Free Lucca's Lust: The Luminara Series Book 3 by SJ Molloy Page A

favour and do not tell Chris what is in it. He is a fussy bastard and will not eat it if he thinks it is ‘fancy shit.’ His words, not mine,” I say, swallowing it down with a slug of beer. And like that, we have moved on from my unfortunate loneliness and the miserable reality of my empty life.
    Thank fuck. I need to think of something else. I feel emotionally drained.
    Both my brothers laugh. Chris McCarron is one of my best mates and incidentally my accountant. A walking fucking liability if you ask me. Loves football, chicks, poker, and stock investments … a shark when talking money, but he is a good friend and a very clever guy.
    It is probably why he will never settle down. Loves his money too much. Selfish prick. But he has looked after my investments for a long time, which I am grateful for.
    “Still a pie, chips, and gravy man?” Armando asks with amusement, lifting plates from the cupboard.
    “Fuck, yes, and mushy peas. I swear … he lives on that greasy shit. He must have a clogged artery by now.” I laugh.
    “What you dudes laughing at?” Chris asks, setting down a case of beer and a tray of southern fried chicken wings. I almost spit my beer all over him, shaking my head, and hold my hand out to shake his.
    Typically he brings deep-fried food. There is no way in hell, he dusted them in flour and fried them. They have takeaway written all over. Fucking cheating bastard. I tell him so.
    While he slaps my brothers on their backs, Omari Fayed, another good mate who also happens to be my very loyal solicitor, shows up with the chips, dip, and vodka. Omari is not shy from attracting the ladies, though he is a little more tactful than Chris.
    Where Chris tries really hard to win the ladies over, Omari has a natural charm. He is a good looking man, half-Asian, and looks like one of those fucking boxer shorts models, or at least he thinks he does. Omari delves right into Rose’s buns before he even has a beer opened.
    Both of them showing no sign of settling down. They love their life just as it is. Fuck, I remember some wild nights ending up with some seriously hot women. I believe Chris and Omari still indulge in picking up chicks on the weekends.
    They say it is the only way to top off a successful week at the office. We have always worked hard, but these boys know how to play hard too. They are good guys though. Decent, intelligent, and brought up well from respectable and loving families.
    Marco, my right hand man and best mate growing up in Tuscany, joins us next followed by Andy Graham, my project manager at Osurac Industries, and Lyle Graham, my head of contractors, with a tray of pakora and chocolate brownies from his wife. Terence Huddersfield, Casey’s husband, and Jonathon Myers, my PA Suzanne’s husband, also arrive with a bottle of good single malt and cigars.
    After lots of friendly banter giving Chris some shit when he tells us about the redhead he pulled last weekend who sucked him off then left him in the middle of the night because he was out cold, we grab plates and settle in the dining room. It is like a fucking bun fight right enough. You would think these lads have never seen food before.
    “Chris, what the fuck? That is just so fucking wrong.” Omari scoffs, watching him wedge a steak pie between two slices of buttered bread before dipping it in the gravy of the lamb hot pot. He eats like a beast.
    Chris mumbles with his mouth full. “Fuck off, dickhead. I played five games this week and have worked up an appetite.”
    I laugh and roll my eyes, watching him now chuck some pakora then deep fried chicken down his throat. “You are one greedy bastard. Slow down. We are not going to fucking take it away from you.” I pass him his beer before he chokes on a chicken wing.
    “Andy, pass me over that pasta shit,” he says, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand.
    I lean back in my chair, fold my arms across my chest, and watch with wide-eyed amusement. This should be good. Savio