“No, you can’t,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You’re drowning in it right now. You’re trying to carry her secret and your own guilt. That weight will break you fast.”
“What am I supposed to do then?” I ask, a desperate plea slipping into my voice. “Tell me how to handle this.”
Aiden looks at me for a long minute, letting my question hang. “Listen, I can’t even pretend to have an answer for you. I’m not exactly a pro with relationships,” he mutters. “But I can tell you to respect her boundaries, especially at work. The second this season wraps up though or before Ace gets a whiff of this, you tell him the truth yourself. You can’t let him find out from a reporter and definitely not as a rumor. You look your twin brother in the eye and take it like a man. Because secrets destroy pretty things. But the truth is something we can actually fight through.”
He lifts his glass to his lips, giving me a solemn nod.
Then my phone buzzes.
I pull it out beneath the table to shield the screen.
Eva: Just left the office. It’s been so crazy lately. Heading back to my place now. I’m literally exhausted.
I can’t help the smile that breaks across my face. Yes, the conversation with my brother hangs between us, but the breath I feel like I’ve been holding releases.
I type out a response, my thumbs flying across the screen.
Aston: Get some sleep. I’m out with my brother Aiden, but I gotta say … I’m wishing I were heading to your loft right about now. I’ll be patient though and wait until I see you on Sunday.
I slide my phone back into my pocket because I know if I keep texting with her now, I’ll toss some bills on the table and go to her.
Aiden is right though. The weight of this is terrifying, and the expiration date on keeping this a secret is already very much on my mind.
Eventually, the truth will come out, and I will need to man up and tell my twin brother that I’m falling for his ex. Maybe I never stopped.
But for now, I raise my glass to clink against Aiden’s and make a decision. “I hear you, brother. I’ll take care of it.”
I’ll play the game. I’ll protect her career, and I’ll keep the peace in my family for as long as I can. And when the truth comes out?
I’ll take it on the chin because Eva Carrington is worth every single grain of the fallout.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EVA
The lightin my loft always fades away beautifully, copper and violet filtering through the industrial windows before the glow of the city lights take over the skyline. Tonight, I’m not looking at the sunset though. I’m looking at a spreadsheet on one of my monitors, tracking a satellite truck routed for our upcoming trip to the West Coast. On my other monitor, a patchwork of unlinked audio stems from the week’s miked-up player reels is waiting for me.
My father left me three voicemails before four p.m. None of them were urgent. It’s not out of malice but more like a family philosophy. He’d started in this business holding a boom mic in the freezing mud, wrestling his way into the executive director’s chair through unyielding grit. He loves me too much to let me be a legacy hire who can’t command a room. He wants me to understand every aspect of the business, so when I take over the company someday, I’ll truly know the ins and outs of the operation.
But damn if his expectations don’t feel like a vise grip some days.
I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose, where my blue-light-blocking glasses are digging in, and glance at the digital clock in the corner of my screen—seven fifteen p.m.
My eyes drift to the locked screen of my phone, resting beside my keyboard. No new alerts. Aston and I made plans yesterday morning, carving out a rare three-hour window in our hyper-regulated schedules. He promised he’d head over here after the team’s late afternoon practice.
Don’t order dinner,his text from earlier read.We’re going out. Somewhere quiet.
Whatever this thing is that we have going exists in the gaps between his practice and game schedules and my eighty-plus-hour workweeks.
But looking at the clock now, I realize he’s late.
Then a sudden, sharp knock breaks through the silence of my apartment.
I don’t blink. Nor do I check the peephole. My heart, which has been holding pretty steady, instantly shifts to a gallop. But when I pull the door open, all the stress of my day and the butterflies in my belly from thinking about Aston are swallowed by six feet two of denim and leather.
Aston stands in the corridor, his broad shoulders practically bracketing the doorframe. His hair is slightly damp, and he’s not wearing his team gear. No franchise logos, no athletic wear. Just a faded black thermal shirt that stretches across his chest, a worn-out pair of jeans that look like they’ve seen their fair share of Texas dirt, and his brown cowboy boots. He looks rugged, massive, and entirely too real for a Friday night in Manhattan.
“You’re late, Griffith.” I smirk, leaning against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest.
