It’s the silent whispered voice in my head, moving me toward something that bears a dangerous resemblance to guilt.

“I can handle myself,” I continue. “But if there’s something I should know about your brother, you should tell me now. Don’t ask me to step away from a very lucrative job just because you have sibling rivalry issues. Tell me why your brother is an asshole. What exactly has he done?”

Lander chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look uncomfortable. “He’s a womanizer.”

“Mm-hmm, so was Bill Clinton. That didn’t stop Janet Reno—”

“See, like that. How is that a reference you can just pull up at the drop of a hat? Who the hell are you?”

“Well, I was a bartender—who followed politics somewhat—but I’m about to be your brother’s personal assistant, at least I will be if you can’t pull up an objection that doesn’t reek of complete bullshit. Give me specifics, Lander.”

“He sleeps with his assistants, Bell.”

“Really? Your sister-in-law told me that his last assistant was a guy, so if that’s the way Travis rolls, I think I’m covered.”

“Fine, he probably didn’t sleep with the last one—”

“Probably?”

“Definitely not with the last one, but . . . Bell . . .” Again he chews his cheek, and his eyes move aimlessly around the room. “I wish you could just take my word for this.”

“I can’t,” I say dryly. He winces at my refusal, making me soften slightly. “Look, I’m taking the job . . . but I will promise you that if your brother steps out of line or does anything blatantly . . . unethical, or immoral, I will let you know about it.”

His eyes snap back to me.

I just offered to spy on his brother for him. He knows it; I know it. Now all that’s left is for him to take me up on it. Or not.

And his decision will tell me so very much about Lander’s relationship to the Gable family dynamics.

The restaurant noise that seemed held at bay in the background throughout our conversation now envelops our table, ringing in my ears, making me wonder how we were even able to hear each other speak only moments before.

Seconds pass, then a minute, and as the waiter takes away our plates, behind us someone’s cell phone rings the notes of Vivaldi . . .

. . . and then Lander nods and just like that, the noise of the restaurant just sort of falls away again, and my ears, my eyes, and my . . . well, my everything . . . are tuned in only to him.