Tool (A Step-Brother Romance #2)

A knock on the door interrupts us, and my bitchy boss storms in, her jet-black hair pulled tight into a ponytail that makes her high cheekbones look even sharper. She's the kind of long-legged porcelain skinned girl you'd see on a runway, not in an office, but her attitude makes her appearance even more severe. "Delaney, HR is just a complete clusterfuck with your file, and they're up my ass instead of yours like they should be. Just because your father is who he is doesn't mean you -- oh."

"Chelsea, this is Gaige – " I start, but she interrupts me with a look of scorn, immediately greeting Gaige with a kiss on the cheek, before thrusting the file into my hands.

"Obviously I know Gaige," she says, her hand tracing along his bicep, her fingers lingering just a little too long to be appropriate.

Irritation surges through me as I watch Chelsea touch him. "Of course," I say. "I didn't realize."

"Gaige is a dear friend," Chelsea says, and the way Gaige glances at me, I wonder if he's slept with her.

I struggle to maintain my composure, steeling my jaw. Of course Gaige is Chelsea's dear friend. I'm sure Gaige has a million other dear friends.

It's totally irrelevant who he's slept with. I have zero claim on him. We fooled around years ago. And he's my stepbrother. I had a stupid teenage crush, and that's it. I'm not jealous, I tell myself. I just don't like Chelsea. To be more accurate, I didn't like her before. But now I'm starting to really hate her.

The bitch's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Fix your PR paperwork, Delaney. If you can manage to fit that into your busy schedule," she says. "Gaige, we need to talk about this weekend."

This weekend? Gaige addresses Chelsea, irritation in his voice. "Chelsea, there's something I need to talk to De - "

"Vegas, Gaige," Chelsea says curtly. She turns to me for a brief moment before returning her attention to Gaige. "Your stepbrother and I are on a flight out to Vegas tonight, Delaney. Gaige, we need to go through the schedule."

"Chelsea, I was in the middle of a conversation with Delaney, one I plan to finish," Gaige starts.

"Oh, I'm sure it can wait," I interrupt. "Chelsea has a more immediate claim on your time, I think."

His eyes meet mine, and I look away, ignoring him as Chelsea steers him out of the office.

I set the package down on the desk, intending to leave it there, unopened, for the rest of the day. In fact, I should toss it in the trash. Leave it to Gaige to have slept with my perfect-looking boss, the one who hates me enough as it is. And, what's worse, be going to Vegas with her.

I make it through the HR paperwork -- which takes all of thirty minutes -- and then sit there, staring at the gift box for another five minutes before I finally cave.

I lift the lid off the box gingerly, half-afraid of what's inside. Knowing Gaige, it could be anything. When nothing jumps out at me and the box doesn't explode, I pull the lid off and set it aside.

It's a cock. Gaige sent me a cock in a box.

As a first day at the office gift.

I'm shaking my head and opening the note at the same time. I can't believe Gaige had the balls -- pun intended -- to send me a fucking dick, of all things.



Delamey,

Since you couldn't admit what you really wanted last night, I thought I'd remind you.

P.S. It's a dildo made from a mold of my cock. I know, it's awesome, right? If you're lucky, someday you might get to see the real thing.

P.P.S. The box is a TOOLbox. Get it?



I stare at it in disbelief. That fucker actually sent me a dildo made from a mold of his cock? I shove the lid back on the box like the entire thing is radioactive, and stare at it for a few minutes, before pulling it back off and looking at it again.

Holy crap. There's no way in hell that's Gaige's actual, no shit, real-life dick.

I put the lid back.

It cannot be made from his cock. He picked up the dildo at an adult store.

Oh my God, what if it really is his? Pulling the lid off the box again, I touch my fingertips to the surface of the shaft, then jump back, like it's going to explode.

Don't be ridiculous, I tell myself. Gaige did not have the time to make a mold of his cock.

There's only one way to find out. The thought jumps into my head. Now, that is an inappropriate thought. I slam the lid back on the box, and sit there, my palms flat on the top of it.

Five minutes later, I'm taking the lid off again and picking up the dildo. Just to see it. My hand can barely fit around the shaft. I tell myself I'm not doing anything wrong, that it's just a stupid joke, but there's definitely something dirty about picking up a dildo made from a mold of your stepbrother's penis.

What if it is his dick? Only Gaige would keep a fucking cock-making-kit somewhere for handy access.

The over-the-top ridiculousness of the gesture hits me and I can't stop giggling. When I finally compose myself, I close the lid and tuck the box into the bottom drawer of my desk. Out of sight, out of mind.

Except for the fact that all day long, my thoughts keep drifting to that bottom desk drawer and what's inside. I'm sure that's exactly what Gaige wanted -- to get me thinking about his tool.