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  course," I say. "I didn't realize."

  "Gaige is a dear friend," Chelsea says, and the way Gaige glances at me, I wonder if he's slept with her.

  I struggle to maintain my composure, steeling my jaw. Of course Gaige is Chelsea's dear friend. I'm sure Gaige has a million other dear friends.

  It's totally irrelevant who he's slept with. I have zero claim on him. We fooled around years ago. And he's my stepbrother. I had a stupid teenage crush, and that's it. I'm not jealous, I tell myself. I just don't like Chelsea. To be more accurate, I didn't like her before. But now I'm starting to really hate her.

  The bitch's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Fix your PR paperwork, Delaney. If you can manage to fit that into your busy schedule," she says. "Gaige, we need to talk about this weekend."

  This weekend? Gaige addresses Chelsea, irritation in his voice. "Chelsea, there's something I need to talk to De - "

  "Vegas, Gaige," Chelsea says curtly. She turns to me for a brief moment before returning her attention to Gaige. "Your stepbrother and I are on a flight out to Vegas tonight, Delaney. Gaige, we need to go through the schedule."

  "Chelsea, I was in the middle of a conversation with Delaney, one I plan to finish," Gaige starts.

  "Oh, I'm sure it can wait," I interrupt. "Chelsea has a more immediate claim on your time, I think."

  His eyes meet mine, and I look away, ignoring him as Chelsea steers him out of the office.

  I set the package down on the desk, intending to leave it there, unopened, for the rest of the day. In fact, I should toss it in the trash. Leave it to Gaige to have slept with my perfect-looking boss, the one who hates me enough as it is. And, what's worse, be going to Vegas with her.

  I make it through the HR paperwork -- which takes all of thirty minutes -- and then sit there, staring at the gift box for another five minutes before I finally cave.

  I lift the lid off the box gingerly, half-afraid of what's inside. Knowing Gaige, it could be anything. When nothing jumps out at me and the box doesn't explode, I pull the lid off and set it aside.

  It's a cock. Gaige sent me a box with a freaking cock inside.

  As a first day at the office gift.

  I'm shaking my head and opening the note at the same time. I can't believe Gaige had the balls -- pun intended -- to send me a fucking dick, of all things.

  Delamey,

  Since you couldn't admit what you really wanted last night, I thought I'd remind you.

  P.S. It's a dildo made from a mold of my cock. I know, it's awesome, right? If you're lucky, someday you might get to see the real thing.

  P.P.S. The box is a TOOLbox. Get it?

  I stare at it in disbelief. That fucker actually sent me a dildo made from a mold of his cock? I shove the lid back on the box like the entire thing is radioactive, and stare at it for a few minutes, before pulling it back off and looking at it again.

  Holy crap. There's no way in hell that's Gaige's actual, no shit, real-life dick.

  I put the lid back.

  It cannot be made from his cock. He picked up the dildo at an adult store.

  Oh my God, what if it really is his? Pulling the lid off the box again, I touch my fingertips to the surface of the shaft, then jump back, like it's going to explode.

  Don't be ridiculous, I tell myself. Gaige did not have the time to make a mold of his cock.

  There's only one way to find out. The thought jumps into my head. Now, that is an inappropriate thought. I slam the lid back on the box, and sit there, my palms flat on the top of it.

  Five minutes later, I'm taking the lid off again and picking up the dildo. Just to see it. My hand can barely fit around the shaft. I tell myself I'm not doing anything wrong, that it's just a stupid joke, but there's definitely something dirty about picking up a dildo made from a mold of your stepbrother's penis.

  What if it is his dick? Only Gaige would keep a fucking cock-making-kit somewhere for handy access.

  The over-the-top ridiculousness of the gesture hits me and I can't stop giggling. When I finally compose myself, I close the lid and tuck the box into the bottom drawer of my desk. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Except for the fact that all day long, my thoughts keep drifting to that bottom desk drawer and what's inside. I'm sure that's exactly what Gaige wanted -- to get me thinking about his tool.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GAIGE

  "How was your day, darlin'?" I pause in her doorway, leaning against the door frame. My day consisted of the usual -- spending a few hours in the gym and then physical therapy -- but preceded by a visit to Delaney's office. Screwing around with Delaney isn't on my usual list of activities, so I had something extra to look forward to this morning. I woke with a spring in my step. As much as I could have a spring in my step with this boot on my damn foot, anyway.

  My mood was great until Chelsea interrupted us. Chelsea and I went out once a few months ago -- a business dinner and that's it. She's aggressive as hell and I got the vibe that she wanted it to be more than a business dinner. I also got the vibe that she's wound tight as a spring, the kind of chick who might go all psycho, boil a bunny or some shit. And that's exactly the kind of girl I stay the hell away from. But she's good at what she does, so I haven't had a reason to ask Beau to reassign her. Yet.

  The point is, I wanted to see Delaney's face when she opened the box. And Chelsea walked in and ruined the whole fucking thing.

  Delaney is bent over, one hand on the white bedspread that covers her bed, the other on the zipper on the inside of her heeled boots. She positively oozes temptation, wearing a black pencil skirt, the fabric pulled tight over the contours of her ass, and matching "fuck me" boots. Her hair spills forward, partially obscuring her face, and she finishes zipping her boot before she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and stands up, glaring at me. "What are you doing here?" she asks. "Don't you have to be in Vegas or something? And don't call me darling."

  "It's darlin', not darling, first of all. And second of all, it's a term of endearment," I say, shrugging. "You've been in New York too long. This is me being polite, showing my Texan roots."

  Delaney puts her hands on her hips and looks at me with her eyes narrowed. "It's condescending," she says. "And you're not even from Texas."

  I step inside her room, looking around. "I'm hurt that you'd say that, Delaney," I say. "What would you like me to call you? You hate Delamey, and now you don't like darlin', either? And living in Texas the past few years makes me practically a Texan. In fact, I should have your father take me shopping for cowboy boots."

  "You can call me by my name like a normal person," she says. "And you never answered my question. Don't you have a flight to catch?"

  "Shit, what crawled up your ass tonight?" I walk past the photos she's already hung on her wall, her and her friends in various touristy places -- in front of the National Monument in Washington DC, the Lincoln Center, standing outside of a bar in New York City. "Can't I check in on my stepsister before I jet out for this business bullshit?"

  Delaney crosses to the other side of the room, standing in front of one of the photos protectively, her arms over her chest. I really should tell her that the gesture does absolutely nothing to hide those tits. In fact, it only pushes them up higher, giving me an even better view. "Nothing crawled up my ass."

  "You could have fooled me," I say. "You were practically a ray of sunshine this morning, and now you're, well...not."

  She gives me a look. I know that look. It's the one she used to give me when I'd rile her up and make her crazy. It's the one that says she might be close to murdering me. "I'm trying to make sure you're not late," she says. "Remember, my new job involves managing you. Why aren't you at the airport already?"

  "I'm on my way," I say. "The driver is waiting for me downstairs."

  "So you thought you'd stop by and try to get under my skin before you left me in peace for the weekend?"

  "I need to leave you something to remember me by," I say.