"Blue-eyed devil walks into a bar," she said, eating a piece of spilled popcorn off the table.
"Gray," I said automatically. "His eyes are gray."
Jemma looked at me in bemusement. "You noticed."
"I'm a painter. I notice colors," I said, crossing my arms.
"Uh-huh. Well, he did say he was a good finger painter. Maybe you two should compare notes." She waved the black business card.
"I'm not going to call him!" I shrieked. "I can never see him again!"
* * *
Jemma left a little while later,and I set about cleaning the café and locking up for the night. Sexy Sunglasses's card was still on the counter. I looked at it. It only had a phone number printed in a shiny ink against the matte black. It was so pretentious it had to be a little tongue-in-cheek.
I'd like his tongue somewhere else…
"Shut up," I said out loud.
But the card beckoned me. I missed out on my trueSex in the CityNew York experience. Maybe I would channel my inner Melvin. Maybe I would call.
2
Archer
Iam a creature of the night. When other people are waking up, that's when I'm just going to bed. Work hard, play hard. Of course that lifestyle choice makes more sense for a single billionaire playboy out on the town in Manhattan. It doesn't work so well in a historic small town at the family estate complete with three dozen younger non-drinking-age little brothers.
I had barely fallen asleep when they woke me up. I'd like to say I was using my middle-of-the-night awake time productively. It wasn't like I didn't have work to do for my hotel conglomerate. I needed to come up with a game plan to make my conference center idea profitable and to get my older brother Greg off my case. But instead, all I could think about was the curvy painter in the cute crop top. I sat for hours in front of the painting I had just bought. It was insane—the glitter, the pink, the collage—but I kept studying it, taking in the small hidden sketches layered onto the vintage makeup advertisements accentuated by the subtle shading of pinks. It spoke to more depth than I would normally find in a craft-store inspirational painting.
I should know quality when I see it. I collect art. I put it in my hotels and use it as a secondary investment portfolio along with all the real estate I own. Still, this painting wasn't my normal style. I wasn't even sure why I bought it except that the café owner was so adorably cute in her paint-stained pants, her hair a big poofy ponytail.
She wasn't like any of the women I usually went for, and I went for a lot. My usual women were like photographs printed on canvas—all flash and no substance. Hazel was different.
Stop it, I told myself. I wasn't ready to admit that I was tired of the playboy life. Besides, I had ruined any chance of being with the café owner by simply giving her that card.
The door to my room rattled as several of my younger brothers banged their fists on it.
"Breakfast, Archer!"
"Don't you want breakfast? Josie's cooking."
I hauled myself out of bed and grabbed the bowl of popcorn that was on the nightstand. There were a few handfuls left, and it was just as good the next morning. I hadn't even bothered undressing before collapsing on the bed a few hours ago. Now I was starving.
"I can't say no if Josie's cooking," I said, swinging the bedroom door open. My brothers shrieked. Henry, the youngest, clung to my leg. I picked him up and swung him under my arm as we went down to the large kitchen in the estate house.
My identical twin brother, Mace, was already downstairs. Though we looked alike, he was my polar opposite. His suit was neatly pressed, his hair combed back. He was concentrating on helping Josie, his girlfriend. She was formerly Mace's assistant. There had been a kerfuffle, and long story short, Josie now lived here.
She was also somehow in charge of making breakfast. Josie ran around the kitchen, hair flying. She knocked into a pan, and Mace caught it before it fell on the floor. I felt a pang of jealousy that I stuffed down. I was happy for my brother. I just couldn't believe that the perfect woman had dropped into his lap.
"Need help?" I asked Josie, setting Henry down.
"Yes," she said. She looked frazzled. Mace lovingly tucked one of the errant curls back in her bun. "But I'm the worst at organizing, and really what I need is a field marshal to get everyone in an assembly line. All the college kids are throwing me off."
My college-aged brothers were back home for summer break. They stood around the kitchen, tall, still a little gangly, and very, very hungry.
"It's double the amount of people," Josie continued.
"I know. This place is like a prison," I said.
