Her Crazy Brother

Prologue

The computer closes down and I hide the data drive in the ring box. Pressing the diamond solitaire into the foam slot. I flip the lid closed.

That seat’s too big for you, Greg Stacy.

I startle and drop the red box between my feet. Some days I think my girlfriend’s brother has me micro-chipped the way he knows my every location. I glance at Ben. His naked mammoth shoulders and grey sweatpants fill his father’s study doorway. I reply, At least I’m not afraid to sit here.

Barefoot and towelling newly showered golden hair, he pads around the leather chair with a muscled physique that I can only dream of. I snark, Lost your shirt, again?

He rattles the locked drawers in the cherry-wood desk and the framed photo of him and his sister topples. I replace it exactly the way it was, then snatch the box from the carpet and slip it into my denim pocket.

Rising, I sigh. I work for your fathe—

The air leaves my ribcage when my back smacks the matching cherry bookcase and his imposing chest holds mine locked. What are you hiding, Gregory?

More than he’ll ever know.

I’m slight compared to his gym-buffed form, but we’ve bickered enough that I’m no longer intimidated by his bulk. I answer: It’s a secret. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.

Ben’s lips curve with a flashy smirk that could wet a nun’s undies, flexing a bicep for effect as he says, Didn’t your mother teach you the hero always wins?

I roll my eyes. She taught me heroes make sacrifices for others. That isn’t you, Benjamin Chalmers. Your ambition is yourself.

His jaw tightens. Yet his eyes look more predatory than offended as they stay fixed on mine. What are your ambitions, Gregory?

I awkwardly drop my eyes from his. Not because he smoothes a long strand of black hair behind my ear, but because the sensation of his fingers brushing my ear feels intimate.

I have none, I reply.

His hand suddenly delves into my front pocket and wrestles the box free. He flicks it open, and I grip the towel ends dangling around his neck.

We’ll be brothe—

His palm slams the wall at my ear, sending my heart leaping into my throat. Straight-lipped, his eyes flash in warning. I’ll never let that happen.

Chapter 1

Istep out of the bathroom to find Ben in the hallway with a handprint blooming across his cheek. The downstair door bangs as his date storms out, and I waggle my mobile in his face. You are an—

Before I can tell the gym-bunny exactly what I think of his annoying ass, his sister catches my sleeve and drags me into her bedroom.

I close the door in his smirking face while Beth plonks on her dressing table stool and lifts her hair brush. Blonde waves bouncing at the waist of her pink blouse as she warns: Don’t be mean to him. He just had his heart broken.

With my insides hissing, I dive onto the duvet and glower at the carved ceiling rose. Heartbroken? You can’t break what you don’t have. And when has Ben Chalmers ever returned with the same girl two nights in a row? I’d show Beth the image he sent me, but it will lead to accusations that I’m over-reacting—which I’m bloody well not.

Two hour ago, I walked into their shared Jack-and-Jill bathroom as Ben stepped out of the shower. Viewing Sasquatch naked shouldn’t have been an issue—we’re both men. All I said was, I could have been Beth, so lock both doors.

Any regular Joe would say, You’re right. I’ll do better next time.

Not the psycho dipshit as he flexed every arm and leg muscle while implying I’d broken-in to ogle my girlfriend’s naked brother. Of course, I lost my shit. Who wouldn’t? And to add fuel to the fire—after I threw his towel in his face and stalked off to the main bathroom—he texts me a memento of his perfect ass with a tongue emoji which I’m keeping as evidence.

I’m annoyed because I thought Ben and I were finally bonding as friends. That he’d be pleased when he saw the engagement ring. Holy shit, was I wrong. Even now, I quiver at the memory of those icy-blue daggers staring into mine. His jaw, tight and quivering. His palm slamming the wall as he promised he’d never let it happen.

It would be understandable if he outright hated me—a protective brother who thinks no one is good enough for his sister. Instead, he’s acting like an evil cat who enjoys torturing its prey. Ever since that day, he’s flooded me with relentless, sordid taunts about having a thing for his ass. It’s so bad I feel nervous and paranoid when he’s near me.

With a sigh, I massage my temples. To make life utterly unbearable, he’s staying here with Beth and their parents, so now I’m forced to cross paths with the malevolent asshole daily.

Pushing his sabotage out of my head, I stroke the box weighing in my pocket. What should be a simple pop-the-question romantic moment is becoming an impossible-to-be-alone nightmare. I need to be under a different roof before I kill Ben.

I bolt up and announce, Let’s go out for dinner. Fixing my hair into a topknot, I insist: Don’t invite him.

The brush halts from sweeping through honey strands—sweet golden strands that are identical to his—as Beth’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. We can’t leave him.

Oh yes, we can.

He’s twenty-five—a year younger than me. He can order online like every other lonely, recently dumped man. All I’m asking for is one evening where his behemoth carcass isn’t in my direct line of sight—one night!

I smooth the barbs from my tone and plead: Please, Bethy?

Her eyes roll while she applies lip gloss, but she nods and I exhale in relief. Patting the box at my hip, I might finally get her father off my back.

Downstairs, I pat a denim pocket to confirm I have my wallet, then lift my car keys from the hallway table. My stomach clenches at the thud of feet landing at the bottom of the stairs.

Dressed in white baseball boots, skintight black denims, and a black clingy skull-motif T-shirt, he’s the poster child for a rebellious arsehole. His shameless blue eyes stalk me like a hawk while Beth informs him we’re going out for dinner.

He removes his black leather jacket from the cloakroom, and I drag it from his grasp, clarifying: There’s no room for you, and hook it back inside.

His lip curves with a challenging half-moon glint and I sweep around him to open the door.

Outside, the damp evening chill clings in the air as I follow the manicured lawn across a driveway surrounded by high-hedging. Being their father’s creative advertising assistant pays well, but not spoilt-wanker well, as I jealously glance at the playboy’s grey two-seater sports Mercedes.

Oh, come on!

He’s welded it to the driver door of my black second-hand Porsche. Pressing the fob, the amber lights bounce off his metallic paintwork and I suck in my stomach and wedge myself in the door gap.

Is he so dense he can’t tell he’s not wanted?

I narrow my eyes at the hulking black T-shirt at Beth’s back. She squeals when he catches her waist and swoops her aside. He lowers the passenger seat and winks at me before climbing in. Porsche backseats aren’t designed to chauffeur six-foot-three antagonistic pricks and my knuckles whiten on the chrome-spoked wheel when his knees thud into my chair back.

Beth frowns at Ben as she sits, then glances at me.

I snap, It’s fine, and yank on my seatbelt. What else can I say? I’d need a can-opener and a crane to hoist his buffalo-ass out.

Waiting for Beth to straighten her ruffled cardigan and fasten her seatbelt, I startle when Ben slaps my shoulders and announces, Steakhouse. In the rearview mirror, his victorious grin flashes at mine and I accept any chance of a romantic candlelight proposal is fucked—again!

Turning the key, I nearly stall the engine. Not because Ben’s palms are massaging my shoulders, but because his warm breath causes a tingle against my ear.

It’s started, and we haven’t left the driveway.

Stopping for red lights, I flex and relax my fingers before there are permanent grooves in the leather wheel after he loosens my hair to straighten and smooth the dark strands across my shoulders. For a man who constantly teases that I have girly locks, he can’t keep his paws off them. Anyway, if he thinks playing with my shiny layers makes me uncomfortable—he’s wrong. I’d let someone stroke their fingers through it all night—just not him.

Damn, his fingers are incredible. Goosebumps prickle across my scalp and I almost forget I’m pissed at him. His knuckles caress my neck, and my suspicious gaze meets his in the rear-view mirror. Okay, enough. With a sly smirk, I ask, Do you have your seat belt on, Ben?

Beth spins and my lips curve when an ear-melting safety lecture erupts. His knee