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I’m on my feet, racing through the place with a need to investigate.
“Nick?” Paige says in a hushed whisper I can hear from a few paces away.
“Paige, I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
Great, he’s drunk tonight. His voice says it all. And here I thought he’d been sobering up lately.
I guess dealing with manipulative, psychotic parents isn’t enough—I need an ugly-drunk little brother on top of it.
“What’s wrong?” Paige asks.
“Is Ward home?”
I come stalking around the corner, ready to scold his ass. Instead, I find him looking too much like a wide-eyed, disheveled kid I haven’t seen in decades.
What the fuck is going on?
“I’m right here, Nick. Are you okay?”
“Ward! I, uh...I...I really boned us,” he rushes out, hanging his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Define boned.” I fold my arms, staring him down, unsure if I’m scared for him or just pissed.
“Please don’t be mad,” he grinds out, his face red and ragged.
A soft hand clenches my shoulder, and I rub Paige’s fingertips, before pushing her off me softly and closing the distance with Nick. I grab his shoulders.
“You have to talk to me, man,” I growl.
He nods like a scoundrel accepting his sentence.
“Little bro, it’s okay, but you’re freaking out Paige. Let’s go outside?” I pat his back, leading the way.
“I’m fi—” Paige starts.
I raise an eyebrow at her and mouth, “Sorry.”
This is between brothers. I hope she understands.
Her brisk nod and incandescent green eyes say she does.
I lead Nick to the balcony and pull a chair out for him.
“Sit down and tell me what’s wrong,” I insist.
“The shit with Dad and Winthrope. I’m...I’m the mole, Ward,” he says, refusing to look at me.
What. The. Hell.
Maybe he is drunk.
I cock my head. “Okay, I’m not sure I follow. I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt us—not intentionally—so take a deep breath. It’ll be okay if you tell me what—”
“It’s not okay. I fucked up! I let everyone down. You, Grandma, Paige, the company,” he splutters. “It’s all my fault. Thank God it didn’t hit, but if it had, it would still be my fault and an even bigger problem.”
I’m officially lost.
“You need some water?” I wait for him to shake his head. “Then take a minute to pull your thoughts together and tell me what this is about.”
For a second, he’s a hissing rock of a man, his face tilted up and nostrils flaring, sucking in air.
“Dude. It’s like you’re not listening. Almost losing the Winthrope deal? My fault. Having him call you and tell you your engagement is fake? My fault.”
It’s no one’s fault but Victor Brandt’s, and maybe Mother’s for confronting Paige at a conference before this shit went down. I wonder if they’re coordinating, even if they loathe each other now.
I shut the door behind us before turning to him again. “How is this your fault?”
“Well, you know I stayed in touch with Mom over the years...”
My brows knife down.
“Yeah, and I’ve never understood why. If you don’t care about all the hell she’s dragged us through, what about the hell she brought on Grandma?”
“She’s still our mom,” he says weakly. “Even if she’s a monster.”
“You’d be better off if our mother was a Komodo dragon, Nicholas.”
“Grow the fuck up, Ward,” he snarls, squaring his shoulders. “You haven’t wanted me to talk to her for years, because you hate her.”
I roll my eyes and look at the sky, flexing my fist.
Everyone should have to deal with a little brother for the ultimate test in patience.
I meet his gaze, chasing down the urge to knock some sense into him.
“I’ve always said it was your goddamned choice. If you want to subject yourself to a slow and painful poisoning, who am I to stop you? I’m slightly pissed you covered up any recent contact, and not just to me, but to Grandma too.”
“Yeah. No reason to lie by omission. It’s not like you’d react like a human volcano or anything.” He snorts, those eyes that are a shade greener than mine flaming.
I’m racking my brain for a retort when something dawns on me.
“Wait. Why did you say this thing with Winthrope and the mystery package was your fault? Did you tell her?”
“Dumbass, of course not,” he flings back.
I push past the strong desire to bloody his nose. “It’s not your fault, then. Why are you here?”
“What?”
My shoulders bow out.
“If you didn’t give her information, it’s not your fault. It can’t be. I don’t think she went to Winthrope or Osprey and the Tea anyway. That was Dad. Sorry. I shouldn’t have raged when you told me you’ve stayed in touch with her. She’s our mother. It’s natural you’d want her acceptance—even if it’s not something she deserves to give.”
He holds a hand up. “We’re not close, but she is our mom. I talk to her once a month or so, just enough to ease her conscience.”
