CHAPTER SIX
brYCE
Red? I said red?
Why— why —would I make comments on her undergarments? Not just comments. Preferences. I requested red. What the hell is wrong with me?
That is not something a man says to his best friend’s little sister. It’s wildly inappropriate. But dear God, all I’m thinking about is her bold red lips in matching red lace.
My collar suddenly feels three sizes too tight.
Petra is sitting as if the leather seat might bite—arms folded, ankles crossed, back hovering like the chair’s rigged to explode. She’s so tense, as if one wrong move will wrinkle her new cream outfit. Is she… nervous?
Christ, you idiot. You brought the damn limo. Of course she is.
Even my driver raised an eyebrow when I requested the stretch today—especially after I told him what part of Hollywood we were headed to. He didn’t say a word, just gave me a look that said: Bold choice, my guy.
Petra shivers—a subtle movement, but it catches my attention. Her bare arms prickle with goosebumps .
I lean forward and press the intercom. “Carlos, let’s give the A/C a rest.”
“Right away, Mr. Sterling. ETA to the airfield is twelve minutes.”
I settle back, watching her. “Better?”
“My hero.” She smirks. “I lost feeling in one nipple, but don’t worry, I can still feel sarcasm.”
My gaze flickers—one second, tops—to the deep V of her vest. And I swiftly avert my eyes toward the bar. “Help yourself. Water, juice, whatever you prefer.”
She scans the selection. “Five kinds of water? I always thought you wealthy folks only guzzled champagne and the tears of the less fortunate. Surprise me, Moneybags. Show me how billionaires stay moist.”
There she goes. That criticism. The flirting. She’s doing her damnedest to provoke me, but it’s my turn. I grab the tall, sleek glass bottle with the wooden cap. This will set her off.
She eyes the label like it insulted her mother. “Svalbardi? Polar iceberg water? Let me guess… From endangered icebergs?”
“Close. Norwegian.”
She unscrews the cap, slow and taunting, like it’s an overly sensual act, keeping eye contact the whole time. My eyes take in the tattoos on her wrist, and then focus on those red lips as she wraps them around the bottle.
And my brain shorts out.
It’s water, Bryce! H2O is not seductive. But she moans like the bottle whispered something filthy. My jaw clenches. My pants tighten. My IQ plummets.
“Mmm. Tastes like tax evasion.” She pulls away, lips shiny, then takes another sip .
I fidget with my collar. “There are only twelve bottles left in the world. You’re drinking six thousand dollars.”
She chokes, sputtering all over my face like a sprinkler. “Fuck, Bryce! Are you kidding?”
I hand her a napkin, trying to look helpful and not at all like I’m fighting an erection. “You did say to surprise you.”
“I was expecting like… a splash of lime. Maybe cucumbers. Not penguin bath water.”
I swipe at the moisture on my face, hoping to erase the utterly inappropriate thoughts that have clouded my judgment.
“In proper society,” I say, a little too sharp, “knowing what you want is considered a virtue. This week, you’ll be asked a lot of questions about your preferences. I suggest you come prepared with appropriate responses.”
“Should I practice my opinions now?” she asks, slipping into an accent suspiciously like my mother’s. “I simply cannot tolerate Cristal. It’s Dom Pérignon or death.”
“That’s actually a perfect response.”
I unlock my phone, needing the barrier of technology between us because every part of me wants to touch her. Badly. Recklessly.
This isn’t me. I don’t lose control. I don’t fantasize like some blue-balled teenager.
This has to be about Amanda. Post-breakup rebound confusion. My mind latched on to the nearest attractive woman as some sort of coping mechanism. That’s logical. Why else would I be consumed by thoughts of—
Red underwear… red lips… that red dress.
Pip is unmistakably a woman now. No longer the teenage girl who used to steal Gavin’s car and sneak out to concerts.
And those tattoos, especially the ink above the low back of that dress, disappearing beneath crimson fabric.
What is it? How far does it extend? What would it feel like under my fingers?
Yet another stark contrast between us. I’m defined by corporate suits and boardrooms; she’s characterized by tattoos and dive bars. I adhere to rules; she delights in breaking them.
And she’s Gavin’s sister.
Off-limits with a capital fuck no.
The nuclear option of friendship destruction would be sleeping with his little sister. I’m hoping to save our partnership, not detonate it from the inside.
Would she even desire me like that? The flirtation, the innuendos—is that merely Petra being Petra? Her approach to all men?
Obviously, you moron. She’s a bartender. She explained her “nips for tips” strategy. And here you are, another gullible fool falling for it.
Nevertheless, the idea of other men flirting with her makes me feel… tense.
Enough. Her interactions with men are none of my concern. From this moment onward, there will be no further inappropriate thoughts about Pip.
Twelve minutes later, we’re boarding my jet.
Petra stops dead at the entrance, her eyes widening as she takes in the interior. “Holy shit.”
The cabin is decorated in Sterling corporate colors—navy walls, brown leather seats with brass fixtures, cream carpeting that looks new despite routine use.
The forward section holds six reclining chairs arranged in pairs, facing each other across polished walnut tables.
Behind them, a curved leather sofa faces an entertainment center.
“You have a couch?” Petra points toward the back. “Wait. Is that a bedroom?”
“For longer flights.”
She peeks behind the suite partition. “Oh. My. God. This isn’t a jet. It’s a private mile high club. Now I get why you were so harsh about my bathroom. You could fit three of them in that shower. Four if you stack ’em like Tetris.”
My earlier comment stings, hearing it from her point of view. I hadn’t meant to insult her living situation, though that’s precisely what I accomplished.
After takeoff, Petra keeps adjusting her seat belt, then her collar, then picking invisible lint from her designer vest. The nervous energy radiating from her is distinctly un-Petra-like.
“Not a fan of flying?” I ask.
“What? No. I love traveling.” She forces a laugh. “Just, bracing myself for the inevitable shitshow that’s gonna go down at Casa Rich People.”
“I think it would be helpful if I were to teach you certain etiquette guidelines, to avoid any awkward situations.”
“Charm school with Professor Manners? Let me guess… First lesson is ‘How to Not Embarrass the Billionaire at a Fancy Dinner.’”
Our flight attendant Christine appears with her practiced smile. “Mr. Sterling, Miss Brinkman. I have fresh peanut butter cookies from the galley. Still warm.”
Petra perks up. “Did you say warm cookies?” She grabs one and takes a bite. “Oh, my sweet buttery lord,” she groans. “This is a cookie-gasm. Almost as good as my matcha chocolate chip.” She wraps three more cookies in a cloth napkin and stuffs them into her pants pocket.
“You realize Casa Cashmere has a full culinary staff?” I point out.
“Who probably makes those teeny portions like at your mom’s fancy gala. I’ve seen heartier meals in a doll house.” She pats her pocket. “Trust me, backpacking through Europe teaches you a thing or two. Rule one: Always carry snacks. Rule two: Never, ever trust a jacuzzi at a hostel.”
I want to ask her everything.
Why she dropped out of college. What Europe gave her that school didn’t. What she was pursuing during those two years. How it felt to go off the grid.
I want to know it all. But my phone buzzes.
The name on the screen makes my stomach clench.
Reginald Sterling.
“Excuse me. I need to take this.”
I retreat to the rear bedroom, closing the frosted glass door. The plush executive chair sinks as I settle in at the desk, already steeling myself.
“Father,” I answer, knowing pleasantries are futile.
“We’re moving up the timeline,” he says. “The CEO announcement happens this week. The board wants something concrete for the shareholders meeting.”
I grit my teeth. “That’s not possible. I haven’t finalized things with Heartvest yet.”
“You haven’t told Gavin you’re leaving.”
It’s not a question. It’s an accusation wrapped in disappointment—his signature move.
“There have been complications. But I’m handling it. ”
“Don’t tell me you’re handling it, Bryce. Just handle it.”
The line goes dead.
I don’t know what hits harder—the command, or the fact that it didn’t surprise me at all.
Reginald Sterling doesn’t waste breath on feelings or emotion.
Through the closed door, I hear Petra laughing at something Christine said. The sound is so genuinely carefree, it causes a pang in my chest. When was the last time I laughed like that?
I step out and find Petra lounging on the leather couch as if she’s back in her apartment. Legs crossed, one sandaled foot is bouncing to some internal rhythm only she can hear.
Christ. The difference between her and Amanda is staggering. Amanda would have positioned herself elegantly, spine rigid, a flawless ornament, expecting admiration from a distance.
But Petra? She sprawls without a care, wild and defiant, daring the world to question her.
Her words from the limo circle back: “Try the rebel, not the debutante.”
“I have to admit, B. This whole private jet thing? Not terrible.”
She shifts and stretches full length on the cushions with a sigh that sounds like pure sin. My mind paints her in nothing but attitude—those red lips ghosting down my neck, her thighs open, my fist tangled in that dark hair while she begs for—
“When I flew to Greece, this guy sitting next to me decided to have a spa day.” She rolls onto her side. “He whipped out a whole pedicure kit. I’m talking files, clippers, those weird toe separator things. Then—” she mimes an explosion “—toenail shrapnel directly into my pretzels.”