Read Online Jacks: BBW Billionaire Menage Romance (Billionaire Brothers, II Book 1) by Meg Watson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Meg Watson
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who could reach out and smack the brass bell first to answer, though. The announcer would barely finish the subject line of the question before one or the other's tuxedo sleeve would shoot out in front of me so fast it caused a little puff of air to blast across my cleavage.
“Dwight D. Eisenhower!”
“The Roman aqueducts!”
“PV=NRT!”
Each round went so fast it practically made my head spin, but I did manage to press the bell a couple of times and call out my answers when I was absolutely sure that I knew the right one. I could feel the Jack brothers’ approval bathing me like a warm glow and I started to really enjoy that. I could almost see myself through their eyes: taller, curvier, sexier, and smarter than I probably had ever been.
Maybe this really is me.
Well, maybe I can fake it long enough to convince myself anyway.
Finally, in the second to last round our outstanding lead had been whittled away to just two points when another table got a series of simple questions that they immediately knew. They shot ahead of us, and suddenly we were behind.
I squinted across the dark room and recognized the familiar back of Carl's stupid head. Then a hand waved out from behind it and Whitney leaned back laughing at some joke that I couldn't hear from where I was. It was them? That was the team that was going to beat us?
“Category: religion. One point. Question: what painter’s intricate tableaus have been said to have shaped modern thought about the geography and tortures of Hell?”
The bell rang on the other table and Whitney bolted upright, calling out, “Francis Bacon!”
“NO!"
I shot out of my chair so fast that it tipped over behind me. The announcer glanced at me, his eyes wide with surprise.
"Francis Bacon is, I'm sorry, incorrect... The question goes to the challenger to my right. Do you have a counter-answer?”
"The answer is… Hieronymus Bosch,” I called out in a cold, confident voice.
“Yes!” the announcer boomed into the microphone. “Two points for the Misters Jack and their alluring companion!”
I felt myself panting as I knuckled the tablecloth, glaring at Whitney from across the room until she crumpled back into her seat. I stood for a moment more before lowering myself back into my chair. Lyle leaned across the table toward me and turned his head conspiratorially to whisper in my ear.
“Oh ho ho, that must've been embarrassing for her. Are you two friends?”
“We know each other,” I said in a controlled growl.
“That sounds like it must be quite a story,” he continued.
“There's nothing to tell," I said with a wave of my fingertips. “She's a real estate agent. My boy — er, a friend bought a condo from her.”
Lyle pushed himself back, raising his eyebrows at the same time. His eyes sparkled in the low light.
“A real estate agent? That's an interesting way of putting it.”
I shook my head slightly. What was so interesting about being a real estate agent? Lyle plucked the crystal luminary off the table top and held it up next to his face so that the light glittered across his strong, chiseled features. The sight was enchanting, I had to admit, but I still didn't get it.
Out of habit I racked my brain for clues as though he was playing some kind of game of charades. Luminary? Lantern? Glow? Cylinder? Candle? Avery hotel and spa ostentatious light show?
Avery hotel… Avery… Whitney Fucking Avery.
Oh my God.
“I guess I don't really know anything about her at all, come to think of it," I said bitterly, unable to keep the brittle tone from my voice.
Lyle glanced away toward the announcer as though the conversation had been completed. I continued to stew over the details.
“Lyle, pay attention,” Owen snapped. “Final question and we are still down by one.”
I pushed Whitney out of my mind and focused on the announcer. If we were down by one that meant that she was ahead by one, and there was no way I was letting that bitch take anything else
“Dwight D. Eisenhower!”
“The Roman aqueducts!”
“PV=NRT!”
Each round went so fast it practically made my head spin, but I did manage to press the bell a couple of times and call out my answers when I was absolutely sure that I knew the right one. I could feel the Jack brothers’ approval bathing me like a warm glow and I started to really enjoy that. I could almost see myself through their eyes: taller, curvier, sexier, and smarter than I probably had ever been.
Maybe this really is me.
Well, maybe I can fake it long enough to convince myself anyway.
Finally, in the second to last round our outstanding lead had been whittled away to just two points when another table got a series of simple questions that they immediately knew. They shot ahead of us, and suddenly we were behind.
I squinted across the dark room and recognized the familiar back of Carl's stupid head. Then a hand waved out from behind it and Whitney leaned back laughing at some joke that I couldn't hear from where I was. It was them? That was the team that was going to beat us?
“Category: religion. One point. Question: what painter’s intricate tableaus have been said to have shaped modern thought about the geography and tortures of Hell?”
The bell rang on the other table and Whitney bolted upright, calling out, “Francis Bacon!”
“NO!"
I shot out of my chair so fast that it tipped over behind me. The announcer glanced at me, his eyes wide with surprise.
"Francis Bacon is, I'm sorry, incorrect... The question goes to the challenger to my right. Do you have a counter-answer?”
"The answer is… Hieronymus Bosch,” I called out in a cold, confident voice.
“Yes!” the announcer boomed into the microphone. “Two points for the Misters Jack and their alluring companion!”
I felt myself panting as I knuckled the tablecloth, glaring at Whitney from across the room until she crumpled back into her seat. I stood for a moment more before lowering myself back into my chair. Lyle leaned across the table toward me and turned his head conspiratorially to whisper in my ear.
“Oh ho ho, that must've been embarrassing for her. Are you two friends?”
“We know each other,” I said in a controlled growl.
“That sounds like it must be quite a story,” he continued.
“There's nothing to tell," I said with a wave of my fingertips. “She's a real estate agent. My boy — er, a friend bought a condo from her.”
Lyle pushed himself back, raising his eyebrows at the same time. His eyes sparkled in the low light.
“A real estate agent? That's an interesting way of putting it.”
I shook my head slightly. What was so interesting about being a real estate agent? Lyle plucked the crystal luminary off the table top and held it up next to his face so that the light glittered across his strong, chiseled features. The sight was enchanting, I had to admit, but I still didn't get it.
Out of habit I racked my brain for clues as though he was playing some kind of game of charades. Luminary? Lantern? Glow? Cylinder? Candle? Avery hotel and spa ostentatious light show?
Avery hotel… Avery… Whitney Fucking Avery.
Oh my God.
“I guess I don't really know anything about her at all, come to think of it," I said bitterly, unable to keep the brittle tone from my voice.
Lyle glanced away toward the announcer as though the conversation had been completed. I continued to stew over the details.
“Lyle, pay attention,” Owen snapped. “Final question and we are still down by one.”
I pushed Whitney out of my mind and focused on the announcer. If we were down by one that meant that she was ahead by one, and there was no way I was letting that bitch take anything else
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