“I don’t normally do this.” I take a seat on his couch and start pulling out my notebook. “Just be aware of that.”
He slides in next to me, his firm body inches away from me, his cologne filtering into my space, clean and masculine . . . addicting.
The couch dips, his body moving in as his fingers land beneath my chin where he slightly tugs, turning me to face him. His expression sincere, his voice deep, his thumb making a small stroke across my jaw. “I appreciate you making an exception for me, Jules.”
The air stills around us and for some really strange reason, I want to bury my head into the crook of his neck to seek his comfort, his hug—a tender comforting hug I’ve experienced once and only once in my life. I remember how safe I felt, how warm his body was, the strength of his chest, the security of his arms.
Maybe my ability to resist him isn’t as strong as I thought.
I blink a few times, clear my throat, and adjust my position on the couch, scooting a few inches away. There is no reason for us to be sitting that close. “Uh, yeah, not a problem.”
I fling open my notebook, click my pen, and adjust my glasses on my nose, keeping my eyes cast down for a brief moment before tilting my head enough to catch the smirk on Bram’s face and the way he so casually leans back on the couch, arms spread over the length of the back, his chest stretching the fabric caressing his skin. The V of his shirt pops open, the tan of his skin a stark contrast against the white of his shirt . . . and for the life of me, I can’t pull my gaze away.
Unfortunately for me, he catches my blatant staring.
“Try a little harder, Jules. A button might just pop open.”
There he is. Mr. Arrogant Asshole.
And that snaps me out of it. Him I can resist. Easily. I turn back to my notebook, a blush creeping over my cheeks as he chuckles to himself. God, he’s annoying.
“Do you have your bubble sheet?” I snap, holding my hand out while writing down the date on my notebook. I need something to do other than look at Bram’s partially undone shirt.
A sheet is placed in my hand followed by, “Interesting test. It was a real joy to complete.” Sarcasm drips from his lips.
“I worked hard on putting it together.”
“Really? Because it felt like the entire thing was one giant mindfuck to see how frustrated you could make your clients.”
I sit up straight, a firm set to my shoulders. If anything, I protect what I’ve created. I’ve spent the last ten years working on it and there is no way I will accept someone ridiculing it.
“Excuse me? Serious thought went into every single one of these questions along with the answers chosen. This entire test was created off human behaviors and the choices they make. Every answer gives me insight into the person you are.”
“You know you can just ask me.”
I shake my head. “Anyone can bullshit me about their personality and idiosyncrasies, but the questions you answered provide me an in-depth insight as to their true psyche. Often things they may or may not know about themselves.”
“So whether I answered fire truck or pantyhose for what’s your favorite fruit tells you the person I am?”
I smile proudly. “Easily.”
He tips his chin toward me. “Okay, explain.”
I shake my head. “I’m not giving away anything.”
“Humor me. Just give me an example so I know you’re not going to set me up with some weirdo who likes to collect toenails from strangers.”
“You’re absurd.”
“Well aware, now give me an example.” He gives me that glare, his persuasive look that grants him his victories. . . and it’s why I cave.
I let out a long breath before resting my hands on my lap, folding them on top of each other. “Fine, but this example is only geared toward this question. Not every question is formulated like this.”
“Noted.” He motions for me to continue.
“The fruit question was more about association. If I can remember correctly, the answers were fire truck, pantyhose, sunflower, and Chicago, right?”
“Sure.” He humors me with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Depending on your personality, every answer coincides with the kind of person you are. If you chose fire truck, it means you’re more likely to enjoy a berry than any other fruit. Pantyhose, given that they are typically brown in color tells me you’re not much of a fruit eater. Sunflower is a clear indicator that you are a healthy eater, and since Chicago is an urban city, it implies you are more of a raw fruit eater, earthy.”
He stares blankly at me.
“How on earth does that make any sense?” For those who haven’t studied for many years in behavioral science, it doesn’t.
“What did you pick?”
He quirks his mouth to the side, almost as if to tell me I have him trapped. “Fire truck.”
I nod, a knowing smile peeking past my lips. “Do you or do you not enjoy a berry fruit salad, Bram?”
He can’t lie, because I know him too well for my liking. I’ve seen him many times with a berry fruit salad in hand. It’s the same fruit salad Rath likes to eat, with the occasional kiwi cut in as well.
“This means nothing. So I like berries. What does that have anything to do with the person I am?”
“It tells me that there is a bit of a sweet side to you. And that’s just one question, one tally mark in the sweet column. There is so much more that goes into it. All the answers are tallied and added, giving me a distinct indicator of who you are. Are you a nurturer, an artist, a protector?”
Understanding starts to take. “So it’s like a Myers-Briggs Type indicator.”
“But for dating.”
“And it’s worked?” Honestly, I’m a little insulted he has to ask. I had thought Bram had some clue how successful my business has been. Not that it matters what he thinks . . .
I nod. “Yup. I’ve spent ten years working and perfecting these questions. It’s a small part of my overall assessment but it gives me a good starting point.”
“I see. Well . . . it was torture, just so you know.”
I smile shyly, turning back to my notebook. “You’re not the first person to say that.”
“But do you really think you needed to ask me those questions? You know me well enough, Jules, to know I’m a protector.”
I do know him well enough, but I’d rather not go into this with a skewed opinion. I want him to go through everything I put my clients through so I have a firm profile to show women. The bonus of the bubble sheet testing is that there is no place for objectivity. The computer marks the sheets, so the results can’t be fudged. He should know that. And he should understand why I have to start with a clean slate on his color analysis.
“It’s best to start fresh, as if I don’t know you at all.” I pull a paper from my folder and place it on the table in front of me. “Shall we get started?”
The couch shifts again and from the corner of my eye, I see Bram get comfortable, crossing one of his legs and relaxing into the sofa. “Hit me.”
* * *
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Just answer the question.”
Bram is sitting on a chair across from me now, suit jacket stripped and the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. I’ve kicked off my heels and have tucked my feet under my bottom, getting in the most comfortable position a girl can get into while wearing a form-fitting dress.
His giant paw digs through his unruly hair as he pulls on it one more time, frustration pours off him in waves, and with every wave I feel his irritation grow.
I never said this would be easy, especially for a busy man like Bram who’s had at least thirty phone calls since I’ve been in his office. He finally turned off the sound to his computer that was dinging every few seconds with emails and his phone has been switched to silent as well, the buzzing starting to become obnoxious. I’m impressed and slightly honored that he’s giving me his full attention.
I almost feel bad for him, for the amount of people who want his attention, but then again, it comes with the territory. He owns his own investment company, he swims in money every day, he’s a sought-after man, everyone wants a piece of him and yet, there’s something to be said about him taking the time to sit with me and answer these questions. I’ve had businessmen of his caliber give up after the test, but I must say, I’m impressed. He’s pursuing this even when it’s clear he’s frustrated.
He could have asked me to leave an hour ago. Instead, he huffs again and shifts in his chair.
“What do you think, Jules?” He gives me a pointed look, eyebrow raised.
“Remember, I have to pretend I don’t know anything about you.”
“Christ.” He drags his hand over his face. “Of course I’ve had a one-night stand. I think that was something you didn’t have to ask me.”
“How many?”
His eyes widen. “How many one-night stands have I had? You seriously want me to give you a number?”
“Yes, and if you can be as accurate as possible, that would be great.”
Jumping to his feet, he starts to pace the length of the office. “Hell, I have no fucking clue.”
“Okay, well if you need to guess-timate, that’s cool. Let’s say like twenty-ish?” I waver my hand side to side.
He chuckles, back turned toward me, hand gripping his neck. “Twenty-ish. Cute, Jules. Probably in the hundreds.”
“What?” My mouth falls open. Hundreds?
Now I’m not supposed to judge here, but in the hundreds? How is that even . . .
I stop that thought. How is it possible? I just have to look at Bram and know exactly how that’s possible.
Still. Hundreds? Hundreds of women have been with Bram Scott, riding up and down on top of him, feeling the way his wide hands span across their body . . .
I swallow hard. “Okay, uh, hundreds.”
Silence falls between us as I scroll the word hundreds into my notebook along with a note: likes sex—a lot.
“They meant nothing, you know,” he adds, finally turning around to face me. Of course they meant nothing. Sex without strings is exactly the sort of man Bram Scott is. Yet he thinks he wants to date seriously . . .
“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Bram. You’re a grown man who can do whatever he wants with his life. I will suggest you stop the one-night stands though, during this dating process. Try to get to know the women I set you up with. Sex isn’t everything.”
“It is when you’re doing it right.” His voice dips even lower than before when he was on the phone. “Have you been doing it right, Julia?”
Flustered, I maneuver my pen in my hand. “I don’t see how that’s relevant to what we’re doing right now.” I push up my glasses and then feel him approach, purpose in every step as he takes a seat across from me.
“When was the last time you had sex?”
“We’re getting off track, Bram. Let’s move on.”
“No, I want to know.” His voice is soft, concerned almost. I glance at him and take in the way he’s leaning forward, forearms on his legs, hands clasped, a pinch to his brow. Those eyes of his—mossy with a tint of blue right now—cut right through me, practically pulling the answer he wants out of me.
“It doesn’t matter,” I answer weakly.
“A few months?” I don’t answer. “A year?” I doodle on my paper. “Has it been a year, Jules?”
I bite my bottom lip, the answer on the tip of my tongue.
“Come on, you’re learning everything about me personally. The least you can do is tell me the last time you’ve had sex.”
I don’t see how that matters, but for some reason, I give in. “About two years, okay? Now let’s move on.”
“Two years?” His brow furrows as he lets out a low whistle. “You can’t be serious?”
“Why would I lie about something like that?” I pull on the ends of my hair, examining the tips, trying to avoid eye contact with the man sitting across from me. I’ve been subject to his stare far too many times, and there is no way I can look him in the eye right now.
“I guess you wouldn’t. Damn.” He takes a deep breath. “At least tell me this, did you orgasm?”
I say nothing. There is no way I’m answering that.
“Hell, Jules.” He stands from his chair and starts pacing, as if I just told him HE was the one who hasn’t had sex for two years. “We need to fix this.” Spinning on his heel, he motions at my dress. “Take that off and sit on my desk. I’ll at least make you come with my tongue, give you a little bit of relief.”
I damn near choke on my saliva.
“Excuse me?”
“Come on.” He pats his desk. “Hop up. It will take no more than a minute to get you off and then we can get you back to your questions.”
The look in his eyes, his body posture, the set in his jaw . . . he’s freaking serious. He really wants me to strip down and let him go down on me.
He’s officially lost it.
Shaking my head, I stand and put my heels back on.
“Jules, you don’t need to wear your heels, just take the dress off.”
“You’ve lost it.” I start packing up my things. “You have truly lost it. These questions have affected your mental state. I should have known you could only handle a little bit at a time. I’ll reschedule with Linus.”
I’m halfway to his door when he grabs me by the hand and stops me from exiting. The grip of his fingers around my wrist slowly loosens as his thumb begins to rub slow circles around the inside of my wrist, crazily sending a wave of chills up and down my spine.
“I’m not losing it. I’m dead serious. Consider it a friendly gesture between two people who know each other. Hell, if the shoe was on the other foot and I was the one who hadn’t had sex in two years and you offered to blow me, I’d drop my pants in two seconds.”
“That’s because you’re a man who will stick his dick in a hole in the wall to get off.”
“Hey.” He grimaces. “I don’t fuck walls. Don’t stick me in a category with a bunch of creeps. I’m just saying we’re friends and we should be able to do this kind of stuff for each other.”
I gently remove my wrist from his and shoulder my purse. “We’re acquaintances, Bram. You’re my brother’s best friend, and that doesn’t mean we’re friends.” Anything else with Bram would be far too dangerous and bad for my health. No. Thank. You. I turn back around and head out the door. “I’ll make an appointment to finish up the questions. Have a good rest of your day.”
Chapter Eight
BRAM
We’re acquaintances.
Can you imagine that didn’t sit well with me?
Three days later and it’s still not sitting well with me.
Okay, maybe I came on a little too strong with the whole eating her out business on my desk—granted it has been a fantasy of mine—but what the hell was I supposed to do?
Julia Westin hasn’t had sex in two years, and she didn’t even come when she did.
Talk about mind being blown.
All I could think about was how can I make this better. How can I get her naked and show her what fucking is all about?
No wonder she thinks everything isn’t about sex—she hasn’t been fucked properly.
Who has she even dated in the past ten years? I know she had a loser boyfriend her senior year in college who dumped her right before graduation. Good riddance to that moron. Rumor is he’s balding and working a desk job for a mid-range office supply company. At least that was the last update I got from Rath.
And then there was that one guy, the professional trainer, who she met at a yoga class. Turned out the guy was a total douche and was cheating on her with five other women. Rath might have had a hand in getting the dickhead fired and shipped off the island, letting every gym in the tri-state area know he fucks clients.
Then there was the investment broker who had real potential, that Rath actually said
he could see himself getting along with the guy. That was until he took Julia home to meet his mom and found out his long-time girlfriend was back in town and single . . .
Rath sent him a package in the mail, every month, a goddamn glitter bomb that shot right up his nose every time he opened the package. It was my idea, and because we had nothing else better to do with our money, we hired a private investigator to take pictures of the cretin every time he opened the package.
One of the pictures of him peeling glitter out of his eyes was my screen saver for a few weeks. God, it still cracks me up.
So who was the latest guy? A one-night stand she never told Rath about? Must have been, as I couldn’t imagine Julia dating someone and not telling Rath. They’re close.
I guess what this comes down to is Julia might be good at finding love for others, but not for herself.
Knock. Knock.
“Mr. Scott.” Linus peaks through the door, iPad in hand.
“What’s up?”
He steps into my office and shuts the door behind him. “Mr. Carlino has been on hold for the last ten minutes, were you going to pick up the phone call?”
Shit.
I was daydreaming about Julia and her lack of sex and completely forgot about a phone call I had Linus patch through.
“Uh, can you tell him I’ll call him back and then come back in here?”
“Not a problem.”
I sit up in my chair and run my hand through my hair. Two years.
Why is that so hard for me to comprehend?
Maybe because in my eyes, Julia Westin is the perfect girl. Smart, beautiful, a little shy, but has a witty mouth when she wants to use it. The only reason I haven’t made a move earlier on, well besides that one time, is because . . . well . . . the fear of rejection.
She’s turned me down once. What would another no feel like?
I’m pretty sure it would damn near break me.
The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister Page 6
