backroom pimp. His vulgarity makes me realize I have no idea who my uncle is, nor does anyone else in my family. Nina would be repulsed.

A door shuts somewhere upstairs and I assume it’s Harlow heading to their bedroom. The thought of them in bed together makes me feel sick. She’s so sweet and young, and I fear he’s trapped her in some crazy web.

I leave my suitcase by the door and follow him toward a hallway, surveying the house as I walk. The place is f*cking enormous. The ceilings above me have to be two stories high and extend into an expansive living area. Expensive furnishing from what looks to be a designer showroom cover every inch of space. Even though I’m in the middle of wheat fields, this place has the opulence of an Upper East Side penthouse owned by others richer than even my family. It reeks money—lots and lots of it. Especially for a small city like Rochester.

“We’ll talk in here.” James opens a tall, wooden door and flips on a light switch. Small lamps on the walls illuminate the room in soft hues. Mahogany paneled walls surround the room in shadows. A desk fit for a king sits back in the middle and the chair behind it could pass as a throne. The man likes to make a statement.

Two smaller chairs parked in front of the desk are practically child-like compared to King James’ chair. I move to a corner of the desk and sit on the edge, refusing to be intimidated by this man. I’ve only seen him a handful of times in my entire life. All our interactions were at formal family functions where polished manners and perfect appearances prevailed. Here, now, uncle or not, he’s not a friend of mine.

“What would you like to drink? Scotch?” James slips behind a small bar near the sidewall and pulls out two short glasses. “Or do you prefer a more common pour, like whiskey?”

James busies himself with the scotch bottle, his gaze remaining on his task. I respond by crossing my arms over my chest and remaining silent. Finally, he looks up at me with his brows knitted. He glances at my unyielding stance and a small smirk tips the corner of his lips. The bar between us serves as a dividing line.

Once I have his full attention, I decide to speak. “I’ll pass on the drink,” I say, not moving from my position on the desk. “You said you wanted to talk?” Or lecture me?

“I do.” James sips his drink and his icy blue eyes assess me from over the rim of the glass. He licks the taste of scotch from his lips and moves from the bar toward the desk. “Have a seat.”

He walks right past me without a glance, but I have no desire to sit in one of those small chairs like his royal subject. So, I move toward the bar instead, and lean against it to face him.

“Thanks, but I’ll stand. I’ve been sitting all day.” Even the airplane seats looked larger and more comfortable than what he is offering. Prick.

“Suit yourself.” He drains his scotch and places the now empty glass on the desk. “How many years has it been since we’ve seen each other, Sinclair?”

“Six summers ago in Nantucket.” It was the summer before I headed to Australia. I was a young, idealistic idiot, thinking the world was mine for the taking.

“Right, Nina managed to get all of us together at her summer retreat. I don’t think you said two words to me.”

“True, but I don’t remember you saying two words to me either.”

“Good point,” he laughs in an odd way that makes my skin crawl. “When Nina asked me to offer you a spot in The Clinic’s program, I wasn’t quite sure what to think. I always thought you would end up helping your father run his empire.”

“I really appreciate this opportunity.” My words are sincere. “I’m lucky to have the spot.”

“Give your grandmother credit, not me. She’s your biggest fan,” James says with an unmistakable tone of sarcasm. He pushes the chair back and stands. “Empty.” Raising his glass, he walks toward me, needing a refill from the bar I’m still leaning against.

“I have a question for you,” James says. I turn around to face him as he pours himself another glass of scotch and brings it to his lips. He consumes his second drink in one quick swig like Harlow did at the restaurant.

“Shoot.” I nod my head to let him know I’m game.

“What made you choose medicine over the family business?” James stands still and waits for my answer. I know exactly why he’s asking me this question. He grilled Harlow in the car and she told him why we were touching at the restaurant. My answer is nothing more than an attempt to corroborate what she said to him.

“You know why. She told you.” I turn the tables, unwilling to be intimidated by him. Harlow and I did nothing wrong, no matter what he thinks.

James sets his glass down hard on the bar counter and looks at me with a tight expression, fueled by frustration. I’m not sure what causes this anger inside of him. It could be a million things, but it revolves around the woman likely waiting for him in his bedroom.