A life where her sisters respected her.
A life where she didn’t live with the constant nagging guilt of keeping the family together.
A life where men like Brock asked women like her on a date.
She slipped her right foot into the pump and stood on one leg, then slid her left foot in the remaining shoe.
Immediately she was reminded of his smile, his hard muscled body as it pressed against hers.
Jane clicked her heels together and whispered, “I wish…” Her eyes filled with tears. “I want…” She stumbled out of the shoes and stared down at her naked feet.
“I just want more than this,” she finished, looking around the room she’d been forced into since both of her sisters had claimed the bigger rooms in the house.
And then her gaze fell on her own reflection in the mirror.
Straightening her shoulders she stared herself down. There were people worse off than she was. She was just being emotional.
Tears blurred her vision—this reaction was so unlike her.
Maybe it was the fact that right above the shoes was a pile of bills that she knew she’d have to pay. Bills that her sisters didn’t feel it was their responsibility to help out with.
She kicked one of the heels and crossed her arms—actually, her reaction made perfect sense. Because for one fleeting moment she’d been something more than the Jane who cleaned office buildings and bailed her sisters out of shopping debt.
She’d felt beautiful.
Powerful.
How pathetic, that all it took was a well-dressed man with a gorgeous smile and a pair of shoes, to completely disarm her.
And make her want things that girls like her would never get.
Those shoes were a catalyst.
Those shoes were temptation.
Those shoes were the devil.
Chapter Seven
Brock woke up with a pounding headache and a shoe in bed with him.
A woman’s shoe.
Someone grunted from across the room.
He wasn’t alone.
Pasting on a carefully blank expression, he looked around. Shit, had he slept with Cinderella?
God, that smile.
Those hips.
Those legs.
He squeezed the shoe tighter between his hands as lust hit him hard and fast; even with the hangover from hell, he could still see a clear picture of Jane in his head.
“Uhhhhh.” The groaning was coming from the bathroom. Slowly, so as not to puke all over the pristine wood floor, he threw the white duvet off his legs and walked to the tune of a jackhammer between his temples…all the way to the bathroom.
A foot poked out through the half-open door.
Definitely not a size eight and a half.
Nor feminine.
He kicked at the limb to get the door fully open and the groan turned into cursing. Pushing at the door, he saw Bentley hugging the toilet like a new best friend.
“Rough night?” Brock smirked like the complete bastard he was as Bentley lifted a middle finger in the air and kept it there. He’d tire out, eventually.
Another grunt sounded from somewhere else in the large master bathroom.
Brock stepped around the corner. Brant was sprawled in the bathtub, holding a fluffy white towel close to his chest.
Where was a whistle when Brock needed one? Or a car alarm? Air horn? There had to be an app for that.
Brant opened one eye, then two. “Sleeping Beauty awakes.” Shirtless, he stood up on wobbly legs, then stepped out of the claw-foot tub and scratched his naked stomach. “That was a rough one.”
“The shots?” Brock guessed, making his way over to the sink to brush his teeth and find some aspirin.
“The hookers,” Brant said quickly, causing Brock to inhale an unhealthy amount of toothpaste before nearly choking to death. “Kidding.”
Brock choked even harder. “Fuck off.”
“Seeing you lose your shit at seven a.m. is one of my favorite things.”
“You both smell like shit.” And Brock felt like it. “Third drawer down for the unopened toothbrushes.” A drawer closed with a thud, and Brock winced. “Stop slamming things!”
Bentley smiled at him in the mirror, and slammed two more drawers before unwrapping a toothbrush. “You know what’s sadder than the fact that you can’t hold your liquor?”
Brock spat into the sink then wiped his face with his arm. “Twelve shots within ninety minutes is impressive.”
Had it been twelve?
Ten?
Did it matter?
After chasing and losing Cinderella in the crowd he’d completely lost his shit, and drank the frustration away. Why the hell hadn’t she stayed at the party?
Why did he care?
Bentley completely ignored him and lifted his toothbrush into the air. Light flashed off plastic the color of blood. “This, this is sad, this right here.”
Brant moved to Brock’s left and splashed his face with water. “Red toothbrushes?”
“Nope.” Bentley spread toothpaste across the bristles. “It’s sad you don’t need these because have a new woman here every night.”
Brock rolled his eyes. Right, because he had time for that.
“What?” Bentley smirked, toothpaste foaming out of his mouth. “You’re a sad lonely bastard. No wonder Grandfather thinks he needs to pick out a willing woman and slap the Wellington name across her forehead.”
Brant nodded his agreement.
“Remind me why you’re both here? You have your own apartments. Nice penthouses full of STDs and whores.”
“Aw!” Bentley laughed. “You re-stocked for us? You’re such a good brother.”