Chapter 13
HANNAH
Iwas feeling a little better after my training session with Silas; in my opinion, kicking the shit out of a pad is way more productive than sitting on some leather sofa in a therapist’s office talking about feelings.
But then Happy had to go and ruin it by getting all up in my grill with his pretty fucking face, and his delicious fucking smell, and those sexy fucking lips.
Ugh. He’s such a jerk. A really fucking hot jerk with a magic penis, but a jerk nonetheless.
Now, as I walk into work, almost an hour late, I’m in such a bad mood; I dare Brookes Devereaux to even breathe in my direction today.
“Hey, girl.” Millie greets me with the coffee I begged her to fetch for me from the vendor down in the square. Her eyes are shrewd and her smile curious as she hands it over, quirking a brow. “Where have you been?”
I take a much-needed sip of coffee, humming at the taste. “I told you. Gym.”
Millie places her hands on her hips, looking at me in that way that tells me she knows something’s up. “Where’d you get off to last night? One minute you were there, the next minute you were gone. And so was Happy…”
Before I can think of a sufficient lie, I’m interrupted by my name being whisper-yelled through the office. Turning, I search the open plan space, zeroing in on Naomi, the team coordinator, hiding behind a planter box of lush indoor palms.
I rush over, my interest piqued, Millie hot on my heels because she’s nothing if not nosy.
“Naomi?” I lean in. “Are… are you okay?”
“Brookes Devereaux is upstairs,” Naomie whispers, pointing up to the mezzanine floor. “In Patrick’s office.”
I glance upward, to the glass walls of Patrick’s office, my brow furrowing. Looking back to Naomi, I shrug a shoulder. “Okay.”
“Apparently he… has a black eye, and they can’t film today.”
“A black eye?” Millie and I shriek at the same time, glancing at one another.
Naomi nods. “Yeah, and his manager was all pissy, asking where you were as if it’s your fault.”
“Oh, fuck this!” I mutter.
Tossing back a few gulps of caffeine courage, I shove my cup at Millie before stepping around them and storming to the stairs, taking two at a time before barging right into Patrick’s office without even knocking.
Patrick startles, jumping up.
“There she is,” Brookes says with a knowing smirk.
I grimace at the sheer sight of him. Thick thighs spread wide, lounging on the leather couch like he owns the damn place. I notice the black eye and almost smile because, sure, I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, I can almost guarantee he deserved it.
Patrick smooths his mussed hair, huffing out a breath. “Where’ve you been?”
“Gym,” I say like it’s obvious because it is; he knows my schedule, and I’m at the gym most Tuesday mornings.
Patrick nods, side-eyeing Brookes. “We… have a situation.” He throws a hand in Brookes’s direction. “He can’t film today. Possibly not even tomorrow…”
Brookes grins, tsking. “This is all your fault, Hannah Banana.”
I narrow my eyes in the hope that looks might actually kill. Unfortunately for me, he doesn’t perish beneath my gaze. “First of all,” I say through gritted teeth, “don’t call me that.”
Brookes winks.
“Secondly, exactly how is this my fault?” I point at myself. “I took you home last night.”
The cocky-ass smirk that tips Brookes’s lips makes my stomach roll, my hand itching to slap him.
“I left you passed out on the floor of your hotel!”
“You left him on the floor?” Patrick asks quietly.
I throw a warning glower in my boss’s direction. “He was drunk, and he tried to kiss me.”
Patrick quirks a brow. “Are you sure you didn’t give him the black eye?”
“I’m about to give him a matching set,” I say, staring directly at Brookes.
“I can’t be held responsible for what I do when I’m blackout,” Brookes says, shrugging one of his wide shoulders. “If you’d stayed with me, you could’ve been there to stop me from puking and then rallying in the hotel bar.”
I balk. “I am not your babysitter!”
“Okay, okay,” Patrick interjects, hands held in the air, placatingly. “I’ll speak to production to see if we can record your voiceovers today instead of Friday, and then we’ll hope that this”—he waves a hand, indicating Brookes’s black eye—“settles down so we can film tomorrow.”
Patrick turns to me. “Are you okay to continue with this, or should I have one of the other guys take over?”
I grit my teeth, narrowing my eyes as Brookes continues looking at me like he’s trying to undress me with his gaze.
And like hell I am going to let him win.
My end goal at SNN is to move into production.
This is unfortunately one the challenges with trying to get there.
And I’m Lance Draper’s daughter; stubbornness is in my genes.
“No.” I shake my head, “I can do it.”
Brookes smiles victoriously, and fuck him; if he’s not careful, I’ll make the next few days of his life a living hell.
“Ouch, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Brookes winces, tearing the headphones off his head and glaring at me through the window of the recording booth.
I bite back my grin, moving my hand away from the volume dial. “Whoops. Sorry,” I say into the microphone, entirely unapologetic.
“You know you can really hurt him by doing that,” Matt, the fresh-out-of-college recording engineer says out the corner of his mouth.
“God willing…” I murmur, still smiling innocently at Brookes as he makes himself comfortable in the booth.
“What’s your beef with him?” Matt asks, fiddling with the soundboard like the pro he is. “I thought all women were, like, obsessed with the dude.”
“I suspect those are just the women who have never actually met him in real life.”
Matt nods. “Noted.”
As Matt directs Brookes, I nestle into the sofa that sits against the far wall, using the time to scroll aimlessly on social media. But, of course, the second I unlock my phone, I see a new message from my mother that gives me an immediate case of anxiety.
Mother: The wedding coordinator requires your response as soon as possible.
Wedding coordinator? I snort. Her name is Celeste, and I’m sure she’s just as much an incompetent twit now as she was back in high school.
I briefly mull over whether or not it would be considered in bad taste to block my own mother’s contact. If anything were ever an emergency, it’s not like she’d call me.
Drafting a response, I bite my thumb nail, considering my words before I finally press send.
Me: I’ll send it tonight.
Her reply comes through almost instantly, as if she’d been waiting with her phone in her hand.
Mother: So? What does that mean? Are you coming?
It’s almost as if I can feel my heart thumping in the back of my throat.
Surely, this isn’t normal; it can’t be normal to feel this much trepidation at the sheer concept of attending one’s own mother’s wedding.
But I do. And I don’t like it. I also know I can’t say no.
I mean, of course I could say no, but for all the game that I talk, I’m unfortunately not as badass as I try to make people think I am.
Frankly, I’m a pussy. There’s no way I can say no.
Me: Yes.
Mother: Oh, I’m so happy, sweetie.
Me: Yeah. Can’t wait.
Sarcasm practically drips from my phone.
Mother: Peter will be so thrilled.
Wait. Huh?
Me: Who’s Peter?
Mother: Your soon-to-be stepfather’s son. He’s single. Thirty-two. Tall. Blond. Devastatingly handsome.
I gape incredulously at my mother’s words, blinking a few times in the hope that I might have read them wrong. But no. This bitch is actually trying to set me up with my soon-to-be stepbrother at our parents’ wedding. I swear, I almost throw up in my own mouth.
Mother: He’s a dish, Han. And a very successful divorce attorney.
It takes all that I have not to reply with a smart-mouthed quip about her future stepson’s profession being beneficial to her considering she goes through marriages like she goes through Botox vials, but I’m far too nonplussed over the fact that she’s actually considering playing matchmaker with her own daughter and her groom’s son.
I’m about three seconds away from rescinding my RSVP.
“Um, Hannah?”
I snap my head up to find Matt looking at me over his shoulder.
“What’s up?” My stomach knots when I see the look on his face.
“Brookes just… cracked a beer.”
“He what?” I jump up, craning my neck to look into the recording booth to see Brookes sitting on his stool in front of the microphone, chugging back a can of Miller Lite like he’s at a goddamn Yankees game. I gape at Matt. “Where the hell did he get that from?”
Matt scoffs. “Bro literally just pulled it from the pocket of his khakis.”
“Oh my fucking God,” I mutter, storming through the door that separates the booth from the mixing studio.
Brookes glances casually at me, taking another pull from his beer.
“Give it to me.” Holding a hand out, I waggle my fingers impatiently. “Now.”
He has the audacity to hold up a finger, as if to say One moment, please, before necking the rest of the beer in one go. He crushes the can in his huge bear-like paw, handing it to me with a smug smile.
I look from the crushed can in my hand back up at him, shaking my head in disgust. “You have serious fucking issues. You have to know that, right?”
He burps in response and chuckles, and I swear to God. Fucking men.