Page 19 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Me:Soooo I may have neutered Bryce.
Cam:WAIT? WHAT!
Katie:What did you do??
Me:Elbow. Balls. Direct contact. Long story.
Me:¡Dios mío! That’ll get a guy’s attention.
Katie:Gavin’s gonna disown you. You should start practicing the phrase “Hi, I was once a Brinkman.”
Me:He can get in line. All I know is RIP future baby Sterlings—they died doing what they loved: absolutely nothing.
I’M FUCKING MORTIFIED.
Like, cram me in a cannon, aim for the sun, and blast me into another galaxy.
This never-ending day keeps finding new ways to suck!
Behind Bryce’s perfectly tailored Armani-clad shoulders, I’m skulking through his mother’s mansion likethe world’s worst cat burglar. We’ve invaded a kitchen plucked right out of a Nancy Meyers wet dream—gleaming copper pots, marble everything, and wicker baskets bursting with overly photogenic fruit.
The kitchen staff is in wealthy-people-feeding mode, operating as a well-oiled machine. White-gloved hands arrange tiny cucumber squares topped with what I’m guessing is caviar, but let’s be real, my reference for fine dining is gas station sushi.
I look behind me to see one chef is using tweezers to place microscopic flowers on a cracker the size of my thumbnail. What is this? Food for ants?
The moment I turn back, I plow into a waiter carrying a tray of fancy desserts.
SMASH! CRASH!
Every single person in the kitchen halts mid-action, eyes now on me. Bryce tosses a glance over his shoulder so disapproving that I almost explode into flames.
“Are you incapable of keeping a low profile?”
“Sorry. I’ll try to channel my inner duchess.” I lick the frosting off the sleeve of my jacket. “Ah, splendid! The sugar-to-cake ratio is simply divine. Do carry on, my dears. Everything looks marvelous.”
That earns me a chuckle from… no one.
Yep, reminder number 435,701 why Bryce “Suave, Sophisticated, and Stuck Up” Sterling would never go for Petra “Forever Fuck-Up” Brinkman.
I pick up my pace as he leads me into the tightest hallway I’ve ever seen. If I breathe too hard, I’ll scrape paint off the walls.
“What is this? A secret mistress tunnel? Do I get to see what goes down at your mom’s rich-people ragers? I bet it’s a human sacrificeto the Illuminati. No, a piñata full of stock options. Wait… If I’m supposed to be the virgin sacrifice, I have bad news for you…”
Bryce ducks under a low-hanging light fixture. “This is a direct line to the kitchen to make it easier for servers to refill their trays without disturbing guests.”
“Are you telling me your house has secret passages? Did you ever sneak in here as a kid? Spy on people? Please tell me little Bryce engaged in at least one act of childhood rebellion.”
He stops so abruptly, I smack into his broad back. He spins, glacier-blue eyes locking onto mine—so intense, my lungs forget how oxygen works.
“What do you think?”
“Right. No fun. No snooping. Only WWE takedowns of female party crashers.”
I see it.
A glint.
The tiniest, most microscopic twinkle of amusement in those arctic eyes.
