Hot Rival ( jenlisa ) ( Gip )

2

Lisa

You've got to be kidding me.

I stare down into the toilet, where my cufflink winks at me from beneath the clear water. I had just been about to fasten it to my sleeve when the damn thing slipped out of my fingers and — of course — landed straight in the porcelain bowl.

"I didn't want to wear that anyway," I announce, to no one in particular. I unbutton the cuff of my button down white shirt, roll up the sleeve, and then reach my hand in to rescue the stray cufflink, tossing it on the side of the vanity before washing my hands. Then I unhook the other one and let it join its friend. Cufflinks are fucking overrated anyway.

If I had my way, I'd be wearing jeans and sneakers to this thing, not cufflinks and these fucking wingtip shoes that make me feel like a 1940s tap dancer or something.

Actually, scratch that — if I had my way, I wouldn't be going to this thing at all. Full stop. I'd be at home, maybe in my workshop, maybe having a beer, maybe watching some Netflix and sketching up some designs. I wouldn't be getting ready to go to another fucking party or fundraiser or whatever the hell this is, where I'm going to have to schmooze and smile and make fucking small talk with boring corporate types.

This kind of thing is my brother Jackson's jam, not mine. Unfortunately, I'm acting in his place for six months, as CEO of this company we'd built together, and that means I have to do all the bullshit he normally keeps me comfortably away from.

Which is why I'm currently wearing a three-piece suit and preparing to give up yet another Friday night to rub elbows with assholes.

I sigh as I run my fingers quickly through my dark hair. There's not much I can do to make it any more presentable, so I just comb it down as much as I can. I straighten the collar and sigh. It's a good thing I can make any outfit look good.

I step out of the bathroom and head to the bedroom to hunt down my shoes. I have the sudden worry that I might have left them at home. I pull open the closet doors and start pulling shit out of my way but there's no sign of them.

I've been staying at Jack's old condo, the one he hadn't quite gotten around to selling yet. He and his new wife had bought a new place together, and his old place was still sitting vacant. When he decided to step away from work for a few months, leaving me to act in his stead, he offered me the condo to crash at. I'd accepted, since my own house was an hour outside the city, but now I was regretting my decision. None of my stuff was here, and I was constantly finding myself looking for things, only to realize they were still back at the house.

Just please don't let that be the case with my shoes. Otherwise I really am going to be wearing sneakers to this thing.

I don't find them in the bedroom closet, so on a whim I try the hall closet. I breathe a sigh of relief when I spot the shiny leather wingtips tucked into the back corner.

I may not want to wear the shoes. I may not want to go to this party. But I sure as hell want to do a good job while Jack's away. And if that means kissing a bunch of corporate ass, then consider me puckered up.

Once I've got the shoes, I've got no other reason to procrastinate, so I grab my keys. I'm just about to head down to the parking garage when my phone rings. I glance at the call display — Jackson.

"Hey." I shove the phone against my ear as I hunt for my wallet.

"Are you going to the Design Times party tonight?"

"Of course I am."

"Good. There are going to be lots of clients there."

"I know."