Page 15 of The Plus One Pact

Why not this?

Something for our parents, something for us, the dream we had as kids.

"I'll fix you a cup." He turns to face the grinder. "Macchiato?"

"Thanks." I toss my keys on the counter. Place my overnight bag in my bedroom. Which is untouched. Really, I shouldn't let Daniel have a key. It's risky. There's a lot of incriminating information here. Client lists, website passwords, cash reserves, lingerie, sex toys, photographs.

But he asked. For emergencies. And I'm a little brother, through and through, powerless to resist my older brother's wants, desperate for his approval.

For a minute, he was proud of me for buying my own place. I saw it in his eyes. Then he put it together—how did I pay for this apartment—and came up with his own explanation—some of the money Mom inherited from Aunt Marisol—and all that pride turned to pity.

Poor Romeo, still living like a playboy teenager. Not a stable family man like him.

I need a shower and a workout. That's one of the things I don't love about this job. The need to hit the gym five days a week and the protein shakes I down to build my biceps.

But clients like it, and I don't exactly mind the physique. If I still picked up women for fun, I suppose it would be an asset.

Who has the time?

I move through the clean living room, to the kitchen, where my brother is waiting with my macchiato.

It's perfect. Of course. The man is good at everything he does.

"Thanks." Manners take over. I can't help it. It's the way we were raised.

"De nada," he replies in Spanish. Part of an old game. To use as many languages in a conversation as possible. He still has a firm grasp of Italian and Spanish. I'm decent with Italian. Spanish, well, I at least know my please and thank you.

"We can go over the business plan now." I pull out my phone. I have the file there, my iPad, my computer, printed in five different files. Wherever. "If that works for you."

"Rome." My nickname. What my friends and family call me. My mother's birthplace. It means something.

"Why not?" I ask.

"Do you know where Mom's ring is?" he asks.

What?

"She said she gave it to you, when she found it, on her last anniversary, because it made her cry, and—" he sighs so loud the neighbors could hear— "’Romeo is like me. He has the soul of an artist. He appreciates items of great beauty in a way you couldn't.’"

That's sweet, that Mom still thinks her engagement ring is a thing of great beauty, now that she has the cash for something that really sparkles. I'm surprised Daniel agrees. He's more the type to impress the neighbors with the number of carats. And he is the one engaged. But I can't help but argue. "She gave it to me."

"You're not getting married."

"Says who."

His eyes go to the wrinkle in my suit's slacks. "The girl who's name you don't remember."

"I remember it perfectly."

"What was it?"

There's nothing to gain from giving out that information. "I thought you bought Cynthia a ring?"

Daniel frowns at the mention of his fiancée. Which is weird. Who else would receive the ring? But then again, what does Daniel not frown at these days? "I did. But she likes the idea of Mom's."

"Maybe I do too." Now, I'm just being an asshole, but she did give it to me. "And I might get married one day."

"When was your last third date?"