Page 18 of Mexico Can Choke On It
As we approach the main house, the noise of wealth grows louder. The clear notes of an overpriced string quartet, the gentle clink ofchampagne flutes, the distinct voices of people who’ve never worried about their credit scores.
Petra halts suddenly, glancing down at her all-black outfit complete with wrinkled AC/DC shirt. “Whoa there, Richie Rich. I can’t go in there looking this way. Your mom will have me black-bagged and vanished faster than you can say ‘wealth disparity.’”
She’s not wrong. Judith Sterling-Holloway would rather serve boxed wine in plastic cups than allow someone in a leather jacket and combat boots to cross the threshold of her charity gala.
I take in the full spectrum of Petra’s dishevelment—from the leaves still tangled in her hair to the grass stains marring her hands. Her jeans, already distressed by design, now sport a large, fresh tear across the thigh, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of pale, creamy skin.
Yet, inexplicably, it’s the delicate curve of her collarbone that draws my attention—exposed where her shirt stretched during our impromptu wrestling match. My gaze, defying propriety, drifts lower to the soft rise of her breasts beneath the worn band tee. The cool night air has made certain…assets… unmistakably alert, and the thin fabric leaves little to the imagination.
She’s not wearing a bra.
Look away. This is Gavin’s little sister.
I suppress a shudder as a wave of heat courses through me. “You look…”
“Like I just body-slammed a Wall Street exec into his hedge fund?” She cocks an eyebrow, the quirk of her crimson lips daring me to disagree.
What the hell is wrong with me? These inappropriate thoughts need to stop. Now.
I need to quit thinking about where my hands were—gripping bare skin, skimming places I have no business remembering in this much detail. How she moved, what she let me touch…Jesus. I’m going to get slapped if she sees how hard I’m getting.
“I was going to say ‘distinctive.’”
“If this is your rich-boy version of flirting, I give it two stars. I’m guessing you’re one compliment away from asking if I do yoga.”
She rakes her fingers through her wild mane, dislodging more foliage—as if intentionally doubling down on her freshly ravished look.
And now I’m picturing her sprawled across my king-sized bed, that midnight hair fanned out against white Egyptian cotton sheets, those defiant eyes molten with desire as I hover above her, ready to—
Sterling, get your shit together.This is Pip. The same woman who just tried to relocate my testicles to my throat. And the last person on earth I should be fantasizing about.
“Whatever, B. Help me find your bestie so I can hand off this fancy man-jewelry and ninja-vanish Homer Simpson style back through the bushes.”
“Vanish? You’re as subtle as fireworks at a funeral.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Bryce Sterling cracked a joke. I guess all that money finally bought you a sense of humor. What’s next? Eating frozen dinners and firing your personal chef?”
I fight back a traitorous smile. This is the problem with Petra—she’s insufferable in the most entertaining way possible.
“Through here.” I gesture toward the side entrance.
“Ooh, the secret poor-person door,” she stage-whispers, leaning in close enough that I catch her scent—an intoxicating blend of jasmine mixed with fresh brewed coffee. “Why do I feel like I’m aboutto be initiated into some weird cult where you all wear Prada robes and sacrifice tax returns to the god of offshore accounts? Do I need to know a password? Is it ‘the peasants don’t deserve healthcare’?”
“It’s an art auction for charity. The only ritual sacrifice happening is my sanity suffering through small talk. Try not to attack anyone, please.”
“No promises, Moneybags. If some lady tries to shank me with a Gucci stiletto, it’s go time.”
I should be concerned.
I should have security escort her off the property immediately.
Instead, an unexpected flicker of curiosity stirs in my chest. Something tells me I want to witness what Petra Brinkman is going to do next.
CHAPTER THREE
PETRA
GROUP CHAT : CPK FOREVER
