by K B Cinder
The Barrett Brothers Collection
KB Cinder
Copyright KB Cinder (2020)©
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any way, shape, or form without written permission from the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
This book is entirely a work of fiction. All characters, scenes, and dialogue are entirely from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or incidents is purely coincidental.
For badasses everywhere
Contents
Privately
Barrett All
Painted Love
Elena
Post-wedding disaster, I’m ready to move on, and what better way than with Privately?
Its wild success stories dominate morning talk shows, so why can’t I be one of them?
Although, it will be hard finding anything close to a happily ever after while dealing with Jason - my new, incredibly sexy, yet temperamental, boss — a man who has hated me since day one on the job.
* * *
Jason
I hate how I feel around Elena.
Her presence ignites a fire inside no cold shower can douse.
She blurs the boundaries between work and play, leaving me with an uneasy urge to explore the flames.
Neither will bend in their disdain for the other unless of course, they’re brought together...
Privately.
Prologue
Phones only ring at the worst times. The always sound off on full blast with the ringer that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin at the moment. You know the one, whether it’s Pony rearing at a funeral or Bump N’ Grind during a meeting when seated next to your boss.
Of course, it happens when hands — or worse - mouths are full. In this case, it was my hands, clutching bags stuffed with enough supplies to craft smores’ kits for an army.
“Oh, come on!” I grumbled as 90s R&B erupted from my purse.
A woman sidestepped me, her face strained in irritation as if she didn’t get jiggy with it back in the day, too. Then again, maybe if she had, she wouldn’t have a see-you-next-Tuesday haircut, the angled bob declaring her disdain for all things fun from a mile away.
If it weren’t a week from showtime, I'd ignore the call, but with my luck, I’d miss something major. I juggled the bags, snaking the blaring cell from my tote and pressing it to my ear. “Hello, Elena Julian speaking.”
“Good evening, Elena. This is Serena from Gardenia Gables. I'm calling to confirm the headcount for next Saturday.”
I adjusted my grip on my cell, relieved it was just the wedding planner, and not a crisis. I feared something would go wrong with how easy everything was going. It seemed unnatural compared to the catastrophes plaguing wedding reality shows. Shouldn’t I have at least broken a zipper or gotten food poisoning already?
“Hi, Serena. Our final headcount is two-hundred-sixty.” I had the number down pat thanks to smores planning.
Two chocolate squares were the ideal ratio. One square was sacrilegious, and three-squares-or-more psychos were not ones you’d invite over again. The soon-to-be in-laws didn’t know smores would be handed out along with their pricey wine favors, but they were in for a sticky surprise.
“Wonderful! We're sticking with the original tallies for sea bass, chateaubriand, and pheasant, correct?”
“Yes, ma'am.” There were no changes as far as I knew. For how much Gardenia charged per head, everything had to be delicious, even the napkins if anyone got adventurous.
I hurried toward my Lexus from the grocery store promenade, leaves crunching beneath my heels with each step. I scored a spot in the front of the lot, earning a happy dance after a long day in the office and a grueling barre class.
“Well, that's wonderful! Congratulations again, Elena! I look forward to seeing you and Justin next Saturday for the big day!”
I beamed. “Thank you so much, Serena!”
I still couldn’t believe the day was so close. That after four years, we’d finally be one. Despite declaring on our first date that he’d never settle down, the eternal bachelor chose me as his life partner.
“Anything for a Gardenia bride. Have a great night.” I could hear the smile in her voice and couldn’t be happier.
I tucked the phone in the pocket of my cardigan as I struggled to open the rear hatch of the SUV, a recent gift from Justin. It was flashier than my old jeep, but I was getting used to it.
One by one, I stuffed the bags in, careful not to crush anything. No one wanted a smashed smore, and I didn’t need straggler pieces lingering in the meantime as temptation. I had a dress that fit without the extra chocolate goodies.
I rushed inside to the blessed heat, and my cell rang again, Justin's ringer blaring. He was working late at the firm, unable to join in the Friday night shopping excursion, but I couldn't complain. The extra hours in the office earned his latest promotion.
“Hey, Baby!” I greeted as I buckled in, spying it was just past eight on the dash.
No wonder I was starving. I hadn’t eaten since scarfing down a kale salad at noon — a gross kale salad, at that. Then again, kale was always gross, even if it was swimming in dressing.
“Hi, Elena.”
No Laney? He always used his pet name for me.
Crap. He must have found the Louboutins I bought for the wedding. I landed a hell of a deal on the silver pumps, a pair that rivaled those of his coworkers’ wives. I was hoping he’d love them, too. He was always steering me toward designer brands.
“Are you on your way home yet? I'm starving!” I tossed my purse in the passenger seat, more than ready to stuff my face. “Maybe we can grab dinner somewhere. We haven’t gone out in forever.”
We hadn’t seen much of each other at all in the last few weeks. If I wasn’t at fittings or last minutes appointments, he was at work or out with friends as more than one bachelor party lit up his life.
As much as I loved eating dinner with my cat, Hank wasn’t my fiancé. I even missed Justin getting angry when he caught me watching Forensics, convinced the crime show was for spinsters.
“I... I won't be home tonight,” he stammered, a heavy rustling muffling him in the background.
“What do you mean?” I asked, backing out of my parking spot with the phone on speaker, hoping the roar of my stomach couldn’t be heard.
“We need to talk.”
I sighed, more than flustered. “About what? When are you going to be home?”
He said tonight as if he weren’t coming home at all. That likely meant his boss was sending him to play errand boy out of town again for the weekend.
“About this, Elena.”
“This what? Why do you keep calling me that?” I demanded.
If he was mad about the shoes, he could at least say it. I hated guessing games.
“Look, this isn’t working...” he trailed, releasing a long breath.
“What isn’t working, Justin?” I asked, a knot forming in my throat.
Was it the firm? Was he considering quitting? I’d love and support him no matter what, but damn, he could give a girl a little warning.
“Our relationship.”
Each word hit like a softball to the stomach, forcing hunger aside to make room for pain. “What are you talking about?” I screeched, slamming on the brakes.
A horn sounded from behind, the shouts of an angry driver hurled my way.
“This hasn’t been working for a while, Elena.”
We were busy, but things were definitely working — including his penis. We had sex the night before. What exactly wasn’t working about that?
He seemed perfectly fine with me then.
He told me he loved me before I left for work in the morning and kissed me goodbye as usual. What changed in twelve hours?
“Are you insane?” I shrieked. “I just got off the phone with the wedding planner!”
He had cold feet. He just needed to sleep on it to come to his senses. He was speaking gibberish.
The horn in the distance continued to blast, the road ahead blurred by tears. But I couldn't move, crushed in place by the sudden weight of the ring on my hand. The cursed piece of jewelry held my gaze, our life together imploding before my very eyes.
“Call her back. There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
Elena
Nine months later
Day one of low-carb life was a disaster.
A limp lettuce wrap was nothing compared to the scent of lasagna wafting over from accounting as the group feasted on Don’s homemade delicacy of carbs, carbs, and more carbs.
The article online made it sound easy with bacon-wrapped this and cheese-wrapped that but failed to mention every-fucking-thing had carbs in it. Starches were more than a food group; they were family.
If I woke up with an alarm, there would have been time to whip up something snazzier, but no, I forgot to set the sucker the night before. I was more focused on applying to new jobs than my current one.
It was only my cat, Hank, singing the song of his people, who dragged me out of bed a half-hour later than usual.
Thanks to dry shampoo, I made it into the office on time and managed to match, though an emerald sweater was absurd in July. The heat stayed close despite the chill of the air conditioning, but the personal summer was a blessing in disguise.
With our thermostat set on Antarctica, everyone walked around with permanent headlights peeking through their tops. It wasn’t unusual to see coworkers donning gloves in their cubicles or sunning themselves in the parking lot to thaw midday.
I kept reminding myself of the lasagna’s creator as I worked, trying to fend off the fumes of Italian magic. While I didn't care to know what Don did outside of Croft, all signs pointed towards perversion. He was creepy enough to leave me noping the hell out of any situation where we were alone together. I saw enough episodes of Forensics to know where it could end up, and becoming a lampshade wasn’t on my bucket list.
Tap by tap, the latest report took shape, each cell a new dose of bad news for someone waiting on late deliveries. A fat stack of updates awaiting entry taunted all the while, a three o'clock deadline looming.
Working through lunch made it possible, but there was no telling what my manager, Marty, might pull out of a hat for me to do.
The room was abuzz, a hum of whispers forming a constant backdrop. It was a welcome relief, drowning out the usual symphony of gum chewing and pen tapping that left me twitching by day’s end.
Everyone was gushing over the new branch manager, and Croft’s gossip wheel was already spinning wildly.
The position sat vacant for months after the last one’s abrupt firing. There was no shortage of rumors surrounding Steve Wilson’s termination, but anything was plausible. He spent his days bragging about his old digs in Marina del Rey and alleged successes, but anyone with half of a brain could peg him as a bullshitter.
The wrap continued to tease from the bowels of its plastic coffin as I worked, a glaring reminder of how pathetic things were. I went from scooping up grub in the Big Apple to eating out of a lunch box. All that was missing was a juice box, and I’d be a second grader again.
Just as I hit the last stretch of the file, a familiar nervous chatter fluttered toward the cubicle pod. I typed like mad and popped the last of my wrap in my mouth, knowing Marty be long-winded in whatever he was coming to say.
His high-pitched cackling lasted until he parked at Monica's desk several feet away, falling silent once reaching his target. He always sounded somewhat deranged like a hyena, worsened by his coffee habit. Hopefully, he only wanted to talk to her for a change, but I doubted it.
Monica wasn't anyone's first choice to talk to. Dad always said people like her were full of piss and vinegar, but she was full of piss, vinegar, and venom to boot.
“Ladies, I want to introduce you to our new branch manager, Jason Barrett,” Marty announced.
My eyes drifted over and misted with tears as my breath hitched, managing to oh-so-gracefully choke on air.
Jason Barrett was no Steve Wilson or Marty Radwell. Broad-shouldered and muscled, he was a head taller than Marty, a chiseled jaw and cheekbones framing a face that belonged on billboards. With his smoldering bedroom eyes and short, dark hair, he was Prince Charming in the flesh with an added splash of yes, please.
“Jason, this is Monica LaFleur, Lee Givens, and Elena Julian. They’re our support team.”
Monica was on her feet and extending a manicured hand before Marty finished his sentence. “It's a pleasure to meet you,” she purred, fake lashes fanning while her red pout slid into a rare smile. “Please let me know if there's anything I can do to help you settle in.”
With all attention on Mr. Handsome, the eye roll on my end went unnoticed.
Monica didn’t help anyone unless it came with a perk. The witch wouldn't hold the door for me on Christmas Eve when I was on crutches for Christ’s sake.
He released her hand, clasping his in front of himself. “It's nice to meet you.”
Oh, God.
His voice was deep, gravelly, and needed to narrate every romance novel ever written. Hell, he could recite a recipe and leave women swooning while spatchcocking a chicken — salmonella be damned.
As the men stepped around the cubes, Jason’s full body came into view, and it took every bit of self-control to keep from gaping in awe. His powerful shoulders narrowed to a slim waist, his body on display in an incredible suit, an obvious custom pick with steel gray fabric, and a second-skin fit.
Lee exchanged pleasantries like a pro, while I tried not to gawk at the hunk of man headed my way like a tomahawk missile. I looked at the ugly carpet. The bare gray walls. At Marty's shiny, balding head. Anything but him.
He and Marty seemed to fly to my cubicle, his stride forcing Marty to quickstep like a toddler after his mother. I was on my feet by the time they came to a stop, autopilot kicking in to save the day.
I smiled, hoping there wasn't chicken salad camped out in my teeth. “Hello. I'm Elena. It's nice to meet you.”
It was a go-to greeting but didn't come out right at all, sounding airy but not an ounce of sexy found like Monroe. It was more like I hiked up a staircase or seven.
As he stepped in and took my hand, his paw of a limb dwarfing mine, I knew I was in trouble.
Clean-shaven with heavy brows, he was the definition of handsome, sexy, and everything in between. He towered above, at least a foot taller, his body definitely rock hard under his suit.
Even under the harsh scrutiny of fluorescent lights, he was flawless. While everyone else washed out under their glow, he remained vibrant with bronzed skin and bright, blue eyes.
While I was busy ogling, I was sucker-punched with his scent, a wall of spice and man blanketing me in all its glory.
I fought off the waves of fantasy until his smile dissipated, replaced with a solid line.
Oh crap.
It had to be chicken salad central in my grill, and I gave him the mother of all lettuce peepshows. Leave it to me to make an ass of myself in front of the sexiest man I had ever laid eyes on.
“Do you always eat at your desk?” he asked. He scanned my cube, honing in on the open lunch box, HUMAN ORGAN FOR TRANSPLANT scrawled on it in red.
I flicked my tongue over my teeth while he was distracted, relieved to find no sign of debris.
He released my hand, dropping it like trash. “Well?” he prodded, looming above like a not-so-jolly giant.
Everyone had desk lunches since the layoffs. It was one of Marty’s policies. What were we supposed to do? Skip eating altogether? Shotgun espresso and s
nort sugar candy to keep perky?
A flash of anger pierced the haze of attraction. The accounting department was actively shoveling lasagna across the room, and he was lecturing me about some food I already ate?
At the same time, I needed a paycheck, and pissing off the big boss on his first day wasn’t the best way to keep it. “With the staffing situation, we have to eat at our desks.”
“Unacceptable.” Barrett scowled before turning to Monica and flicking his head toward me. “You'll see that this behavior stops?”
Monica straightened, chin tilted high. She glanced over in disdain before turning back to him, living for my public persecution. “Absolutely, Mr. Barrett.”
The men walked away without another word, leaving me seething in silence. He went from meteorically hot to a bastard at the drop of a hat.
Well, the drop of a lunch box.
Lee laughed in her cubicle, shoulders bouncing in bottled amusement with a hand clamped over her mouth.
Monica was enjoying my misery too, her stern look replaced with a megawatt smile.
“So, we get to leave our desks for lunch now?” Lee giggled once the two managers were out of earshot. “About damn time!”
“All thanks to Lady Lettuce Wrap!” taunted Monica. “For my sake, put your morbid bag away before he comes back!”
I bit my tongue, needing to choose battles with her wisely. Our last quarrel ended with a warning for both of us.
I called her a psychotic bitch in front of everyone, but she earned it fair and square. Taping my engagement announcement in a drawer to find after post-breakup leave was beyond deserving. It was rabid.
“Isn't it funny how he recognized me as the responsible one?” she gushed. “It’s like he knows the crap I have to put up with!”
