Bossy Ex's Brother

BOSSY EX’S BROTHERAN AGE-GAP SURPRISE PREGNANCY ROMANCE SOFIA FINN Copyright © 2023 by Sofia Finn 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. CONTENTS 1. Jane2. Luca3. Jane4. Luca5. Jane6. Luca7. Jane8. Luca9. Jane10. Luca11. Jane12. Luca13. Jane14. Luca15. Jane16. Luca17. Jane18. Luca19. Jane20. Luca21. Jane22. Luca23. Jane24. Luca25. Jane26. Luca27. Jane28. Luca29. Jane30. LucaEpilogueDoctor Grump (Sneak Peek) ONEJANE They said you don’t know what you’re capable of until you hit rock bottom. Well, this was officially rock bottom. I ignored the sign that said, ‘Closed,’ walked into the shady building at the end of the street, and headed straight for the bar. I placed my purse on the counter as the bartender eyed me curiously. “We’re not open yet,” he said. “Not closed enough.” I gestured at the rest of the tables where a few stray patrons were sitting around, having drinks and talking. There were only about half a dozen people, but regardless, they were there, which meant the establishment wasn’t as closed as it pretended to be. The bartender raised an eyebrow at me. “These guys are regulars. They get special privileges.” “I could be a regular, too,” I said, and he smirked. “But you’re not.” “How do you know that?” He ran a scanning eye down my form somewhat offensively. I was wearing what I classed as my “boss-ass bitch suit.” It was the best one I owned, and it cost me nearly two hundred dollars at Saks. When I combined it with my stilettos, the ensemble made me look like I had my shit together and this whole life thing figured out. Of course, it was all a façade. My life was a series of chaos and barely restrained panic, but in the suit, I could pretend otherwise, even if just for a few seconds. At least long enough to nail the interview I had earlier today. My mood darkened instantly at the recollection of the so-called “interview.” What a joke. I’d been so excited about it this morning because it was the first callback I had in a while. It was supposed to be for a management role at an Italian restaurant in downtown Philly, and I’d gone there full of hope. Only to end up in this bar two hours later, ready to bury my sorrows in as much booze as my liver could handle. With any luck, I would get alcohol poisoning and die. Don’t say that, a voice in my head reprimanded, and I instantly felt guilty. If I died, there would be no one left to take care of my siblings, and the entire family would fall apart. So all that pressure rested on my shoulders. The bartender seemed to have finished his perusal of me, and he finally decided with a shake of his head. “No, you’re not a regular. Most regulars don’t dress like they’re going to their stepmother’s funeral, and besides, I wouldn’t forget a face like yours.” I frowned at him deeply, unable to decide if he’d just complimented or insulted me. I wasn’t comfortable with either scenario. Insults were understandably discomfiting, but so were compliments. Without conceit, I knew I was a reasonably attractive woman. More than reasonably, if some of the comments I’d gotten over the years were to be believed. I was said to be the spitting image of my mother, who had won a few pageants back in her day. Most people would think I should be happy about this, but they didn’t understand the repercussions of being beautiful and not having the means to protect yourself in this world. My looks attracted too many sleazebags and put me into generally unpleasant situations. It was also harder to be recognized for my skill, especially since I didn’t have a college degree to back it up. I only held a GED, and that, combined with my looks, made most people peg me as a bimbo who could only be a beautiful ornament and nothing else. Which annoyed me at best and terrified me at worst. So while the bartender didn’t look like a sleazebag, I wasn’t quite ready to accept any compliments from him just yet. The events of today were still too fresh in my mind, the pain too raw. I slid into the seat anyway, and he raised his eyebrow. “Please,” I begged, letting go of my pride, too desperate to hold on to it. It wasn’t like this bar was the only bar in the city, but if I walked out now, I would have to go home. I would hate it, but I would make myself do it anyway. Being here was an impulsive decision forced by desperation. I just needed a drink so I could calm down before I went home and broke the news to everyone that I was currently jobless and, as such, they may be homeless very soon. “I just need a drink,” I told the bartender. “I’ve had an exceptionally bad day.” “You and everyone else in here,” he said, but he must have sympathized with me because he grabbed a glass from the other side of the counter. I gave him a grateful smile. “What do you want?” he asked, and it stumped me for a second. I didn’t know much about alcohol, to be honest. I served it all the time at the restaurant I used to work for but never really indulged myself. “Um, I don’t know,” I said. “Just something to calm me down before I have to go home and face the real world.” He stared at me curiously for a second, then spun around and said, “I know just the thing.” I zoned out when I heard him start mixing up the drinks in the back, only to tune back in when