Page 29 of The Decoy

He sighs and hangs his head, then looks me in the eye.

“I’m an absolute, pathetic bleeding heart when it comes to animals,” he confesses. “Like…embarrassing level. If Sarah McLachlan pops up on a commercial, I have to physically leave the room.”

I blink, taking that in, before a slow smile spreads across my face. “Wait. You’re telling me you come undone by shelter dog commercials?”

“It’s a serious issue!” Brody protests, though his cheeks flush a little pink. “The second I hear her singing that song about angels, I see a helpless pup, I’m done for. That’s how I ended up at the shelter where I got Buck. It’s all her fault.” He shakes his head. “Then last month, I was at a charity gala for the ASPCA, and they ran a slideshow of rescued farm animals, and I had to turn away because my eyes started welling up.”

“Oh, Brody,” I gasp, leaning across the counter. “Did someone see you crying?”

“Yeah, one of my teammates who went with me,” he admits, groaning and dragging a hand down his face. “My left tackle walked up right as a tear was rolling down my cheek over a donkey named Barnaby. I looked him dead in the eye, sniffed, and told him I had a stray lash stuck in my eye that I couldn’t get out. I had to fake an entire eye irritation issue for fifteen minutes to cover for it.”

I hold my stomach, my laugh echoing through the kitchen. “A solid performance over Barnaby the donkey! Brody, this is amazing. But wait…is it just commercials, or are you actually donating?”

“I mean…” Brody rubs the back of his neck, his eyes dancing with humor. “I might officially sponsor a few foster animals around the world.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “A few? Define ‘a few’.”

“Look, it started small,” he says defensively, though he’s smiling. “I have an elephant calf in Kenya, a couple of sea turtles in Costa Rica, and my personal crown jewel.” He points a spatula at me. “I sponsor a stray cat in Rome.”

“In Rome?” I wheeze, laughing so hard my eyes water.

“Yes! At the Largo di Torre Argentina—the ruins where Julius Caesar was literally assassinated," he explains, leaning in with dramatic flair. “It’s a cat sanctuary now. His name is Bruno; he’s a one-eyed tabby, and he likes to sleep on the marble ruins of the Roman Senate. I pay for his vet bills and his food every month. Caesar got betrayed in those ruins, Ellis. Bruno deserves a life of leisure on his behalf.”

I rest my chin in my hands, looking at him with fascination. “So you’re telling me you’re paying monthly child support for a one-eyed cat living a life of luxury in Rome? I’m filing this away as leverage in case I ever need it.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s kind of like child support. But what’s worse is…I don’t even like cats!” He throws up his hands.

“That’s priceless, Brody. Truly. This made my night.” My face hurts from smiling. But also, him being there for me makes a lot more sense as I put all these puzzle pieces together about what kind of man Brody Vaughn is.

“Okay, enough about me,” he says, turning to look at me. “Your turn. You don’t get to mock my soft heart without offering up a sacrifice. Give me something equally ridiculous.”

“I really don’t know how to follow that. I feel pretty boring now,” I tease, taking a sip of my water. “Okay, fine. I’ve got something. It involves my brother.”

“Bryan?” Brody asks. “Interesting. The cool, composed big brother.”

“The very same,” I nodded, resting my elbows on the marble. “So, when Bryan was seventeen and I was fifteen, our parents went out of town for a weekend. We were left alone in Greenwich. Now, Bryan was supposed to be the one in charge. But he and I got into our heads that we would throw a small, exclusive gathering of friends.”

“A teenage party,” Brody grins. “This should be good.”

“It wasn’t even a party! It was six people,” I clarify, holding up my fingers. “Six people, some overpriced cheese, and…a bottle of my father’s Highland Park, Forty Year Old Single Malt Scotch Whisky that Bryan poached from his study.”

“Oh, man,” Brody winces playfully. “Bad move.”

“It gets worse,” I groan, hiding my face in my hands for a second before looking back at him. “We took one shot each. It tasted like moss and regret. We immediately panicked because there was a noticeable amount gone from the bottle. Bryan looked at me, terrified, and said, ‘We have to fix this before Dad gets back.’”

“Please tell me you didn’t put water in a forty-year-old scotch,” Brody laughs.

“Oh no. Water would have been a smarter move!” I cry out, laughing at the memory. “No, in our infinite teenage wisdom, thinking of ourselves as experienced drinkers, mind you, we panicked because we knew water would dilute the color. So Bryan ran into the kitchen, grabbed some tea bags, apple juice, and soy sauce to ‘balance out the flavor’.”

Brody gasps and stares at me, his mouth open before he lets out a boom of laughter that shakes his whole body. “Soy sauce?! You put soy sauce in a four-thousand-dollar-plus bottle of whisky?”

“We brewed it like mad scientists in a measuring cup,” I admit. “We poured it in, held the bottle up to the light, and thought, ‘Perfect. Flawless match.’ Fast forward three weeks. My father hosts a dinner party for some board members. He pours everyone two fingers of this prized whisky, toasts everyone, and takes a smooth sip.”

Brody’s mouth is wide open, and he is doubled over the counter now. “What happened? Did he choke?”

“Nope. He never broke character,” I say, as tears of laughter spring in my eyes. “My father is so controlled that he literally swallowed a mouthful of fermented soy sauce, tea, and apple juice, looked his guests dead in the eye, and said, ‘Ah, interesting flavor in this one. Very…complex notes.’”

“Complex notes!” Brody howls, slapping the counter. “Ellis, no. I can’t believe you ruined that whisky with Kikkoman!”