Page 25 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Arabella:Obviously. Use the code word if things get red-flag.
Me:Will do.
“Everything okay?” Colin asks without looking up. He’s using a jeweler’s screwdriver on something that glints like a futuristic Game Boy.
“My friend is staging a SWAT team outside in case you turn out to be super villains.”
Dean’s mouth quirks. “Understandable. What percent villain are we ranking this morning?”
“Sitting at three percent mild mischief, and zero percent axe murderer,” I report. “Margin of error plus-minus fluffy pancakes.”
Tic chuckles, sets the glasses aside. “I’ll endeavor not to raise the number.”
It’s wild how comfortable I feel after less than twenty-four hours with these guys. Maybe it’s the afterglow talking (okay, yes, it definitely is), but each brother occupies a different set of vibes and somehow they don’t clash.
Atticus is calm authority—CEO energy even in retirement—yet he talks to me like a professor who legitimately likes student questions. Dean is precision, steel edges, textbook RBF, but there’s a stealth tenderness in the way he threads conversation to me, not around me. Colin is kinetic, cracking code jokes,barefoot regardless of five-star carpet, handing me chargers before my phone drops below half.
Collectively, they’re a balanced equation I didn’t know I’d enjoy. I can feel my perpetually half-coiled nervous system unspool hour by hour. Self-preservation also notes these are still billionaire strangers, but I’m not worried about it. My gut—which the biopsych nerd in me reminds is basically a second brain—gives a happy little burble, aided by cappuccino and a pancake mountain.
I’m mid-sip when my phone lights again, this time Mom. Crap. I forgot we scheduled a quick call to finalize Thanksgiving details. “Back in a sec,” I tell the brothers, waving the phone. They don’t pry, leaving me room to climb off the seat and dart to my room.
It’s all buttery linen and a view that would win desktop-wallpaper awards. I close the door, plop on the bed, and answer. “Hey, Mom!”
“Hey, T.” Mom’s voice is bright, but I sense the undertone—there’s always an undertone when we’ve been apart too long. “Are you eating enough? You sound thin.”
“I currently have a pancake baby in my gut,” I say truthfully. “How’s Dad?”
“He’s in the workshop filing the edge of the prosthetic hook again. Says the hinge squeaks.” She makes a clucking sound. “The man would polish a cereal spoon if you called it gear.”
This is good. Dad fussing equals Dad okay, not Dad in depression again. “Tell him to video me the modifications later. I miss the workshop.”
“I will. So flights—there’s still a seat on the red-eye. I can cover tickets with my emergency stash.”
Guilt punches me square between the ribs. This trip with the Copelands is funding my entire ski dream, and then some. Plane tickets are peanuts now, but telling herwhyI suddenly have spending money is not on the menu.
“I appreciate it,” I say carefully, “but the organic chem final is two days after break, and I need the campus library. You know how I am with distractions.”
Mom sighs—soft, resigned. “Your father bet me a coconut flan you’d say that. Guess I’m baking one for Christmas.”
Ugh. My guilt doubles. I’m going to be on the slopes at Christmas, and I haven’t mentioned that to her because I wasn’t sure if I’d back out of the sugar baby arrangement.
I have just postponed family time for sex and hot chocolate. Guess I’m growing up.
“How are you doing, Mom?”
She sighs. “Oh, you know me. Looking forward to the holidays with my family.”
Her way of guilting me and dodging the question. A twofer. It’d be impressive if the guilt wasn’t trying to eat at my soul. “Sorry about Thanksgiving. I need to get back to studying?—”
“Right, right. Well, we love you. Study hard. And don’t forget to sleep.”
“Yeah, you too. Love you, love to Dad.”
We hang up. I pace, rub the ache in my sternum, remind myself that it’s okay to choose my own adventure once in a while. Themoney I’m earning will help them too—Dad still wants a better prosthesis, despite his bravado. Maybe I can send him some of the extra funds after my trip.
I step back into the living area. Dean stands, offers fresh coffee like he teleports caffeine. Tic’s reading a hardcover on leadership psychology but sets it down.
“That looked heavy,” Tic says.
