Page 17 of The Billionaire in Her Bed

“Mallory’s bringing her beau. She’d like you to meet him.”

Brooke gritted her teeth. “I said I’d be there.”

“Very well. Feel free to bring a date of your own, if you’re seeing anyone.”

Right. Like she’d subject anyone to that hell on earth. “I’m not.”

“Of course,” her mother said, sounding like she’d smelled something especially vile. “And Brooke?”

“Yes?” She clutched a throw pillow to her chest with her free hand, bracing herself. From the arch tone of her mother’s voice, whatever was coming next was sure to cut like a surgical laser.

“Wear something nice, not those rags you call a wardrobe. And nothing too low cut. Borrow something from your sister if you have to. You should be able to squeeze into one of her Oscar de la Rentas.”

Luckily for her mother, Brooke ended the call without bothering to respond. What did you say when your own mother called you a slob, a slut, and a sow, all in one breath?

Brooke threw herself prostrate onto the couch, tossing the phone to the floor and burying her face in the pillow. First the sink. Now her mother. It was too much for one day.

“Why me?” she moaned into the stiff brocade. “What did I do to piss off the universe?”

“Anything I can do to help?”

She turned her head ever so slightly and cracked one eye open to find Eli standing in her doorway. As always, he looked like he’d stepped from the pages of a magazine. This time it wasMen’s Health, with butt-hugging jeans and a long-sleeved Henley that molded his sculpted torso. A stark contrast to her uncombed hair, grimy face, and soiled T-shirt. She retreated into the pillow.

Man, oh man. She must have really pissed off the universe.

“Everything okay?” he prodded.

“Have you heard the expression bad things come in threes?” she asked, her voice muffled by the pillow.

He chuckled. “Yeah.”

“Well, you’re number three.”

“I’m bad?”

For my equilibrium.

“I keep you off balance?”

Damn. She wasn’t supposed to say that out loud.

“Interesting.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?” He’d been suspiciously out of sight since he’d last appeared at her door bearing a caffeinated peace offering eight days, six hours, thirty-two minutes, and seventeen seconds ago. Not that she was counting. She risked another glance at him. Big mistake. There were those dimples again, courtesy of that cocky, I-know-you-want-me smile. And how did he manage to have the perfect amount of sexy stubble morning, noon, and night? It was criminally unfair for one man to be so damned attractive.

“I knocked, but your door was open. As usual.” He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “What are numbers one and two?”

She blinked, both blinded by his hotness and confused by his question. Staring at him too long was like staring into the sun. You had to look away or get burned. “Huh?”

“You said I was the third bad thing to happen to you today. What are the first two?”

“The pipe under my sink is busted, and my mother thinks I’m an oversize tramp who doesn’t know how to dress and can’t hold down a decent job,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

He didn’t pry, letting it slide with an almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrow. “I’m no good with mothers, but pipes I can handle. Want me to take a look?”

No.“Sure. Thanks.”

He strode over to her tiny kitchen like a man on a mission, a citrusy wave of his cologne teasing her nostrils as he passed by. He squatted in front of the open cabinet under the sink and pushed up his shirtsleeves, revealing sinewy forearms with a smattering of dark hair.