Page 460 of Manhattan Bossholes

He swiped his hand over the stubble along his cheeks.

“For fuck’s sake, Christopher.” I sighed, knocking into him as I pushed my way past him into the dark room. “It’s nearly nine!”

Lately, it felt like we’d swapped roles, with me as the caretaker and my older brother as the one who needed guidance.

“It’s eight fifteen,” he corrected in a sleepy voice, shuffling behind me. “Early.”

“It might be early for the rest of the world, but not a Branson,” I shot back. “Whatever happened to your 6 a.m. runs through Central Park?”

He plopped down on the couch and shrugged. “I’m taking a little break. Speaking of unhealthy life choices, is there a blueberry muffin for me in that La Pâtisserie bag?” Christopher grinned and patted his stomach.

“Yeah. It’s Lorraine’s birthday, so you know the drill. Figured I’d pick up a muffin for you as an excuse to come annoy the shit out of you.”

I threw the bag at him, and he snatched it from the air without missing a beat.

“Mission accomplished, I’m annoyed,” he lied with a wide grin. He dug out the muffin and took a giant bite. “Is the Bern-meister still enforcing that old tradition? ‘The Bransons need to show that we value our employees,’” he said, mimicking her voice. “She wouldn’t know if you skipped it.”

I narrowed my eyes at my brother. “Oh, she’d find out somehow. And you know how superstitious she is. If word got out that a Branson assistant didn’t get the special birthday treatment, there’d be hell to pay. Did I want to waste a chunk of my morning fighting uptown traffic to pick up a cake for Lorraine before work? Absolutely not. Did I do it to avoid The Wrath of Bernadette Branson: our founder, matriarch, and busybody grandmother? Ab-so-fucking-lutely.”

Christopher laughed, and my heart lifted a little to see it. The dimness in his apartment was usually a good indicator that his mood was equally dark, but maybe he was heading into brighter days?

“You got any juice?” I asked as I walked to his kitchen.

It was an excuse for me to check out the rest of the place, to see just how deep his depression was at the moment. At least there were no overflowing ashtrays or empty pill bottles scattered around. It was actually surprisingly tidy, almost like he was expecting company. Sadly, I knew that wasn’t a possibility. Christopher barely allowed me in, let alone someone outside the family. The isolation wasn’t healthy, and I hated to see him hiding from the world. I wanted to be there for him, but the time was coming for me to start giving my brother some tough love.

“Do I have juice?” he called after me. “Pick your flavor. Orange, guava, mango, demonberry…”

“What the hell is demonberry?” I asked as I pulled his Subzero open.

“Ha, gotcha! Just checking to make sure you’re listening.”

I gazed at the fully stocked refrigerator and breathed a sigh of relief. At least he was eating.

“I always listen to you,” I said as I made my way back and sat across from him. “You should know that by now.”

“I do. And I appreciate it. But no need to walk on eggshells today.” He balled up the empty pastry bag and threw it at me, nailing me on the forehead. “I’m feeling good.”

“Asshole.” I glowered at him, hiding the fact that I was happy he was doing better. I waited until he glanced away to toss the bag back at him, drilling him squarely on the nose.

“Do you want to go, bro?” Christopher asked with mock tough-guy attitude, pumping up his chest. “Because I’ll throw down with you right now. Let’s do this.”

I laughed. “Listen, I don’t want to hurt you. I haven’t been slacking on my workouts like some people.”

Christopher’s phone rang and he grabbed it from the coffee table. “Oh shit.” He hopped up to answer it. “Hey, Anderson, what’s wrong?”

Anderson Williams, Christopher’s divorce attorney. He had come highly recommended from Bernie via her friend, Dee Saunders. One of the surrogate grandsons Dee called her “Lost Boys” had used him, and Anderson had gotten Dominic a great custody deal. Unfortunately, my brother’s ex seemed determined to ruin him. Anderson calling this early in the day wasn’t a great sign. I watched my brother start pacing as he listened, noting the way his expression shifted from confusion to the hardness we’d all become so familiar with. As much as I wanted to be support for him, it wasn’t my place to eavesdrop. He glanced over at me and drew his hand across his throat slowly. That was my cue to head out.

I walked a few steps closer to him. “You sure?” I asked in a low voice.

He frowned and nodded, then turned away from me. “Hold on, hold on, she said what?”

I let myself out and thought about Christopher’s state of mind on the ride back to the office. Navigating New York traffic on a workday was hell, and even though I had a half dozen sports cars to choose from, I appreciated that I could count on my driver, Hector. Especially since I had so much to mull over after the visit with my brother. His ex had put him through hell, and by the sound of the call, it wasn’t even close to over. My phone buzzed with a text right as Hector came to a stop outside the building.

“Mission accomplished?”

Damnit, it was as if my grandmother had spies everywhere, despite being officially retired. I knew she still had access to the company calendar, and I was absolutely certain she also had her fair share of plants who kept her updated on the gossip that I avoided getting into, but did she also have access to the surveillance cameras? I sent her a photo of the cake box.

“Give me some credit,” I texted back.