My rude awakening comes the next morning at ten fifteen, with a tray of coffees balanced on one palm. I spent the whole morning floating somewhere around the ceiling, giddy with happiness after my two—two—dances with the perfect stranger last night, and I don't notice Nicholas's foul mood until it's too late.
"Coffee for your hangover," I chirp, bustling into his study on the top floor of the family mansion, my knee-length skirt swishing around my thighs. The walls are lined with bookcases and a large screen TV, the morning news running on mute, and a vase of fresh white flowers brightens all the mahogany and brass.
And my brother's always an ogre in the morning after the masquerade ball, thanks to spending the whole night drinking and screwing, but today something's different.
His desk
