Page 95 of Tennessee Trouble

“What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?” Mikayla questions. “Someone catch me up.”

Rylan hands her the contract to read. “It changes a lot of things. If nothing else, it proves he cares. And⁠—”

“No.” I hold up my hand to stop him. “There will be no more defending him. From any of you.”

“I’m not defending him,” Mikayla says without looking up from the contract. “But if these are the negotiating powers that your lady bits have, we might need to employ them more often.”

Kyra snort laughs, her hand flying to her mouth to cover it up. Our older sister lifts a single shoulder, dismissing the laughter.

“My lady bits, as you put it, are not going to be employed by this company. Or anyone,” I retort.

“Suit yourself.”

I roll my eyes. I need space. Time alone with my thoughts. Preferably with a glass of Tennessee Trouble, a gooey cheeseburger, and a really hot bubble bath. Followed by The Secret World of Alex Mack while snuggled under the fluffy comforter with the AC blasting in my hotel room.

The room that none of my siblings have a key to. Where they can’t bother me.

Where I can scream and cry and deal with this broken heart.

“Here.” I shove the box at Kyra, who is still holding the glass statue, and turn to go.

It’s a wonderful gift, and I have no doubt that Leland will find the perfect place to show it off at headquarters. But I don’t want to see it. I don’t want the reminder of the man who did this to me. And then was romantic.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

I don’t answer. I just keep walking. It’s the only thing I can do. The first steps—literally—toward my new goal.

Get over Brandt Rawlins.

24

BRANDT

“You look like shit.”

I look up from the keg I’m swapping out and glare at Anton Hayes, one of Milo’s younger brothers. As number three of seven kids, Anton quickly became the instigator of the family, pushing everyone’s buttons for nothing more than shits and giggles. Family friends weren’t off-limits either, meaning that my buttons were tested just as much as Milo’s.

“I have the power to cut you off, you know,” I throw back, not wanting to let him know that he got to me. It’s a small scratch—a surface wound, if you will—but it’s enough. Especially if he decides to rub salt in it. “Or worse, make you pay your tab.”

“I pay my tab…” he grumbles.

From the other end of the bar, Milo snickers. Shaking his head, he doesn’t make a comment, just continues to wipe down the pint glass in his hand, leaving me unsure if he’s laughing at Anton or me. Or both.

Likely both.

“Brandt doesn’t look like shit,” Milo comments.

See, thank you. At least I can count on my lifelong best friend to come to my defense.

“It’s worse than shit,” he continues. “He looks heartbroken.”

Fuck me. That’s worse than salt. Milo just squeezed a whole fucking lemon right over the wound.

“I do not.”

It’s the truth. I might be heartbroken, but I don’t look it. I’ve worked very hard to try and make sure of that. Smiling more, laughing harder—the whole nine. I’m the same old Brandt that left here a few weeks back. Nothing more, nothing less.

Even if I am dying on the inside.