Page 17 of Guilty as Sin

For the past ten years, I’ve been on my own financially, rebuilding my life from scratch. Need-based financial aid helped considerably, as did spending less time in school through grueling accelerated programs. But with limited hours for my minimum-wage waitressing jobs, money was laughably scarce compared to what I’d grown up with.

I learned to scrimp wherever I could. The dingiest apartments with too many roommates, thrift stores for clothes, taking home the restaurant’s mistake orders for food.

And not wasting any of it.

Brady goes quiet, as if he’s actually considering my words. From what I’ve gleaned online, Cormac and Orla’s empire didn’t take off until several years after Brady was born, and they’d built everything from the ground up. Brady probably spent his early childhood not knowing wealth.

For a moment, I find that likelihood endearing.

Then I remind myself I don’t care.

“We’ll donate whatever you don’t want,” he says. “There’s a food pantry that our restaurants contribute to daily.”

My heart gives a strange flutter at this, and I tell it to shut up.

When the food arrives, Brady doesn’t let the server inside the room. He uses his large frame to barricade the doorway, and I suspect he’s doing so to block the server’s view of me in my robe. When Brady tips, the server thanks him profusely, a male voice. Suspicion confirmed.

I roll my eyes at his stupid jealousy as Brady wheels the cart to the round table by the window. I sit in the best chair to give myself the view of the city. The sun’s getting almost painfully bright, but I’d rather look at it than at Brady’s distracting muscles.

He asks me what my breakfast preferences are, getting ready to plate me whatever I want. I tell him I can serve myself, thank you.

I try to seem unimpressed with the magnificent spread. This is Brady’s doing on some level, since he’s the one in charge of the hotels. I refuse to stroke his ego by admiring anything. But even by my Boston standards, this smorgasbord is an opulent feast.

Feigning disinterest, I select a croissant and some fruit. Though I consider the strawberries, I imagine that eating them in front of Brady would be entirely too suggestive. I plate myself a stem of plump grapes instead.

I dig in without waiting for him. It’s petty and rude, and—Oh. I moan in surprise.

There’s a river of melted chocolate inside my croissant, silky and rich. And the pastry itself is flaky and buttery and delicious. I dab my mouth with my napkin as I regain myself, sneaking a look at Brady to see if he noticed.

Of course he did. He’s smiling at me, the broadest grin I’ve seen from him.

“Good?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say simply, resorting to petty and rude.

His smile slips like it was never there, and he cuts aggressively into his lean steak. Unreasonably, I find myself missing his grin. Not just the sight of his perfect teeth, but the emotion I’d elicited from him, all with a simple moan of satisfaction.

“It’s so good it’s sinful,” I hear myself say. And though I didn’t intend to extend an olive branch this morning, when Brady’s lips twitch in amusement, I don’t regret it.

Chapter 9

Brady

God, that moan of hers will be the death of me. And her pouty lips around that croissant. Never thought I’d want to be a piece of bread.

Cora’s hair is still wet from her shower, and it’s all I can do not to picture her beneath the spray of water. Not to imagine her naked body. Just an untied sash away from my touch. I train my attention on my steak. Though we eat in relative silence, I feel her eyes constantly flicking over to me. My torso especially. It was the right call to leave my shirt off this morning.

When she finishes her croissant, she tries to brush the crumbs from her fingers. One piece clings stubbornly to her thumb. Seemingly without thinking, she licks it off. Her wet, pink tongue swipes expertly up the pad of her thumb. And fuck.

My fork clatters onto my plate, startling us both. I didn’t realize I’d dropped it. I pick it up quickly and clear my throat.

“I’ll have some delivered to the penthouse every morning. Our penthouse,” I correct, unable to hide my grin.

“Have what delivered?”

“Chocolate croissants.”

“No,” she snaps. Then, less harshly she adds, “I’m not good at resisting chocolate.”