Page 7 of Falling for Mr. Wright

Chapter Two

Ryan climbed the winding steps to the fourth floor of his West Side apartment building, two bags of Chinese takeout under his arm. He hesitated, thinking twice before unlocking the door, and tested the knob.

The door swung open, unimpeded.

He barged in and dumped both the Chinese food and his laptop bag on the dining room table. “Dammit, Bridget. How many times have I told you that even when you’re in the apartment, you need to lock the doors? This isn’t the Connecticut suburbs.”

“Someone has a major case of the grumpies.” His sister popped out of her bedroom sporting a white camisole, hot-pink miniskirt, and high white vinyl boots. She shimmied up to him, stood on her tiptoes, and gave his cheek a peck. “My day was great. Thanks for asking.”

He scowled. “Please tell me you didn’t wear that to work today?” he asked, wiping what he was sure was a smudge of bright-pink lipstick off his cheek. He’d promised he would stop asking about her outfits, but for fuck’s sake. As her big brother, it was his job to worry.

“It’s my weekly assignment for my method acting class.” She passed him and headed for the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder and winking. “My hot instructor sure liked it.”

“I bet he did. Were you a prostitute for this week’s assignment?”

“A lady for hire, but don’t worry. I covered up in a long black trench coat so as to not disgrace the Wright name while walking down Fifth Avenue.”

“How thoughtful of you,” he muttered and took off his coat. “Do me a favor and tone down the outfits. I don’t need every guy north of midtown swiping right.”

She laughed and poked her head around the corner. “Are you thirsty? I’ve been experimenting with a peppermint-chocolateKahlúamartini recipe. I’m dying for someone else to try it.”

A drink sounded good. He was more of a cold beer guy than a frilly holiday cocktail guy, but he’d do just about anything for his sister. “Can you make mine a double?”

“On it.”

Ryan brought the takeout bags over to the coffee table and dropped onto the couch. Never a dull night with his eccentric sister around. He could rag on her for not locking the door or leaving the apartment dressed like a call girl, but truth be told, he loved having her there.

Bridget was five years younger than he was. When she’d graduated from high school, she’d done the same thing he’d done and ditched small-town life. While he’d taken a Greyhound bus to New York City for college, she’d shoved all of her belongings in her beat-up Honda and driven in the opposite direction toward the City of Dreams.

She’d had high hopes, but Hollywood hadn’t been good to her. She’d fallen in with the wrong crowd, spent more money than her bartending paychecks had allowed, and two years ago, showed up on his doorstep flat broke with a mound of credit card debt. Ryan had taken her in, helped her get a job as a traffic manager for an advertising firm, and paid off her credit cards. She’d accepted his help graciously, turned her life around, and now made good money, while still managing to feed her passion by taking acting courses at night.

Ryan was damn proud of her.

He flipped the television channel to the Monday night football game and opened one of the brown paper bags. “I picked up dinner on the way home.”

“Is that General Tso’s chicken I smell?”

“You know it.” He began to take out the white containers, setting them on the coffee table. They’d gotten into the routine of spending their Monday evenings watching football and catching up over Chinese food.

He popped open a white carton of shrimp fried rice and dug in, his mind drifting to Sarah like it had a lot lately. She’d tried to pitch her plan again at lunch, or “Operation Sargan,” as she was now calling it. He’d told her he’d give it some thought—a total lie, but since she’d lied to him all those months ago about not having feelings for Logan, he figured they were even.

Bridget walked into the living room and handed him a dark martini covered in chocolate shavings, a miniature peppermint candy cane hanging off the rim. “Try this.”

“Seriously?”

“Tryit.”

He brought the martini to his lips and tilted the glass. The ice-cold chocolate concoction slid down easily, sending his taste buds into sweet overdrive. “Wow.”

“Pretty orgasmic, huh?”

“Yeah.” He took a longer sip. “Pretty damn close.”

“Speaking of orgasmic, I made some red velvet cupcakes for you to take to Sarah tomorrow. They’re guaranteed to get her all hot and bothered.”

Ryan choked on his drink. “Excuse me.”

“Oh, please. You can stop the act. You’ve been using me for my baking skills to get into that woman’s pants for months. Admit it.”

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