Page 137 of Mexico Can Choke On It
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I’mbracingforbreakfast.
As I walk through the opulent hallway to the dining area, I have no damn clue what I’m walking into. A quiet meal, or the flaming wreckage of a called-off wedding? It was only yesterday Nigel lit the Fiona Financial Fuse, and I’m guessing the exact amount due was a shit ton.
Fiona was sweating in her stilettos about the bill not being paid for this extravagant shindig. And Nigel made it clear Casa Cashmere will not accept IOUs or emotional excuses. It’s cold hard cash only.
Did Daddy come through for her? Or maybe she came clean to my brother? I step into the palatial dining room, prepared for carnage.
Except, everyone looks normal.
Whatever the hell “normal” means in billionaire land.
Nigel gestures toward an empty chair. “Miss Brinkman.”
“Lord Britchybottom,” I reply with a curtsey.
He nods, unamused.
An hour ago, this man was politely discussing my underwear as an “oral barrier” while Bryce lay naked and bound to his bed. Now he’s back to stuffy Butler Mode.
I slide into the seat next to Bryce, fighting the urge to lean over and bite his earlobe just to watch him squirm.
“Good morning, Pip.”
“Morning yourself, Moneybags. Trust you got your beauty sleep?”
“Adequate rest, yes. Thank you for asking.”
“Hmm.” I trace the red marks on his wrist with my finger. “Those aren’t the kind of imprints you get from cufflinks. Testing out some new accessories?”
There it is—a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. Barely there, but I catch it. Why? Because I’ve spent a decade memorizing this man’s micro-reactions like flashcards for the SATs.
And I love that I’m the only one who knows him that well.
Everybody else sees the golden boy. I see the man who only recently discovered he has a kink for being tied up and bossed around.
Fuck, I want to drag him back to bed and corrupt him some more.
I should stage a kidnapping. Find some remote island where we can live out our lives in a sex bubble of perpetual happiness. Once he got over the initial shock, I bet he’d be into it. I can always tase him if he doesn’t come willingly.
Nigel clears his throat. “Miss Muffy will not be in attendance this morning. She requires additional time with her styling team following a most vigorous walk on the beach.”
PING! PING! PING!
He rings a little silver bell. “Breakfast is served.”
Synchronized staff descends on the table, placing tailored plates before us.
I glance down at the masterpiece before me and nearly moan out loud. A full English breakfast—eggs, bacon, sausages, baked beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, black pudding, and toast. And I’ve already devoured half of it in three bites.
The espresso alone is a religious experience. The best fucking coffee I’ve had in my life, and that’s not just post-orgasm hunger talking(I don’t think).
If I do kidnap Bryce, this espresso comes with us.
Across the table, Fiona is sipping celery juice. “Smells delicious, but I’m fasting for my dress fitting later,” she says sweetly. “Hana’s joining me in solidarity.”
“Only juice ’til noon,” Hana chirps. “Petra, that bacon looks scrumptious. Is it crispy? I bet it is. I adore bacon. I wish I had your metabolism.”
