Page 138 of The Billionaire's Baby
The door to the cabin is flung open and Saint marches in.
"Oh, for fuck’s sake." I raise the bottle, chug down more of the drink.
It doesn’t help dispel the nightmarish scenario that’s forming in front of my eyes.
Sinner saunters in, followed by Damian, and Weston. "Bugger." I slouch down deeper into the sofa. The guys walk to the bar. Damian circles the counter, then pulls out a bottle of whiskey. "So, this is where you’ve been hiding the good stuff?" He holds up the MacAllan’s 72-year-old whiskey… Which I admit, is something I’d bought on a whim.
Weston turns to me, "You mean you’ve been storm chasing with this expensive shit on board?"
"It's bolted in when I'm at sea, you twat." I swig back more of the vodka, then wipe the back of my palm across my mouth.
"He means he’s not drinking whiskey anymore," Edward pipes up.
"What do you mean?" Saint looks between us. "The bastard’s whiskey collection rival’s only Sinner’s." He glances around at the others, "No offense to the rest of you tossers."
"None taken." Damian chuckles, Weston laughs, and Edward watches the proceedings with his steady gaze. Damn it, doesn’t the man ever take a day off from being a serious priest to simply, being…?
"I should be the one offended," Sinner drawls, "considering Beauchamp, here, wouldn’t know taste if it bit him in the arse. Except when it comes to his choice of woman, of course."
"Don’t talk about her, you bastard," I mutter.
Sinner arches an eyebrow. "This is not looking good."
"Nope, it isn’t," Damian agrees.
Weston holds out his hand and Saint slaps a note on his outstretched palm.
"You guys bet on me?" I scowl at them, wondering why I don’t feel angrier toward them. I should be livid, should toss them out of the only space where I feel at home, but hell, when you hang out with boys who’ve turned to men in front of your eyes, and who sometimes you hate almost as much as you love them like brothers… Then it’s a little difficult to take offense at their shenanigans.
Edward jerks his chin toward me, "The man’s taken to vodka like a mermaid to dry land."
"Uh?" Weston frowns at Edward, "Aren’t mermaids supposed to find dry land difficult to navigate?"
He lowers his chin, "Keep up, Doc."
Weston rubs his chin. "So you mean he hasn’t really taken to vodka?"
Edward winds his finger in the air.
"So, you mean he actually hates vodka but he’s drinking it because..." Saint’s voice trails off. "I see." He looks me up and down, then glowers, "Jesus, Arpad, couldn’t you have held out just a little longer?" He pulls out his credit card and hands it over to Weston, who pockets it.
"The way Mr. No-strings-attached is going, it’s best I keep it, don’t you think?" He smirks.
"Whatever." Saint rocks back on his heels. "If the fucker’s spirits sink any lower, he’ll be drowning without water."
"Har, har." I lift the bottle of vodka and toast them, "Aren’t all of you the soul of wit today?"
"Someone has to be, considering you’ve lost your mojo." Weston grabs his glass, then prowls over and drops into the seat on my right. Damian follows, drink in hand, and sits down on my left.
Saint and Sinner position themselves on either side of the sofa and Edward completes the hexagon from where he’s seated opposite me.
I recognize it for what it is—an intervention. Hell, I was there for the ones we’d staged when each of the other men had met their match in their woman. Except Edward, that is, and soon he is going to be left alone… Hold on, what am I thinking? I don’t have my woman yet. Far from it. In fact, the way things are headed, I am likely to remain a bachelor for a long time. Which is good. Which is what I had wanted not that long ago. So, what changed in the little time I’ve known her? How has she managed to turn my world upside down in such a short time?
"I proposed to her," I reply. "She agreed, at first, until she found out about my arrangement with the Bratva."
Silence descends on the room, then Saint explodes.
"The Bratva?"
