“And you’ve been getting massages ever since your arrival—two days now, is it? And each time you leave smelling like her—not massage oil, but her. So I guess we both get to keep our jobs, huh?”
He wanted to tell Cole that Nikki was going to be a problem, that she already was a problem. Hell, life would be easier if he just fired her.
But she’d said she needed the job. So why was she still sending back the check?
Not her money. Nadine’s.
“You don’t know shit,” Brant muttered.
“I know everything,” Cole said in a sad voice. “I have to get back to work…don’t want to piss the boss off. I’ll see you tonight.”
He set his glass down and walked off.
Leaving Brant the impression that Cole had just started a war—which was fine with him. Brant didn’t lose.
Not anymore. Not again.
He’d just have to avoid Nikki at all costs at the masquerade and do his damn job. There would be no more massages with happy endings from the one woman capable of breaking a heart he no longer possessed.
God, he did still have pieces of that heart, though. That was how he knew he was alive, breathing. Because when the drunken fog lifted—he felt pain.
Yeah, he still had pieces, all right. And girls like Nikki, they demanded every last one. She’d destroyed him once. She’d jump at the chance to do it again, right?
Because when he’d needed her most—when they’d needed each other most—they’d both fucked up. And never recovered.
That was where love got you. Soaking wet, alone, poolside, drinking.
Even now, he still smelled her. It wasn’t fair that Nikki would haunt him regardless of where he was.
His phone buzzed on the concrete. Thankfully, he’d seen Cole charging him and had dropped the cell phone from his hand onto the ground before getting pulled into the pool. But when he saw the caller he almost wished it would have sunk to the bottom of the pool right along with his shoes. Either Bentley was in prison or something was wrong. There was a shit-ton of missed calls.
Sighing, he picked it up and swiped. “What?”
“You sound different,” Bentley said accusingly.
Brant pulled a towel over his face and cursed, then waved over a passing waiter and ordered club soda with lime. “Miss you too.”
“Shit.” Bentley chuckled. “Did you just order water?”
“Club soda. Totally different.”
“It’s sparkling water, bro.”
“Is not.”
“Hey, Red,” Bentley shouted at his girl. “Is club soda water?”
“Yes!” Her loud response.
“I’m regretting answering my phone.” Brant leaned back against the lounge chair. “What was so important that you called me seven times in a row and then left text messages with nothing but middle-finger emojis?”
“I’m pregnant,” Bentley said in a deadpan voice.
“Physical impossibility.”
“Right, but if I was, you were the first person I was going to tell, and you weren’t answering your phone. Ergo, I would have been on national news and you would have had to learn via CNN. That’s not how twins act, man.”
“Stop lashing out.” Brant laughed, probably for the first time all day. God, he missed his brother sometimes. Ever since Bentley had found his happy, Brant had been ignoring him more and more, mainly because what fun was getting drunk when your brother didn’t encourage it? When his face went from happy to worried? Brant carried enough guilt on his shoulders. He didn’t need to add Bentley’s concern—or his judgment—on top of it. Amazing what finding an honest woman did to a man.
His thoughts lingered on that massage room. On her hands.
Because no matter how magical her touch was, how incredible her kiss had been, he wouldn’t go there, not again.
“You haven’t returned any of my texts or phone calls since it was announced you were leaving Wellington to work for the enemy,” Bentley said, interrupting his thoughts about Nikki. Thank God.
“We’re on the same side, and why do you care? You’re doing charity work with the zoo. You couldn’t care less about Wellington.”
“Let’s talk about you.” Bentley was always great at changing the subject. “I’ll start.”
Brant rolled his eyes. This. This was why he’d been ignoring his twin. Bentley was nosy as hell and refused to back down. Hell, he was the type who beat the dead horse, revived it, then beat it again. He didn’t know when to quit. Ever.
“A week ago, I found you in an alcohol-induced haze, drunk off your ass, angry, smelling like cheap perfume and sex, and today you’re ordering club soda? If you cut your hair I’m disowning you.”