Tangled Read Online Free

gets accomplished.
    And Christmas? Forget about it. My father’s Christmas parties are legendary. Everybody goes home shitfaced. Some people don’t go home at all. Last year we caught ten employees from a rival bank trying to sneak in, just because the soirée is that frigging fantastic. And it’s all done to achieve the atmosphere—the vibe—my father wants in this firm.
    He loves his employees, and they love him right back. Devotion, loyalty—we’ve got it in spades. That’s part of what makes us the best. Because the people who work here would pretty much sell their firstborn for my old man.
    Still, there are days—days like today, when I need the time to romance a client—that his celebrations can be a royal pain in the ass. But it is what it is.
    My Monday morning is packed, so I get to my desk and start working. Then, before I can blink, it’s one o’clock and I’m heading to the conference room. I spot a familiar head of bright orange hair attached to a short stocky-framed body. That would be Jack O’Shay. Jack started at the firm about six years ago, the same year I did. He’s a good guy and frequent weekend comrade. Next to him is Matthew, talking animatedly as he pushes a large hand through his sandy-colored hair.
    I grab my food from the buffet and join them just as Matthew is recounting his Saturday night. “So then she breaks out handcuffs and a whip. A fucking whip! I thought I was going to lose it right there, I swear to Christ. I mean…she went to a convent…actually studied to be a goddamn nun, man!”
    “I told you, the quiet ones are always into the kinky shit,” Jack adds with a laugh.
    Matthew turns his hazel eyes to Steven and tells him, “Seriously, dude. You gotta come out with us. Just once, I’m begging you.”
    I smirk at that because I know exactly what’s coming.
    “I’m sorry, have you met my wife?” Steven asks, his brow wrinkled in confusion.
    “Don’t be such a bitch,” Jack ribs him. “Tell her you’re going to play cards or something. Live a little.”
    Steven takes off his glasses and wipes the lenses with a napkin as he appears to consider the idea.
    “Riiiight. And when she finds out—and Alexandra will definitely find out, I assure you—she’ll serve me my balls on a silver platter. With a nice garlic butter dipping sauce on the side and a good Chianti.”
    He makes a slurping sound à la Hannibal Lecter that has me laughing my ass off.
    “Besides,” he gloats, replacing his spectacles and stretching his hands over his head, “I got filet mignon at home, boys. I’m not interested in Sloppy Joes.”
    “Pussy,” Matthew coughs out, while Jack shakes his head at my brother-in-law and says, “Even a nice filet gets old if you eat it every day.”
    “Not,” Steven defends suggestively, “if you cook it a different way every time. My baby knows how to keep my meals spicy.”
    I put my hand up and plead, “Please. Please just stop there.” There are just some visuals I don’t want in my head. Ever.
    “What about you, Drew? I saw you leave with those twins. Were they real redheads?” Jack asks me.
    I feel the satisfied smile stretch over my lips. “Oh yeah. They were real.” And then I go on to describe my wild Saturday night in vivid, delicious detail.
    Okay, let’s just stop right now because I can see that judgmental look on your face. And I can hear your high-pitched disapproval too: What a jerk. He had sex with a girl —well, in this case, two girls— and now he’s telling his friends all about it. That’s sooo disrespectful.
    First of all, if a chick wants me to respect her, she needs to act like someone worth respecting. Second, I’m not trying to be a dick; I’m just being a guy. And all guys talk to their friends about sex.
    Let me repeat that in case you missed it:
    ALL GUYS TALK TO THEIR FRIENDS ABOUT SEX.
    If a guy tells you he doesn’t? Dump him, because he’s lying to you.
    And another thing—I’ve heard my sister and