His Manhattan Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Tracy Lorraine

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Pinpoint Editing

  Cover design by Pop Kitty

  Formatting by Tracy Lorraine

  Contents

  The Perfect Manhattan

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  The Cocktail Girls

  Book Hangover Lounge

  About the Author

  Also by Tracy Lorraine

  Read Beth for FREE!

  Sneak peak

  The Plan

  The Plan

  The amazing authors on this project with me.

  2oz. Rye Whiskey

  1 oz. Italian vermouth

  2 dashes Angostura Bitters

  Stir the rye vermouth, and bitters well with cracked ice.

  Strain into a chilled cocktail glass, garnish with and cherry or a twist of a sexy British guy.

  Harrison

  “Tell me again why you’re here,” I say, looking over at my brother as he knocks back what must be his forth whiskey.

  He glances over at me, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Vegas, baby!”

  I groan, and focus my attention out the tiny window. Blue sky stretches out as far as I can see. It gives me a sense of calmness Zack is trying his best to ruin.

  This was meant to be a simple business trip. I’ve got clients to meet and auctions to attend, but now I find myself a babysitter to my completely irresponsible, younger brother.

  I could kill our dad for letting slip that I was heading to Las Vegas. I’m not going to party it up, blow a fortune on the tables, and find as many willing women as possible…which is exactly Zack’s sole purpose for joining me.

  Mum’s words ring in my ears as I hear him order another whiskey from the flight attendant.

  “It’ll be good for you to spend time together,” she says softly as she looks into my concerned eyes. “It might help level him out a little if he sees you in action.”

  She’s full of positivity. I’ve no idea how she’s kept it up all these years. Zack is one big fuck up.

  His blatant flirting with the attendant drags me from my thoughts.

  “So, Paula,” he says, as he leans forward to read her badge. “Tell me about the mile high club.”

  If she’s shocked by the question, she doesn’t show it. I guess she’s experienced much worse than my idiotic brother on these flights.

  “Shut up,” I snap. We’re only two hours in to our flight from London, and I’m already sick of the sight of him.

  “You need to lighten up, bro,” he says, turning to me once Paula’s escaped.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “No you’re fucking not. You’re just a younger, even more boring version of our father, and that’s really saying something.”

  I grind my teeth to stop myself responding.

  “You’re going to Vegas for business,” he says, air quoting the last word. “No single guy under the age of seventy goes to Vegas just for business. You need to get a fucking grip.”

  I remain silent as I try not to add fuel to his fire. According to Zack, finishing school, taking over the family business, and living somewhat of a quiet life is absurd.

  “Seriously, you might as well buy yourself a pair of plaid slippers and attach a pair of elbow patches to that suit and be done with it,” he says, eyeing my tweed jacket.

  “You’re a dick,” I mutter, turning away from him. To think I was excited to find out I was going to be a big brother when I was seven. He’s been a pain in the arse from the day he was fucking born.

  Thankfully, the copious amounts of whiskey eventually send him to sleep, leaving me in peace to get some work done. What I said earlier was true: I like my life, and I love my job. There was never any question about me joining the family business. I’ve been obsessed with antiques since I was a little boy. My grandad used to take me to auctions and teach me about the history behind the pieces. I’d soak it all up while other boys my ages kicked a ball about. It’s safe to say I was different, but I didn’t care. I’d spent my teen years researching, buying and selling to build up my own collection, while others were out partying and getting drunk. Zack was—still is—like that, which is just one of the many differences between us.

  Until he turned up at our parents’ a few days ago, we hadn’t seen him in weeks. I’ve no clue where he disappears off to or what he does, but he always seems to turn up eventually.

  It’s late when we land at McCarran International, and the only thing I want to do is get to my room and crash. The first auction is tomorrow, and I’d prefer not to be jet lagged for it, if possible.

  The glamorous receptionist looks up when I step in front of her desk. Her eyes assess me before she finds Zack over my shoulder. I’m used to it; he’s got that bad boy look going on, which gets him all the girls.

  Fuck knows why; he’s a wanker.

  We’re polar opposites, him with blonde, shaggy long hair and blue eyes, and me with our parents’ dark features and tanned skin.

  “I’ve got a room booked under Abbot. I also need to add another,” I say reluctantly.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Abbot, we don’t have any rooms left. I can offer you a two-bedroom suite instead.” I glance at Zack and don’t miss his delight.

  “Fine.” I already know I’m going to regret it. I should send him to another hotel far away from me.

  “Holy fuck, Harrison, this is sweet!” Zack announces once he’s had a whistle stop tour of our home for the next few days.

  He’s right—it’s impressive, but unfortunately his presence puts a dampener on everything about this trip.

  He grabs the welcome pack and starts flicking through. “What’re we doing then? Hit the casino? A club? Oh, look, they have a Cocktail bar, I bet that’s full of hot as fuck waitresses.”

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “Fuck that, Harry, you fucking pussy. We’re in Las Vegas; if you can let your hair down anywhere, it’s here.”

  “I’m good, thanks. I’ve got plans for tomorrow.”

  “How are we fucking related?”

  “Fucked if I know,” I grunt as I turn my back to him. I’ve often wondered if he’s the milkman’s, because he’s nothing like me—or our parents.

  I hear him banging around while I hang up my suits, fold the rest of my clothes in the drawers at the end of the bed, and arrange all my toiletries in the adjoining bathroom, but it’s not long before I hear his footsteps getting closer.

  I don’t look up, but I can feel his eyes burning into my back. “You do know you’re only here for a few days, right? You’re not moving in.” I turn back and see him gazing down at my empty suitcase, amusement dancing in his eyes.

  “I’m aware.”

  “You ready?”

  “I already said I’m not going.”

  “We’re in fucking Vegas,” he repeats, like I’ve already forgotten the long arse flight, or the fact that I can see the bright lights of the strip from the window. “We’re going to that cocktail bar. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  “You’re a pain the arse.”

  “I know, and you’re fucking boring. You’re thirty-two, not seventy-five.”

  “Thanks for the maths lesson,” I seethe. I don’t need my irresponsible little brother criticizing me on my life choices—especially when his own could do with some work.