His Best Friend's Sister. Sarah M. AndersonЧитать онлайн книгу.
thinking of what Oliver might do if she paraded around braless, she used the en suite bathroom and fixed her hair and face, opting for a simple ponytail and just enough under-eye concealer to hide the worst of the dark circles. When she was done, she took stock again.
She looked not-quite-so-pregnant in her loungewear and the nap had helped a lot. She didn’t look like the woman she’d been six months ago. The salon-perfect hair was gone, as was the expertly contoured foundation. And she could see the pregnancy weight rounding out her face and her arms. Her mother had called her fat right before she’d run to Paris.
No, Renee was not the same woman she’d been six months ago. Was that such a bad thing? She’d been a mannequin then. Someone to be seen and coveted but not heard. The problem was, she wasn’t quite sure who she was now.
She wouldn’t allow her voice to be silenced again. As she stroked her stomach, she made a promise to herself and her child—she would do better. Better than her mother. Better than Renee herself had been. She’d be...someone like Oliver’s mother. Renee would be the fun mom who made cookies with her child and friends or took them for ice cream in the park. Whether she had a boy who liked fashion or a girl who played soccer, it didn’t matter. Just so long as Renee was a better mom. A better woman.
She dabbed at her eyes. Stupid hormones. If there was one thing she’d learned growing up, it was how to keep her emotions on lockdown to avoid getting into trouble. But suddenly she was pregnant and hiding and she couldn’t keep her stupid eyes from watering stupidly. Gah.
Besides, there was no need to get teary now. She had a long way to go before tea parties and sports. She had to start being this new, improved woman before the baby got here and it wasn’t likely to happen in the bathroom. She needed something to eat and... Well, food first. Plans second.
Quietly, she made her way downstairs, listening hard for the sounds of people. A low hum seemed to be coming out of Oliver’s study. He was talking to someone, she realized—probably on the phone. A wave of relief swept over her. He’d made a promise to her and he’d kept it—even if it was an inconsequential promise to hang around for a few hours. He’d still kept it.
Guilt wasn’t far behind. She’d pulled him away from a workday. He was probably trying to get caught up. She shouldn’t interrupt him. He’d said the kitchen was in the back of the house, right? She should go.
But then, in a voice that was more of a shout than a whisper, Oliver clearly said, “You are, without a doubt, the most vile, abhorrent, morally bankrupt idiot I have ever had the misfortune to know and that’s saying something. You know that, right? I mean, what the hell were you thinking, Clint?”
Renee stumbled to a stop. Eavesdropping was not exactly on the moral up-and-up, but was he talking to her brother? How the hell had he pulled that off?
She moved to stand just on the other side of the door to his study. There were some pictures here, so she pretended to look at them. But really, her entire attention was focused on one half of the phone conversation happening in the next room.
“Yeah, she’s here. What the hell, man? You send me a one-line email with no other explanation, no other context—no, I didn’t know your entire family had crashed and burned. I’m busy!” This time, he was shouting. “I have my own family to manage, my own business to run—a business that does not steal money from investors! So you’ll excuse me if I haven’t kept up with all the ways you’ve destroyed your life!”
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