If I’d gotten an apartment I could afford on my salary, I’d be living well outside the city in a place my parents would disapprove of. That would have caused me anxiety, they would have constantly plagued me to use my trust fund on a nicer place, and my stubborn refusal to do so would have caused a rift between us, thus leading to more anxiety on my part because I hated disappointing my parents as much as I hated relying on their money.

Thankfully, Zoe didn’t want to live alone and begged me to take her second bedroom.

Win-win.

“This is me.” I stopped outside the glass-fronted reception. Lights blazed inside, showcasing the marble floors and expensive furnishings of the huge reception space.

I glanced at Rhys. His expression had flattened. “Figures,” he muttered.

I frowned, wondering why he was so prejudiced against people with money. He hadn’t seemed that way with Fairchild, and he had more money than God. Shuddering at the thought, I huffed. “Well, good night, then.”

There was no boyish grin this time. Instead he gave me a curt nod before walking away.

“Oh yeah, he’s Prince Charming all right.” I hauled open the reception door, wondering what the heck I’d just gotten myself into.

* * *

Rhys

“Wakey, wakey, asshole!”

The shout barely broke through the fog of sleep when the slap of cold water hit. All over. A gasp of shock tore from my throat, and I lurched up, already swinging.

Dean, smart little fucker that he was, had made sure to stay out of striking range. He stood by the bedroom door, empty bucket in hand, smirking. “Sleeping naked, Rhys? I’d pegged you for a tighty-whitie type.”

With a roar, I launched out of bed. He dropped the bucket and ran—saved by the fact that I wasn’t about to chase my brother down buck-ass naked. Cursing, I wiped off my face and reached for a pair of sweats. The little fucker was going to get it.

My feet pounded the floorboards. I hadn’t heard him leave my loft, so I knew he was somewhere. So, not as smart as I’d thought he was.

He stood in the kitchen, one of Mom’s coffee mugs in hand, sipping as though he had all the time in the world to live.

“Asshole,” I snarled, rubbing a hand through my hair, water droplets scattering. “You think holding on to Mom’s mug is going to stop me from beating your ass?”

He shrugged. “I know you don’t want to risk breaking it.”

“Then you better hold onto it for the rest of your short life,” I said as I strolled up. When he started to smile, I struck. A lightning-quick but light jab. Dean let out a grunt, the cup slipping as he touched his busted lip.