“Thank yourself,” she teases.
“That’s enough,” I gripe. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
Amelia and I get to work clearing the table and packing upmy things in the kitchen. As she’s assisting the staff with cleaning the dirty dishes, I walk back out to the dining room to get the tray of desserts. A door opens somewhere in the house, and my ears perk when I hear a man’s voice coming from somewhere in the enormous residence.
From the sounds of it, Amelia is harping on him for something. That must be the infamous brother I have yet to meet. According to Amelia, he’s a bit bristly and doesn’t get along well with others.
Laughing to myself, I listen to her give him hell about being late. He was supposed to be here over an hour ago to taste the food for the party. She didn’t appear all that surprised when he didn’t show up.
The voices die down as I load up the desserts on a tray. Then I carry them toward the kitchen, but just as I reach the swinging door, it flies open and someone comes barreling into me, sending crème brûlée spilling over and crashing to the floor.
“What the fuck?” a harsh voice snaps as I gasp. The clang of the tray echoes loudly in the high-ceilinged room as it lands.
My head snaps up as I stare into the fierce, angry eyes of a young man scowling down at me.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” he shouts.
“Excuse me?” I reply. “You…”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell this self-centered jerk he was the one who crashed intome. He should be the one to apologize. But I just got this job, and I don’t want to lose it already.
With a huff, he snatches a napkin off the table and starts blotting at his black shirt where a dollop of custard landed in our collision. I am too flabbergasted to move. My brows feel permanently fixed in a wrinkle as I watch him clean up a teensy spot on his shirt while sugar and cream seep into the hardwood floor and cover my blue blouse.
This is Amelia’s brother? How? How on earth did Amelia turn out to be such an angel, selfless and kind to everyone, and yetthisis her brother?
When he turns his gaze back up to my face, I practically flinch at the villainous shape of his eyes. With heavy brows and hooded lids, he glares at me with pure evil in his expression.
Just as I’m about to open my mouth and really give this guy a piece of my mind, new job be damned, the door flies open, and Amelia scurries in.
“What is going on?” she asks, noticing the mess. “Oh my God, Freya, your blouse!”
She grabs a napkin and hurries to help me clean it.
“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
“Julian, what did you do?” She turns toward her brother assertively.
“Me? Who carries a tray of food through a swinging door without looking to see if anyone is coming?”
“Who barrels through the swinging door withoutcaringif anyone is coming?” I bite back.
“Are you saying this is my fault?” he asks, and I can tell by the look of absolute shock on his face that people don’t often talk back to him, least of all someone whoworksfor his family.
“I’m saying you could at least help me pick them up,” I murmur under my breath.
“I’ll help,” Amelia jumps in.
It’s not my place to discipline this grown man and tell him it really shouldn’t be us cleaning up his mess, so I swallow my argument and start wiping the floor. Amelia is crouched beside me doing the same, and to my surprise, Julian eventually leans down and picks some up too.
The tension is thick as we work, and knowing Amelia, she’s scheming ways to make everyone smile and be friends again. But unless he apologizes, she can kiss the chance of us being friends goodbye.
When I stand up, holding the tray, Julian rises too. As we face off toe-to-toe, I glare up at him, and I don’t see one ounce of life behind his eyes. I truly can’t stand guys like him—guys whoare so unaffected by the world around them. Guys who seem to think the world spins on his axis. Who think they are entitled to far more than everyone else. How the hell this guy came from this family, I have no idea.
Rule #4: Avoid confined spaces with people who hate you.
Julian
“Mom,” I call, marching down the long hall of my parents’house. The piano plays in the distance, so I head toward the sitting room at the top of the stairs. In my right hand, I fist the now-stained black shirt. Anger courses through my veins as I think about that careless girl getting custard all over my tailored shirt, clearly not caring how much it cost or what it means to me.
