Unexpected Lovers Box Set by J.B. Heller
I pokeat my half-eaten eggs benny while my mother looks down her entitled nose at my choice of wardrobe. “I don’t understand why you don’t even try to accentuate your good features, Kinsley. Your breasts are by far your best asset, and you’re hiding them under that hideous sweater. How do you expect to get a man’s attention like that?”
Sighing heavily, I lift my gaze to hers. The fact that I’m met with genuine concern just goes to show how shallow my family is. This is what she’s worried about: why I’m not out flashing my tits in the hopes of landing a date. “If and when I want a man’s attention, Mother, I don’t want to gain it by pushing my boobs in his face.”
“You don’t have to be so crude,” she chastises as she picks up her Bloody Mary and takes a delicate sip.
Seriously? I’m the one being crude here? I go back to poking my food.
You only have to hang around for another twenty minutes, Kins. You can do this.
“What I don’t understand is why you keep trying to make her into something she’s never going to be, Mom.” Sophia, my perfect-in-every-way sister, enters the conversation. “Yes, she has a nice rack, but that’s really all she’s got going for her. She’s not going to snag a decent man with the power of boobs alone.”
Abandoning my eggs, I wrap my hands around my steaming mug of coffee and tune out their chatter.
Sophia and I stopped being sisters about the time she stole my senior-year boyfriend right out of my bed. Literally. I was gearing up to tell him I was finally ready to do it, then she strutted in, wearing a white, barely there bikini and, I quote, said, ‘Why are you wasting your time with Kinsley? If you really want to have some fun, you better come with me.’ The asshole tripped over his own feet chasing after her.
Ever since it started to look like I might be growing out of my ugly-duckling phase, she’s been rabid. The seventeen years leading up to that point had been good between us. I accepted my role as the smart but plain child in the family, and she excelled at being the supermodel in the making.
Now, we only tolerate each other at the monthly brunch date our mother insists we both attend—and tolerate is a strong word.
Looking at my watch, I’m relieved the one-hour time slot I allot to this particularly torturous exercise is over. I chug the remainder of my coffee, order an Uber on my phone, then place my cutlery atop my plate, signaling I’m done.
Mom and Sophia pause their conversation to glance at me after I push to my feet. “This was lovely, as always,” I say, trying to keep the sarcasm from my tone, and I’m, like, ninety-nine percent sure I fail. Oh well. I forge on with my excuses. “There’ve been some issues with the online shopping carts, so I’m going to head into the office and see if I can help the team figure it out.”
“Okay, sweetheart, but don’t work too hard—you’ve got bags under your eyes. I worry the strain of looking at those computer screens so much is going to cause you permanent damage,” Mom says, again with genuine concern—not for me as a person, but for my physical appearance.
Sophia smirks. “Yes, Kinsley. You wouldn’t want to do anything to further lower your chances of finding someone who thinks you’re attractive.”
I wait until Mom’s focus is diverted to flip off the cow in the stark-white pantsuit from our family’s spring line. I wish she didn’t look so good in it. But that’s my sister: hideously ugly on the inside, stunningly beautiful on the outside. She could wear a potato sack and still be a solid ten.
As I’m waiting on the windy sidewalk for my ride, a few loose strands of my mulberry-colored hair stick to the remains of my lip gloss. Tucking them behind my ear with one hand, I shoot my sister a text with nothing but the middle finger emoji. I’m real mature like that.
Sophia never misses an opportunity to make me feel like shit. And my mother, with her well-meaning yet brutal opinions, always manages to remind me just how plain I am. I know it’s foolish to let their words get to me. Logically, I know they’re just words, but my brain can’t let go of the hurt they always cause. And that tiny voice in the back of my head keeps telling me I’ll never be as pretty as Sophia.
My phone chimes with the alert from my Uber driver. I scan the cars lined up along the curb until I see my ride, then I scurry over and slide in the backseat just as rain begins to fall.
* * *
It’safter four by the time the problem with the shopping cart feature on the Fiora website is fixed. Thousands of transactions today have gone through without adding tax. Dad will be pissed. But I can’t bring myself to really care; it’s not like he can’t take the financial hit.
Technically, I don’t have to do the work. I’ve got more money than I’ll ever need. Perks of being one of the Fiora heiresses, I suppose. But I enjoy using my tech skills to contribute in some way. My grandparents founded the Fiora fashion empire. My father now runs the show, and my sister does her part on the catwalk.
I used to wish I had Sophia’s looks and her ability to walk in a straight line while wearing skyscraper heels. Sometimes I still do. But if the price of beauty is a black soul, I’ll keep my average looks, thank you very much.
When I get home,Arlo is sitting at the dining room table, his homework spread in front of him, but he’s tapping away on his phone. After I place my briefcase by the kitchen bench, I grab a beer from the fridge then drag out the chair opposite my son and take a seat.
His brown eyes flit up to meet mine, and he grins. “’Sup, old man?”
I take a hearty swig of beer then ask, “You haven’t actually met that woman you were stroking it to last night, have you?”
His grin morphs into a full-blown smile. “What’s it to you?”
“Answer the question, Arlo.”
Heaving a dramatic sigh, he drops his phone to the tabletop with a thud then sits back in his seat, locking his hands behind his head. “No. Sadie and I have not officially met. I just enjoy watching her do her thing.” He smirks.
I roll my eyes. “Right, well, you can use your phone to watch porn if you really want to. You’re not to use my computer for personal time,” I tell him then add, “And how did you subscribe to that website, anyway? You need to enter license details for age verification.”
My son shrugs and diverts his eyes from me. “I used your details.”
“Of course you did.” I sigh. “Look, I know you’ve got hormones and shit controlling most of your actions right now, but that’s not okay.”
He nods. “Noted. Now, we done with this? Despite my laid-back nature, I’m not actually all that comfortable discussing what I like to jack off to with my dad.”
I snort. My son is not shy about his sexual appetites. “Right, that’s why you showed me your favorite lube when we hit the pharmacy last week.”
“What? It was on special,” he shoots back, a grin splitting his face that looks so much like mine.
Shaking my head, I chuckle then go check what the housekeeper has in the oven for us tonight.
Arlo picks his phone back up and says over his shoulder, “But Sadie is hot as shit, right? Wouldn’t mind if she was our housekeeper. I don’t even care if she can’t cook as good as Petra.”
* * *
Later that night,I flick through sports channels from my bed with thoughts of Sadie-not-Sadie running through my mind. I’ve noticed, previously, that she doesn’t come across as overtly sexual. She’s generally quiet unless she’s with those two girlfriends of hers. And she never dresses provocatively.
The image she portrays is such a contradiction to the vixen who prances around in lacey lingerie, throwing come-fuck-me eyes at the men on the other side of a camera.
Color me intrigued. Very intrigued.
I was slightly interested in her before but too busy to bother carving out time for a woman. But Arlo is older, and the firm has a well-established reputation now. Maybe I could spare a beat to focus on her. I’m determined to discover all her secrets and find out exactly who she really is—the introverted woman in the elevator or the temptress on the screen.
