Banking Her (A Billionaire Bad Boys Novella)(5)

“Three months. You’d think she’s forty weeks and ready to deliver with the way Georgia is trying to put the kibosh on all of her travel plans. She’s hell-bent on Cassie being put on bed rest for the rest of her pregnancy.”

“Wait…forty weeks? I thought it was nine months?”

“Ten months, actually. Due dates are calculated at forty weeks.”

“Damn,” he groaned while a small smile kissed his lips. “It’s about to be a long seven months for all of us.”

I laughed. “Yeah. It definitely is.”

My phone pinged with a notification as Wes continued to read the insane text messages Georgia had been sending Cassie and me. His brow furrowed, and he quickly averted his gaze from my phone. “Here,” he said, handing my phone back. His voice no longer tinged by warmth and amusement. Instead, his tone hinted at irritation. “You got a text message.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said, but I couldn’t help the confusion wrapped around my words.

What the hell? That was the quickest one-eighty I had ever witnessed in my life.

This man was a conundrum of surly mood changes and rare smiles. Well, at least around me, he was. I had noticed when his friends were around, his smiles were more frequent, and he never held back his witty retorts and sarcastic quips. But around me, and the public, he seemed less thrilled, less laid-back, and more jaw-clenchingly vexed.

I couldn’t shake the feeling of wishing Wes would give me more of his smiles, his laughter, that easygoing charm I knew lay beneath his broody layers.

It was stupid, I knew that much, but I couldn’t stop myself from feeling that way about him.

My phone pinged and lit up with three more text notifications, and I finally glanced down at the screen to find the group chat with my four older brothers flooding with their mindless chitchat, that generally revolved around razzing each other and asking me to do favors.



Remy: When’s Mom’s birthday?

Jude: The same day. Every fucking year, Rem.

Ty: I hope Winnie buys her something nice and lets us sign the card again.

Remy: Seriously. What day, you fucks????

Flynn: Winnie, how much do we owe you for Mom’s gift?

Jude: Yeah, Win. How much? If it’s over two hundred, I need to borrow money.

Ty: Says the idiot who just sold his “vacation home” in the Hamptons to buy a bigger “vacation home” on Martha’s Vineyard.

Flynn: How Jude can walk the fine line of cheap and pretentious is mind-blowing.

Remy: WHAT DAY IS MOM’S BIRTHDAY???



See what I mean?

I chuckled and typed out a response.



Me: The 28th and get your own fucking gift for Mom.



“So?” Wes’s voice pulled my attention away from my phone. “Are we going to look at Mitchell’s MRI, or are you going to keep texting with Remy?”

My brow furrowed at the way he said my brother’s name—until my brain caught up with his insinuation. He thought Remy was a date or a boyfriend or basically anything but a blood relation.

I opened my mouth to offer a rebuttal of, “Um, Remy is my brother,” but quickly thought better of it and stopped myself.

It wasn’t any of his goddamn business.

And why in the hell did he sound so pissed about it?

Whatever. Maybe this is what I need to hold him at arm’s length since I’m so obviously failing at doing that on my own.

I set my phone on my desk and handed Mitchell’s MRI report to him. “I think he should be good to play by Phoenix.”

He quietly read the report and then looked up to meet my eyes. “You don’t think he can play the game against Minnesota this weekend?”

“No.” I shook my head and focused on what I knew would be a fight. I hadn’t planned this discussion, really, but it was obviously one we needed to have and one I knew wouldn’t go easily. “I think he should sit out one more week and continue to go through physical therapy sessions twice a day.”

“This report is telling me otherwise, Dr. Winslow.”

Go figure, I was Doctor now. It seemed Wes referred to me as Dr. Winslow when his stodgy, pissed-off persona came to visit. Basically, it was the equivalent of my mother using my full name, Winnie Marie, when I was a kid and in a shitload of trouble.

“Yeah, well, that report is just that, a report,” I retorted hotly. Unfortunately for everyone, the bad in him seemed to bring out the antagonism in me. “I’m looking at the full scope, the big picture, and I’m assuming you want Mitchell healthy and playing for the duration of the season, and hopefully, the postseason.”

“That goes without saying.”

“Well, it goes without saying that I want that too,” I reminded him. “Which is why I’m not clearing him to play until Phoenix.”