Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
But he asked. For emergencies. And I'm a little brother, through and through, powerless to resist my older brother's wants, desperate for his approval.
For a minute, he was proud of me for buying my own place. I saw it in his eyes. Then he put it together—how did I pay for this apartment—and came up with his own explanation—some of the money Mom inherited from Aunt Marisol—and all that pride turned to pity.
Poor Romeo, still living like a playboy teenager. Not a stable family man like him.
I need a shower and a workout. That's one of the things I don't love about this job. The need to hit the gym five days a week and the protein shakes I down to build my biceps.
But clients like it, and I don't exactly mind the physique. If I still picked up women for fun, I suppose it would be an asset.
Who has the time?
I move through the clean living room, to the kitchen, where my brother is waiting with my macchiato.
It's perfect. Of course. The man is good at everything he does.
"Thanks." Manners take over. I can't help it. It's the way we were raised.
"De nada," he replies in Spanish. Part of an old game. To use as many languages in a conversation as possible. He still has a firm grasp of Italian and Spanish. I'm decent with Italian. Spanish, well, I at least know my please and thank you.
"We can go over the business plan now." I pull out my phone. I have the file there, my iPad, my computer, printed in five different files. Wherever. "If that works for you."
"Rome." My nickname. What my friends and family call me. My mother's birthplace. It means something.
"Why not?" I ask.
"Do you know where Mom's ring is?" he asks.
What?
"She said she gave it to you, when she found it, on her last anniversary, because it made her cry, and—" he sighs so loud the neighbors could hear— "’Romeo is like me. He has the soul of an artist. He appreciates items of great beauty in a way you couldn't.’"
That's sweet, that Mom still thinks her engagement ring is a thing of great beauty, now that she has the cash for something that really sparkles. I'm surprised Daniel agrees. He's more the type to impress the neighbors with the number of carats. And he is the one engaged. But I can't help but argue. "She gave it to me."
"You're not getting married."
"Says who."
His eyes go to the wrinkle in my suit's slacks. "The girl who's name you don't remember."
"I remember it perfectly."
"What was it?"
There's nothing to gain from giving out that information. "I thought you bought Cynthia a ring?"
Daniel frowns at the mention of his fiancée. Which is weird. Who else would receive the ring? But then again, what does Daniel not frown at these days? "I did. But she likes the idea of Mom's."
"Maybe I do too." Now, I'm just being an asshole, but she did give it to me. "And I might get married one day."
"When was your last third date?"
With a non-client? Well, that is one side-effect of sex work. It limits your pool of potential girlfriends. Most people aren't open to dating a hooker. "You can have the ring if you look at the proposal."
"Fine." He just stops himself from rolling his eyes.
A victory. Almost. I pull the business plan up on my phone and hand it to my brother while I fetch the ring from the safe.
He gives it a cursory glance, then insists he'll look more closely from his email Inbox later. "I've got a meeting."
"Sure."
"I do hope you see someone—"
"I am seeing someone."
"You don't have tampons in your bathroom," he says.
What? I return his raised brow gesture.
"You should get some. If you have a girlfriend. Or pads. Whatever she uses. And extra toilet paper. And start leaving the seat down."
"I always leave the seat down. I'm not an animal." I close the lid, every time. Who wants to look at the toilet bowl?
"Are you bringing her to the wedding?"
Right. That little thing. The small moment in their lives. People do bring their partners to weddings, don’t they? And this one is in two and a half weeks. If I had a girlfriend, we would have discussed this. "I thought it was family only."
"I can spare a plus-one."
"Of course."
"Can't wait."
"Perfect."
He leaves with the smug superiority of a person sure his little brother is about to get caught in a lie.
Great. I need to find a fake date for my brother's wedding. And it can't be Sasha. They already know her as my best friend, from college.
Where the hell am I going to find someone?
I'm more likely to find someone on Tinder than my next call.
But I play the message on my work voicemail anyway. Business first. Then whatever I have to do to deal with this.