Page 57 of I Almost Do

In Sydney's defense, when you're talking billions of dollars, it's a hell of a tax break.

To keep the peace, I probably should have kept those tidbits on the down-low from both of them. Now they're both suspicious because they think the other one isn't treating me right. It'd be funny if I didn't want to smack their heads together.

I'm not nearly as gullible as James thinks I am. A lot of people have targeted me, trying to use me. But what he doesn't understand is that I grew up watching my father field sycophants and users my whole life. I know how to read a room.

I don't know how it would have been if I hadn't had James. I might have let in losers or let a con sucker me just out of loneliness or desperation. Maybe.

I'll never know because I dohave James. And Bronwyn. And now Sydney and Jeanine.

I don't understand how James and I can be so in sync with each other 99 percent of the time. Then—seemingly out of nowhere—he's laying down the law or making edicts on some of the most ridiculous things, like Sydney paying rent.

I understand that he worries. I grew up with a father who did the same thing. But more often than not, James confuses me with the hills he chooses to die on. His answer to that is always "I promised your father I'd take care of you."

As if that explains anything at all.

Dean is driving this weekend so James loses less time working, since he can work on his laptop and phone in the car. And Bronwyn is almost as excited about this weekend as I am, as evidenced by her repeated confirmation requests that Dean is definitely going to be here.

When I'd first come to school, he was one of my rotating guards. That didn't last long, for multiple reasons. For one, I prefer to have someone who can blend in as part of our friend group. For another, something went down with Bronwyn and Dean.

Bronwyn isn’t ready to talk about it yet. And I won't pry.

But they disappeared together one weekend near the end of my junior year.

Then Dean requested a transfer to work for James directly, telling him a woman would be a better fit for my situation. And Bronwyn told us never to mention his name again.

She then promptly forgot about that directive and continued to grill me on every single detail about his employment and where he’s been and what he’s been doing.

The only difference between the “before that weekend” and “after that weekend” as far as I can tell, is the way she crosses her arms and narrows her eyes as she listens to my completely uneventful reports on the man.

When Dean pulls up on Friday afternoon and James steps out of the car, I rush from the house to greet him.

James is wearing jeans and a dark green henley. Suit James is hot. Tuxedo James is scorching. James in jeans and a henley is… gah, I want to climb the man like a tree.

I affect Dean's usual pose by the front of the car, hands folded in front of me. I tip my head, my expression stoic. "Mr. Mellinger."

His white teeth flash in a grin, the autumn breeze ruffling his dark hair. His blue eyes crinkle at the corners, the way I love best. Then he fast-walks up to me, stopping inches in front of me. He's close enough that I can smell his light cologne, laundry detergent, and pure James.

He assumes a serious expression of his own, quirking an eyebrow. "Mrs. Harcourt-Mellinger.”

Then he hauls me over his shoulder and carries me up the porch stairs toward the front door.

Bronwyn passes us on the steps with a brief wave for James and heads straight for Dean. I don't even want to know what new torment she's devised for the man.

Sydney's sitting in a rocker on the front porch, wrapped in a red fuzzy blanket and reading a textbook on her Kindle.

James slows as he passes her, giving her a narrow-eyed glare. His left eye twitches like a gunfighter in a spaghetti western. "Sydney."

She returns the exact same expression. "James."

When we get inside, James sits me on the kitchen island. He's standing between my spread legs, his hands braced on the counter to either side of my hips.

I leave my hands on my thighs, afraid to move. Afraid to even breathe in case he remembers his decision not to do things like this.

I've gotten really good at teasing James. When I'm home, and we're alone in the house, I deliberately walk around in a thin tank top and my underwear, just to watch the flush move across his cheekbones. I've advanced so far past that first giggle and bicep squeeze. So. Far.

And maybe I shouldn't do it, but as I've told him in the past, "If I have to suffer, you have to suffer."

Mostly, that's a joke. But when it comes to trying to get him to break his stupid no-sex rule, I kind of mean it.

---