Tangled (The Tangled Series)(6)

“Riiiight. And when she finds out—and Alexandra will definitely find out, I assure you—she’ll serve me my balls on a silver platter. With a nice garlic butter dipping sauce on the side and a good Chianti.”

He makes a slurping sound à la Hannibal Lecter that has me laughing my ass off.

“Besides,” he gloats, replacing his spectacles and stretching his hands over his head, “I got filet mignon at home, boys. I’m not interested in Sloppy Joes.”

“*,” Matthew coughs out, while Jack shakes his head at my brother-in-law and says, “Even a nice filet gets old if you eat it every day.”

“Not,” Steven defends suggestively, “if you cook it a different way every time. My baby knows how to keep my meals spicy.”

I put my hand up and plead, “Please. Please just stop there.” There are just some visuals I don’t want in my head. Ever.

“What about you, Drew? I saw you leave with those twins. Were they real redheads?” Jack asks me.

I feel the satisfied smile stretch over my lips. “Oh yeah. They were real.” And then I go on to describe my wild Saturday night in vivid, delicious detail.

Okay, let’s just stop right now because I can see that judgmental look on your face. And I can hear your high-pitched disapproval too: What a jerk. He had sex with a girl—well, in this case, two girls—and now he’s telling his friends all about it. That’s sooo disrespectful.

First of all, if a chick wants me to respect her, she needs to act like someone worth respecting. Second, I’m not trying to be a dick; I’m just being a guy. And all guys talk to their friends about sex.

Let me repeat that in case you missed it:

ALL GUYS TALK TO THEIR FRIENDS ABOUT SEX.

If a guy tells you he doesn’t? Dump him, because he’s lying to you.

And another thing—I’ve heard my sister and her little friends have their chats too. Some of the things that came out of their mouths could’ve made Larry f*cking Flynt blush. So don’t act like women don’t talk just as much as us guys do…because I know for a fact they do.

After expounding on the finer points of my weekend, the talk at the table turns to football and the effectiveness of Manning’s offense. In the background, I hear my father’s voice as he stands at the front of the room, detailing the grand accomplishments of the newest associate, whose file I didn’t bother opening this morning. Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania, first in her class, interned with Credit Suisse, blah…blah…blah.

The chatter fades away as my thoughts turn to the part of my Saturday night that I didn’t bother telling my friends about: the interaction with one brunette goddess, to be exact. I can still see those dark round eyes so clearly in my head. That luscious mouth, the luminous hair that could not have possibly been as soft as it looked.

It isn’t the first time her image has popped into my head, unbidden, in the last day and a half. In fact, it seems like every hour a picture of some part of her comes to me, and I find myself imagining what happened to her. Or, more to the point, what could have happened if I had stuck around and gone after her.

It’s strange. I’m not one to reminisce about the randoms I meet during my weekend adventures. Usually, they fade from my thoughts the moment I escape their bed. But there was just something about her. Maybe it’s because she turned me down. Maybe it’s because I didn’t get her name. Or maybe it was that sweetly toned ass that made me want to grab on and never let go.

As the images in my mind turn to focus on that particular feature, a familiar stirring begins in the southern region, if you catch my drift. I mentally shake myself. I haven’t gotten a spontaneous hard-on since I was twelve. What’s up with that?

Looks like I’m going to have to call that hottie who slipped me her number in the coffeehouse this morning. Normally I reserve those kinds of activities for weekends, but apparently my dick would like to make an exception.

By this time, I’ve made it toward the front of the room, in line for the customary handshake of welcome given to all new employees. As I near the head of the line, my father spots me and comes over to greet me with an affectionate slap on the back.

“Glad you made it, Drew. This new girl has some real potential. I want you to personally take her under your wing, help her get her feet wet. You do that, Son, and I guarantee you she’ll take off and do us all proud.”

“Sure, Dad. No problem.”

Great. Like I don’t have my own work to take care of. Now I have to hold a newbie’s hand as she navigates the dark, scary world of Corporate America. That’s just perfect.

Thanks, Dad.

Finally, my turn has come. Her back is to me as I step up. I take in her sleek dark hair pulled into a low bun, her tiny, petite frame. My eyes drift down her back as she speaks to someone in front of her. On instinct they fall to her ass and…wait.

Wait one goddamn minute.

I’ve seen that ass before.

No f*cking way.

She turns around.

Way.

The smile on her face broadens as her eyes connect with mine. Endless, shining eyes that I didn’t remember dreaming about till just now. She raises a brow of recognition and holds out her hand. “Mr. Evans.”

I feel my mouth open and close, but no words come out. The shock of seeing her again—here of all places—must have momentarily frozen the part of my brain that controls speech. As the synapses start to function once more, I hear my father saying, “…Brooks. Katherine Brooks. She’s going places, Son, and with your help she’ll be taking us with her.”