Brother's Best Friend for Christmas: A Bad Boy Second Chance Romance

by Amy Brent

  “Yes.”

  “Why haven’t you ever said anything?”

  I snorted. “What was I supposed to say? Gee, Mr. Chambers, would you like to go on a date with me when you take a break from being a billionaire playboy?”

  “That would have been a start,” he said, clutching my hand, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles. “Truth? I’ve also had a bit of a crush on you, too. For a long time.”

  My eyes widened. “You have?”

  “I have.”

  “Are you finished with your breakfast?” I asked.

  His tongue slowly went around his lips.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because…”

  I leaned back and opened my robe to expose my naked body to him. I cupped my breasts and gave my nipples a squeeze, then spread my legs wide enough to give him a good peek at what he’d be having for dessert.

  Chapter 11: Denny

  “What the heck happened to you this weekend?”

  I glanced up from my computer to find Sammy standing in my office doorway with a large iced coffee in one hand and a sub sandwich the size of a football in the other. The sandwich had jagged chunks torn out of one end, as if a rabid dog had attacked it. Sammy was a brilliant CEO who had the eating manners of a hungry Pitbull. He was chewing as he gave me the eye.

  I pushed back from the desk and pointed him at the chair across from my desk. “Serena and I came back early to beat the traffic,” I said, stretching out my arms and groaning like an old man. “I was gonna let you know but you were indisposed with the Bambi Twins.”

  Sammy poked his tongue into his cheek and arched his eyebrows. “You and Serena, huh. Well, I guess my little chat with her did some good. You’re welcome.”

  I frowned at him. “What little chat?”

  “She didn’t tell you?” His big shoulders went up and down slowly. “Not a big deal. I was outside smoking a joint when she took her break. We were talking about life and love and your name came up.”

  I felt my heart dropping a little in my chest. Damn. I knew it was too good to be true. “What did you do, Sam?”

  “I just told her that you had a little crush on her and she said she’d always had a little crush on you. I told her you were the best guy I knew and if she was as smart as I thought she was, she’d get her ass up to your room and get busy.”

  “Fuck…” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Shit. I knew something was up.”

  He frowned at me with the sandwich between his teeth. Chewing like a cow eating cud, he said, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I knew it was too good to be true!” I clutched my head between my hands and stared at the ceiling. “I should have known when she showed up at my door that something was up. Fuck. She wasn’t there because she wanted to be with me. She was there because you put her up to it. Or at least goaded her into it.”

  Sammy picked up the iced coffee and took a long suck on the straw. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and gave me a hard look. “Don’t make a big deal out of me talking to her, man. And don’t misconstrue what she did. I didn’t say, ‘hey there’s a rich guy up there who’ll pay you to fuck his brains out’ for Christ sake. She’s not one of those girls.”

  “No, she’s worse,” I said, exhaling with my chin on my chest. “At least the Escorts and Specialists are honest about their motives. They’ll fuck you for money. Period. An honest transaction. Serena fucked me to get her hooks into me. And you put her up to it.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Sammy snorted, spraying my desk with bits of bread and meat. “How can you even think that about her?”

  “Because women like her don’t come onto guys like me without dollar signs in their heads.” I shook my head as the reality set it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “Dude, you are so fucking paranoid,” he said as he cleaned crumbs off the desk with the butt of his hand. “She came up there because she fucking likes you. Serena Diaz is no gold digger. And don’t flatter yourself, asshole, there are far better-looking billionaires with way more money than you out there she could go after if that was the case.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Maybe he was right. Maybe she did like me for me and not because of my bank balance.

  Sammy shook his head at me. “Den, don’t overthink this. That’s what you do. You overthink shit and fuck it up. That’s why you’re still single.”

  “I don’t see a ring on your finger, asshole,” I said, sounding angrier than I really was. He was right. I was paranoid. I did overthink things. That was why I had screwed up every semi-decent relationship I’d ever had.

  The money made me that way. The money also bought me a ton of cool shit, so it was a small price to pay. Usually. The thought that Serena loved my money more than she did me made my chest hurt.

  “I may not have a ring on my finger, but I know you,” Sammy said, smacking his lips. “And I think I know Serena pretty well. She’s a good girl, Den. And would be a great catch for you. If you don’t grab on to her when you have the chance, you might be missing your best opportunity to finally grow up and be happy.”

  “Maybe,” I said, taking another deep breath and pushing it out slowly. “I just don’t know…”

  “You like her, don’t you?” he asked.

  I blinked at him for a moment, then slowly nodded.

  “I do like her,” I said. “I really do.”

  “Can you think of one thing about her you don’t like?”

  Again, I thought for a moment, then shook my head and smiled.

  “No. At least not yet.”

  Sammy gave me a smile decorated with mayonnaise and lettuce and shook what was left of the decimated sandwich at me. “Then try not to fuck it up, Romeo. For once in your life, think with your brain and not your cock.”

  He finished the sandwich in two large bites, loudly drained the coffee, then left his trash on my desk and sauntered out like a great ape going off to take a nap after feeding time.

  I turned my chair toward the window and stared out at the blue sky for a moment, then shook off doubts about Serena’s intentions and went back to work.

  I liked her and she liked me.

  End of story.

  Chapter 12: Serena

  “Papa? What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I would drop by and bring you some tomatoes from my garden,” he said. He held up a brown paper bag and offered me an innocent smile, though I knew him showing up at the office where I worked was anything but innocent.

  “You didn’t have to bring these by,” I said, coming around the desk. “I could have gotten them when I came for dinner on Friday.”

  “I thought you might want some before then,” he said. “I know how you love tomato sandwiches. Just like your mama.”

  “You’re right about that.” I took the bag and gave him a peck on the cheek, then guided him toward the chair in front of my desk. My desk was in the lobby of Amy Rossetti & Associates. Amy’s office was down a short hallway, but she was at lunch with Isaac, so we had the place to ourselves.

  “Is it okay to visit for a minute?” he asked nervously, looking over his shoulder toward Amy’s office.

  “Yes, Amy is at lunch,” I said, sliding back into my chair. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or a water?”

  “You don’t have to wait on me like a guest,” he said, holding up hands that were rough and scarred from years of hard labor. He patted his knees and worked up a smile that made me hold my breath. “The truth is, I needed to speak with you about something. And it could not wait until you came to dinner on Friday.”

  I laced my fingers together on the desk and gave him my best “daddy’s little girl” smile. My father had showed up at my office only once before to tell me that my brother Roberto’s appendix had burst. He didn’t bring tomatoes to disguise the intention of his visit then, so I could only assume he was not bearing bad news now.

  I took a deep breath and arched my eyebrows. Something was up. I could tell
by the way he was fidgeting in the chair like a little kid that had to pee and his eyes were darting around the wall behind me.

  “What is it, Papa?”

  His fingers flexed on his knees. He looked down for a moment, a deep frown on his face. When he looked up, I couldn’t tell if it was anger or shame burning in his eyes.

  He slid two fingers into his t-shirt pocket and withdrew a business card and gently set it on the desk between us. He slid the card toward me like a poker player sliding in his exchange of losing cards. I glanced down at the card for just a second. That was all it took. I recognized the card immediately because it was given to me by Mr. Lemon two years ago when he recruited me to work at Club D.

  The card had the words Club Votre Désire embossed in gold on the front, nothing else, no address, phone number, or logo. Mr. Lemon had scribbled his direct cell number on the back.

  “Tell me about this place,” Papa said quietly, his eyes burning into min. “Then tell me why you were there.”

  When it came to Papa, I was a lousy liar. His eyes had a built-in lie detector, and lying was the one thing he could not stand. He’d rather hear a horrible truth than be lied to. I blinked like a broken slot machine and licked my lips while my brain tried to come up with an answer that would satisfy him. Then a thought occurred to me: where the hell did he find that card and why did he think I knew anything about the place?

  “I don’t know anything about it, Papa,” I said, leaning back and crossing my arms over my chest defensively. A blind man could have read my body language. I dropped my hands to my lap and held them there. “Why do you think I would know anything?”

  Papa sighed because he knew I was lying, his heavy shoulders hunching into his neck as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He nodded at the card.

  “Maria found that card in an old purse you donated for the church yard sale last week,” he said, referring to my brother Carlito’s wife. “She was going through the things you donated and found that card. And these.”

  He reached in his pocket again and brought out a book of matches that had the Club D logo embossed in gold on the black cover. He opened the book of matches and turned them so I could see the inside cover.

  Fuck.

  Busted.

  My habit of making notes to myself, something I had done since I was a little girl, had caught up with me.

  In my distinctively-neat printing, in tiny capital letters, was a note I had written to myself.

  Dinner with Papa Friday @ 4.

  “You wrote that,” Papa said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Um, well…”

  “Please don’t disrespect me by lying, baby girl,” he said quietly. He leaned back and narrowed his eyes at me, like a judge ready to pronounce sentence even before the trial. “Maria did the Google for me to learn about this place. This club voter desire or whatever. It is a whorehouse, Serena. You have been there. No more lies. Tell me the truth.”

  I took a deep breath and did as he asked. I could only pray that he would still consider me his baby girl after he heard what I had done.

  “It’s not a whorehouse, Papa,” I said, my voice as weak as my argument. “It’s a private club.”

  “A private club where women sell their bodies to rich men,” he said. “A whorehouse.” The words hissed through his gritted teeth. “The Google doesn’t lie. Maria told me everything she found out about this place. Rich men go there to have sex with women.” He took a deep breath, swelling his thick chest to the point of bursting. “Are you one of those women, Serena?”

  I took a deep breath of my own and blew it out slowly, hoping it would calm my nerves. It didn’t. I had trouble taking another breath because I thought I was going to burst out crying. My hands were trembling. I laced my fingers together in my lap so he wouldn’t see them shake. I swallowed the lump that had lodged in the back of my throat and licked my lips, which had grown as dry as the desert. I stared at the card and wondered if Maria had found Denny’s name associated with Club D. If she had… shit.

  “Well?” Papa clamped his mouth shut and waited for me to answer. His eyes told me that he would know if a lie passed over my lips.

  “I work there as a waitress on weekends,” I said quietly, my eyes down to avoid his stare. “To pay for my school. I make very good money there, Papa. It’s no different than waiting tables at the Casa Blanca like I did in high school, except that I make thousands of dollars a month as opposed to pennies.”

  He glared at me. “You make thousands of dollars a month serving drinks at a whorehouse?” He shook his head and scoffed. “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true,” I said, my voice cracking as the tears welled in my eyes. “You’re right. It is a whorehouse where very rich men have sex with beautiful women. I serve those rich men drinks and they tip me very well. I swear to you, I have never had sex for money at Club D. Never. I would never do that. You have to believe me.”

  He stared at me for a moment, unblinking, then shook his head and looked away. “Thank God, your mama is not here to see this. Her daughter working at a whorehouse. She would die all over again.”

  I can’t tell you what happened inside my head at that moment, other than to say that his comment lit a very short fuse that burned quickly and ignited mental dynamite that I could not contain.

  I brought up my hands, balled them into fists, and slammed them so hard on the desk that everything atop it jumped and rattled.

  “Don’t you dare say that!” I roared, glaring at him through angry, tear-filled eyes. I wagged a stiff finger at him. “Don’t you ever say that! I have never done anything to disrespect you or Mama. Don’t you dare fucking say that!”

  Papa’s brown eyes grew as big as saucers. He held up his hands and patted the air with them. His voice lost some of its bluster. “Serena, don’t use that language with me…”

  “Fuck that!” I roared. I narrowed my eyes until they were slits and shook my fists at him. “I am a good girl, Papa. I have always been a good girl, but I refuse to settle for the life you want me to have.”

  His forehead cut into deep furrows. “Settle for the life I want you to have? What are you talking about?”

  “You think women should stay at home and cook and clean and squeeze out babies,” I said, my fists bouncing on the desk. “Or clean hotels or clean rich people’s toilets. Well, I refuse to do that, Papa. I am going to get my Master’s degree and I’m going to get a job as a cancer researcher and help find a cure for what killed Mama! Don’t you dare use that against me!”

  Papa’s nostrils flared. “So, this is about me not being able to pay for your college? You work in a whorehouse because I am too poor to pay for your school?”

  “No, Papa, that’s not it,” I said, wiping my eyes without looking away from him. “I work at a whorehouse so I can do something to change the world. This has nothing to do with you. Nothing! This is about me and my future. But I would never—NEVER—do anything to bring shame or disrespect to the family.”

  I could tell he wanted to say more, but he leaned back and dug his fingers into his knees and chewed at the inside of his cheek with his eyes staring at the floor between his work boots.

  I took advantage of the quiet to compose myself. I plucked tissues from a box on my desk and wiped my eyes, then blew my nose into them.

  Papa sat quietly, swiping a knuckle under his eyes. The only other time I had seen him cry was the day we buried my Mama. Even then, he composed himself quickly because his children needed him to be strong, especially his baby girl. I was the weak one, the little girl who had lost her mama. I needed my Papa then, and I needed him now.

  I got up and went around the desk to sit in the chair next to him. I took one of his hands in mine. His hand was hard and rough, like a block of sandpaper.

  “Papa, please listen to me. I serve drinks and food, nothing more. I make enough money to pay for my schooling and live well without being a burden to you. As soon as I graduate and find
a job as a researcher, I will quit the club. I promise you. Until then, you just have to trust that I am your daughter. I will always do what’s right and never compromise my principles for anyone or anything, no matter how much money there might be.”

  I realized at that moment that I was preaching to myself. I was falling hard for a billionaire, but his money didn’t matter to me. Honestly, I had barely thought about his wealth and power. I would have felt the same way about Denny if he had been a janitor mopping the floors or a delivery man driving a truck. I was falling for the man, not his bank account.

  His money was not important to me.

  It would not change my future plans.

  I would not drop everything to live in luxury with Denny or let him pay my way. If that’s what he expected… well… he would be sorely disappointed.

  I was Serena Diaz, the proud daughter of Carlos and Carlotta Diaz.

  I had worked my ass off to get here.

  No one had helped me.

  No one!

  I was an independent woman.

  I was my own woman.

  I would get my Masters in the fall, find a job at a cancer research center, and work to cure the horrible disease that took my beloved mama and so many others.

  If Denny had a problem with that… well… he’d just have to get over it!