I yawn, slapping myself lightly on the cheek.
It’s almost one a.m. and I’m in a holding pattern. Nick and this big, bald, loud-mouthed business guy are still in the nightclub. I officially hit the bonus pay Beatrice promised in another text before midnight.
I don’t mind because the money will make it easier to help Abby and the bumblebee.
Even so, instinct doesn’t go down easy. The one thing this job lacks sometimes is a normal sleep schedule.
Right now, with winter’s dark, frigid days, I’d do anything to be asleep and warm.
Ward gets up before dawn, though, and he’ll want to get to the office immediately. My late night hauling Nick around is no excuse.
Why couldn’t the two of them be twins? This week is going to be murder on my sleep.
“Bossman, it’s ridiculous a man as old as you has to party this late,” I whisper.
I stare at the neon lights of Dazzle, the club they went to, which looks like a back-alley drug den, from the outside. But in fairness to thirty-something-year-old Nick, Jorge looks twice his age and parties like a bull moose.
What are they doing in there?
I can hear the booming bass from across the street, inside a car with all the windows up. Every now and then, the beat vibrates the vehicle. So do the joyous screams erupting from inside the place.
Forget “great time.”
This sounds more like it might cause a small disruption in the Earth’s tectonic plates.
Should I go in and try to convince Mr. Brandt to leave? I purse my lips, mulling it over.
He probably doesn’t want to take orders from his driver, but I promised his grandmother I’d keep an eye on him. Then again, he’s as much my boss as she is, and I don’t want to piss him off either.
Despite his incessant self-centered rambling, at least he talks at me.
Sometimes.
A self-absorbed jerk, yes, but at least he does more than grunt at me like his brother.
This is the third club they’ve hit tonight, and every time, they’ve come back louder, drunker, and rowdier. I’ve been trying to figure out if Jorge’s club will be in Vegas or Chicago from the thundering chatter flying back and forth, but no dice.
They’ve also been demanding some really awful techno music, too. I think my ears are bleeding. It’s probably for the best if I keep my mouth shut.
I’m just the driver, after all.
My phone buzzes.
I almost jump out of my seat and then laugh.
When I pick up the phone, I see a thumbs-up emoji from Nick and a message. At least he’s still sober enough to text.
Can you pull up to the door? Not sure how far we’ll make it, Halle, my man. LOL. You should have come in. Plenty of girls damn near throwing themselves at anything in business casual.
Yummy. That’s exactly what I need. Drunk girls and their drama.
And Halle, my man?
Kill me.
I can’t believe this doofus still actually thinks I’m a guy—and apparently some kind of pathetic frat creature just as hellbent on partying it up as he is.
“Ninety thousand dollars,” I mutter to myself like I’m saying the rosary. “Ninety-K a year. That’s food, shelter, comfort, and fun.”
I pull up to the front door.
It’s dark, but I make out Nick’s tall silhouette staggering toward the car, hanging on to a bulkier, tipsy load. With each step, he sways back a bit more.
At the car, he throws open the back door, and the light illuminates him.
He’s holding Jorge the client like he’s shepherding a drunken hippo.
Also, they’re both covered in sweat and shirtless?
What the actual hell?
Before I can belt out a panicked question, my eyes catch on man-bait I’m convinced was planted by the devil himself.
Holy Ohio.
Nicholas Brandt has immaculate abs.
I want to reach out and touch them, but I’d probably get fired. He’s beyond beautiful, his whole body tight like a corded whip, his fierce pecs glowing in a sheen of sweat.
Is that a tattoo on his shoulder? He’s sporting one hulking, sculpted chest I’ll never unsee.
But I told Beatrice I’d watch out for him.
Staggering to the car drunk and shirtless can’t be a good thing for Nick or the company.
I look into the rearview mirror, catch Nick’s brilliant green eyes, and raise a brow.
That mischievous bad boy grin covers his face again, peeking out around a halo of dark stubble.
God. How is this guy single?
It’s by choice, I think to myself. Obviously. If he wanted a girlfriend, all he’d have to do is raise a finger and he’d have half the bachelorettes in Chicagoland lined up around the corner.
“It’s a done deal, Halle. Brandt Ideas is locked and loaded for Jorge’s first American club. We’re building this man his very own Eden with a liquor license,” he says, loudly slapping the big man’s back.
Jorge sputters out a messy laugh, groans, and then slumps over in the seat. I have to study him to make sure he’s still breathing, suddenly wishing I’d picked up a defibrillator just in case.