Chapter One
Seph
“What the faffing heck is wrong with this idiotic machine now?”
Whatever was wrong with it was added to as my eldest, and supposedly wisest, brother slammed a fist on top of the photocopier. The resulting crunch suggested that we’d be getting our third machine in less than a twelve-month period.
I leaned against the wall, my well-earned coffee in hand, not sure whether to laugh at Maxwell’s attempt to stop cursing every second word or quietly retreat, because at some point, I would inevitably get the blame for the photocopier’s lack of action.
The sound of heels clicked up behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know it was my twin sister, three months pregnant, and desperately trying to make her baby bump look more existent than it did.
“‘Faffing heck’? Did you eat a thesaurus for breakfast this morning?”
Payton’s hand landed on my shoulder.
Max looked at us, his expression thunderous. “Vic’s told me I need to quit swearing so the baby’s first word isn’t ‘fuck.’” He tapped the copier with his foot, not hard enough to do any damage.
I’d seen this episode of Max-goes-batshit-crazy before. He would apply a bit more force next time, hear something break, then decide he was a photocopier engineer and could therefore take it to pieces and rebuild it so it would start working. The last time this had happened, we’d had to call Victoria, his now wife, to do something none of us wanted to think about to get him to go home and keep him there until a new machine was delivered.
“We need to have a plan for when this happens that doesn’t involve you kicking shit or thumping the crap out of the copier.” I wasn’t going anywhere near him. Me, coffee and photocopiers had a dubious relationship and I was pretty sure that if I got too close, I’d probably trip over my feet and spill my drink over the machine, which would make it all my fault.
Max glared at it. “It says there’s a jam in entry two. I’ve opened up the lid thing and there’s no jam.”
Payton inched towards it, braver than I was. She pulled something open and then something else – I had no idea what, I avoided the thing.
“The jam’s in entry three.” A piece of paper appeared in her hand. “Looks like someone did… what the hell’s this?” She squinted.
Max looked over. “If the jam wasn’t in entry two, why did it say… fuck. Is that someone’s arse?” He moved away from the copier as if it had bit him.
I frowned. Photocopying parts of your anatomy was a stage I’d gone through, more than once if I was honest, but I’d moved on from that. The last time I’d thought it was a good idea to take a dick print had been at least two photocopiers ago.
A pair of dark brown eyes locked with mine. Max’s brow furrowed and his top lip curled as if he was emitting a silent growl.
I spread my arms wide, as if to underline the fact that this time I was innocent, and my coffee slopped over the sides of my mug, onto the floor.
“For fuck’s sake.” Max didn’t bother to keep the volume low.
“I thought you were trying to give up swearing.” I still had half a mug of the good stuff left, which was a bonus.
“I was, until your backside burned my retinas.” His looked from my face to the mug and back again, desperate to say something about the spilled coffee. I knew my brother well.
I wasn’t the youngest sibling, although I was the youngest boy. One of seven, one of a set of twins, with only Ava younger than me and Payton, and five of us worked together at our family-owned law firm in London. I knew families that only spoke to each other at weddings or funerals, so we arguably got along. I saw most of my brothers and sisters every day, communicated with them several times a day.
Argued with them a fuck-ton.
“That’s not my arse, Max. Can you see the beauty-spot?” I pointed at the print that he now held up.
“Don’t you mean mole?” Payton chirped in.
“It’s a beauty-spot.”
“Marilyn Monroe had a beauty spot; you have a mole on your arse, Joseph. Mole. Moley moley mole.” She gave me a grin that was filled with pure evil.
“Whatever. It’s genetic. Don’t be surprised if your spawn inherits it.” I pointed to her tiny bump that looked more like she’d had a large Sunday lunch.
Payton frowned and I remembered at the last minute that her fiancé, Owen, had warned me that she was hormonal and more temperamental than usual; pregnancy hormones were not doing any of us any favours.
“How do you know it’s genetic?”
