“I know you, Doll. He’s a lot.”
“And you know I can handle a lot.” Nicholas tilts his head to the side, cracking his eyes open just enough to watch them but hopefully not alert them to his awakened state just yet.
“If anyone can handle Nicholas Whitmore, it’s you,” Denise agrees.
“Exactly.” Only Andrew’s back is visible as he slides his hands into his pockets. “I’ve spent a lifetime dealing with my brothers’ shit. How difficult can he be?”
“Difficult,” Denise snarks, making Nicholas frown. “You don’t know him like I do. Hell, I don’t even know him. I only know what Amanda has told me and that’s not much. Between her NDA as his agent and her dislike of talking about her childhood, she hasn’t shared much. All I know is that Nicholas?—”
“Is awake and eavesdropping,” Amanda interrupts, stalking into the room from the bedroom and immediately shoving his legs off the arm of the couch so he falls on the floor.
“Fuck you, Amanda.”
“Right back at you, Nicki.”
“Nicki,” Nicholas gapes. No one has called him that since, well—since Amanda’s mom divorced his Uncle Sebastian, and they fucked off across the country. They’d been the only family he even remotely liked but the second the divorce was finalthey’d disappeared and forgotten about Nicholas because family—blood or not—was all bullshit. “Don’t call me that.”
“You called me Gumby, it’s fair game.”
“Fine, I won’t call you that again then.”
“Too late. I’m calling you Nicki from now on.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’m going to call you that too,” Denise says, smiling for the first time tonight.
“Fuck both of you.”
“Did you have a bad nap, Nicki?” Andrew asks, jumping in on the nickname bandwagon.
“Fuck you very much, you?—”
“Finish that sentence and kiss your plan goodbye,” Amanda interjects, looking far sweeter than she really is. Maybe that’s why she’s such a good agent. She looks so dainty and delicate, but she’s a fucking bulldog.
“I wasn’t going to say anything rude,” Nicholas lies.
“Maybe he needs a snack,” Andrew says, like he’s some kind of toddler.
“Fuck you,” Nicholas snaps from the floor, feeling closer to ten than almost thirty. He’s a grown man for fucks sake. A world famous hockey player and heir to more money than he could need in a million lifetimes. He’s better than everyone in here. He doesn’t need them talking down to him. He doesn’t need any of them.
“You’re rude,” Andrew says, seemingly recovered from his earlier shock.
“Aren’t you observant,” Nicholas frowns, climbing up from the floor and smoothing down his shirt.
“You’re also entitled.”
“Anything else?” Nicholas asks, noticing for the first time what a pretty brown Andrew’s eyes are. The color is so warm and rich, like the color of his skin—so much darker than Nicholas’sown pasty complexion. He’d be quite handsome if he wasn’t dressed like a god damn accountant or a banker.
“Yes. You engage in salacious behavior and have a pathological need for attention. You’re reckless, self-centered and I wouldn’t date or fuck you either.”
Nicholas throws his hands in the air. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Andrew grins.
“The fuck are you smiling at?”
“I just figured you out is all.”
