Page 16 of The Billionaire in Her Bed

Chapter Five

“Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it.”

Brooke turned off the tap and frantically grabbed for a dishtowel, trying to stem the flood of water flowing from the pipe beneath her kitchen sink. The same pipe she’d fixed with plumber’s putty not three weeks ago.

Not having a super was turning into a serious pain in the ass. She’d briefly considered tucking her tail between her legs and running home to her family’s Long Island estate. Emphasis on “briefly.” But even twenty-four rooms weren’t enough for her and her father to avoid each other.

She did her best to mop up the mess, then stuck her head under the sink to survey the damage. Plumber’s putty wasn’t going to cut it this time. The ancient copper pipe looked like it had burst, a gouge at least an inch long splitting it open.

“Damn it,” she repeated, backing out from under the sink and slumping to the floor. This was way beyond her limited home repair abilities. She’d have to call a professional, which meant forking over money she didn’t have and wasn’t willing to beg her parents for.

Her cell rang, and she scrambled across the room on all fours to answer it. Her finger hovered over the screen when she saw her mother’s name. Pamela Sinclair Worthington was the last person in the world she wanted to talk to right now. But if she ignored the call, it would be ten times worse later.

“Hey, Mom.” Brooke flopped onto the couch, stretching out her legs in front of her. Her bare toes were in dire need of a pedicure, and if she rolled up her yoga pants, her legs were long overdue for a shave. Two things she tended to neglect in winter. It wasn’t like she had anyone to impress. “What’s up?”

“You tell me.” The censure in her mother’s voice washed over her like an ice bath, and Brooke was glad they weren’t on FaceTime. Her flyaway hair, grease-smudged face, and stained Cowboy Bebop T-shirt would ramp up her mother’s disapproval by a factor of a thousand. Maybe more. “You never call.”

Wonder why that is?

“I’ve been busy,” Brooke lied. Sure, her schedule was jam-packed. But she could have made time for a quick phone call. If she wanted to subject herself to scorn and derision, which she didn’t. “My agent has me making changes to the book so we can…”

“Still working on your little comic book?” her mother asked, cutting her off. “How long has it been? Two years?”

Two and a half. And Brooke had several others in various stages of completion, too. Not that her mother cared. “It’s a graphic novel, Mom. And yes, it’s the one I’ve been trying to get published.”

“Have you considered the possibility that it’s not worthy of publication?”

“My agent thinks it is.”Even if you and Dad don’t.

“Then why is she making you change it?”

“That’s how edits work.”

“You know, I read somewhere that most authors make less than ten thousand dollars a year.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Brooke rubbed the back of her neck. “That’s why I tend bar. And freelance.”

More of the latter, lately, than the former. An ad agency she’d done some work for had started throwing clients her way, allowing her to cut back her hours at the bar. She was still at Flotsam and Jetsam two or three times a week. But freelancing was way more lucrative, especially in the dead of winter. And it meant she was using her expensive bachelor of fine arts degree for more than “scribbling on napkins,” as her father put it.

“Hardly respectable. Or stable.” Her mother let out a sigh that reverberated across the phone line and could probably be heard throughout Nassau County. “You know you’re welcome to work in the marketing department at Worthington Resorts International. I’m sure they’d be happy to have you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”Not.Working for her family’s hotel chain might be all right for her younger sister, who didn’t have an adventurous bone in her fragile body, but Brooke was more of a free spirit. She couldn’t handle being stuck in an office all day. “Was there a reason for this call?”

Other than to make me feel like shit on the bottom of your Louboutins?

“Your father wanted me to remind you about brunch on the fifth.”

“He couldn’t call himself?”

“You know him. All work, all the time.”

She did, and he certainly was. It was how he’d built an empire—and alienated his eldest daughter. “I’ll be there.”

Like she was there the first Sunday of every month. Although she’d rather listen to Kim Kardashian readWar and Peace.

“Heirloom. Eleven sharp.”

Because it had to be a five-star restaurant. No simple gathering around the kitchen table for the Worthingtons. “Got it.”