Page 9 of My Favorite Kidnapper

And I was tired of fighting it.

My brother’s amused voice broke into my musings.

“What is eating you? Amanda says you’re grumpier than usual.”

I turned and met his teasing expression, accepting the glass of scotch from his hand.

“I beg to differ. Your wife is being overdramatic. I simply refused the vitamin-infused green smoothie she was trying to get me to drink.” I shuddered. “I hate all that green shit.” I lifted my glass, admiring the golden hue of the drink it contained. “This is what I need to stay healthy.”

He laughed and sat at his desk, crossing his legs. “Amanda is constantly on a health kick of one kind or another. I gave up trying to stop her years ago. I just go along with it.”

“You drink that shit?” I sat down across from him.

He grinned. “She thinks I do. I take it from her, kiss her, and dump it somewhere. Just like I scrape the kale salad off my plate into the garbage disposal or give the gluten-free shit to the staff.”

“Good plan.”

“She thinks she needs to try harder so our age difference isn’t noticeable. She doesn’t believe me when I tell her not only does it not matter at all to me what others think, but she looks younger than I do anyway. She looks younger than you.”

“You certainly married up,” I agreed. “She is much better-looking.”

“Fuck you.”

Then we began to laugh. Amanda was stunning. But she wasn’t high-maintenance. I had no idea how Paolo managed to attract her or keep her, but I was grateful. She had saved him. I would drink her smoothies or eat her god-awful kale salad to make her happy.

Usually.

Today, I wasn’t in the mood.

I crossed my leg over my knee, rubbing the ankle.

“So. The wedding cake.”

Paolo paused. “What about it? I thought it was spectacular. And delicious. I snuck four pieces and even got the kitchen staff to give me a box of cupcakes.”

I hid my smile. I’d eaten seven pieces at the reception, tasting every flavor, and I’d packed up a half dozen pieces in a box and brought it back to my condo. I had eaten them all and craved more.

I also craved information.

“The girl who made it doesn’t work for the venue. I asked.”

He shook his head. “No, she was a friend of Carolina’s from university.”

Elation flooded my chest, along with the realization she might be even younger than I thought.

“Her name,” I demanded.

“Why?”

“I want to hire her company,” I lied smoothly.

“She doesn’t have one—yet anyway. She is working toward that.”

“Her name,” I repeated.

“Brianna.”

Little Bee was Brianna. It suited her.