Page 5 of It Happened Again

“Fine,” I clipped.

“You always say that when you’re not.”

“Still fine.”

He smirked. “All right,fineit is. Lunch?”

We called a car service to take Lacey back to the office with promises to catch up later. Her polite smile barely concealed her disappointment at not joining us.

Archer was only mildly impressed by my new car. He didn’t drive and hated to spend money on possessions. He invested wisely and built wealth, never stopping. We may be twins, but that’s where we differed.

His ambition drove him to build our company bigger than I thought possible—my year away at Cambridge afforded him the opportunity to take charge and move things in new directions. He had a nice loft in the same building as me and kept his life simple. I had the best loft in the building and drove my luxury car now and then.

Archer wanted more; I had enough, plenty, and wanted to enjoy what I had.

Over lunch at our favorite bistro, he wasted no time. When our drinks arrived, he raised his glass of bourbon for a toast.

“To the Bellamy brothers,” he said. “Rich as shit…”

“And heartbreakers…” I added to the terrible toast we once made up with our brother, Tucker, when we were younger. Given our love lives to date, we were both more like the heartbroken.Only Tucker made out so far, with a beautiful wife and children, and playing professional hockey for a team in South Carolina.

Archer ordered us both the usual—roasted chicken club for him, a medium-rare steak sandwich for me. The waitress winked at him, and he missed it.

“So,” he said, pick up his sandwich with a sigh. “Think Patterson suspects we’re sort of making up the construction timeline as we go?”

“He probably knows. But we’ll hit our deadlines. We have to. You wanted to expand beyond architectural services into managing entire builds. This is our first attempt, and it has to work. You know that.”

“Yeah. I’ll apply pressure down the line to our foreman and construction teams. And you shouldleaninto Lacey’s ideas. Whatever helps the situation, right?” With a certain emphasis on the word lean, he insinuated so much more, sipping his drink with a level of teasing. “She’s a total catch. Organized. Loyal. Bit of a sassy strut when she walks away. What’s not to like?”

“She’s our assistant,” I replied, staring down at my drink, ice melting. “She’s good at her job. That’s it.”

“Brooks, you need to get back out there. I thought when you returned from Cambridge you’d be ready to go, past behind you, all guns firing, locked and loaded to kick some ass and build our business to the next level. Maybe even a little fun again. But no, that monkey called Maisy is still on your back.”

He should talk, considering he had spent a few years pining away for his ex girlfriend.

“What do you want from me, man?” My tone of voice marked my agitation.

“Stop acting like she doesn’t haunt you every time someone brings up handmade scarves.” He finished his drink as our food arrived. “By the way, Dax is swinging by in five. Prepare yourself,” he said.

I groaned. “Fantastic.”

Dax Donovan was an old buddy from college, too intelligent for his own good, while also possessing people skills. A rare combination indeed. Our age, early thirties, he amassed a fortune selling off his first internet business, turned playboy, and every now and then he reached out to us with news of his latest venture.

Five minutes later, he slid into our booth confidently, like he was about to negotiate a million-dollar merger.

“Gentlemen. Great news,” he grinned. “Behold. The future of your love lives.”

Archer lit up. “Perfect timing. Brooks was just defending his bachelor monk lifestyle.”

Dax snickered and dropped two glossy black business cards in front of each of us. The wordsMinted & Matchedembossed in gold caught the light and almost blinded me.

“Exclusivity starts here,” Archer read the slogan. “Dax, are you trying to be the Wizard of Wall Street matchmaking?”

“I prefer to think of myself as the sorcerer of soulmates, disrupting the hell out of the dating scene for wealthy individuals.” Dax chortled. “You fill out a ridiculously thorough profile—I see that roll of your eyes, Brooks—handwriting analysis, personality typing, compatibility markers. We do the hard work so your heart doesn’t have to.”

“Sounds like a science experiment,” I muttered. “I prefer when things happen naturally.”

Archer raised a brow. “Like when you ‘naturally’ got ghosted by the woman you’re still not over?”

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