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A few of them, actually…I blushed thinking about it.

“Good. Well, I’m glad you’re having fun—and that it wasn’t Neil.”

I scoffed. “Yeah, same.”

“I see his stuff is still here.” He nodded to the garage.

I rubbed my forehead. “I packed it all up, but he refuses to come get it.”

Derek leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when it happened,” he said seriously.

“It’s fine. You were saving the world,” I said wearily.

Derek had been gone for six months doing volunteer work with Doctors Without Borders. He was a plastic surgeon. A good one. He was out there treating burn victims and children with cleft lips. I could hardly be upset that he wasn’t here to tell Neil to go to hell in person—though as I understand it, he definitely did via satellite phone.

I looked over at him. “Why are you back? They let you out early?”

A slow smile crept across his face. “I can tell you, but you have to sign an NDA.”

I laughed, thinking it was a joke, but he reached into a messenger bag resting on the side of the chair and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen.

I blinked at him. “You’re kidding me.”

“Look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t to keep a promise.” He slid it across my coffee table at me.

I eyed him. “You want me to sign an NDA before you, my brother and closest confidant, can tell me why you’re in my living room.”

He pushed the paper toward me another inch and tapped an index finger on the signature line.

I shook my head and picked it up, scanning it. “What is this?”

He put up a hand to quiet me. “Just sign, and then I can tell you everything.”

I sighed. “Okay,” I mumbled, scrawling my name on the dotted line. I set it back on the table and tossed the pen on top. “You have your paperwork. Tell me.”

“I got married.”

I bolted straight up. “WHAT?!”

He was beaming. “Last weekend. I’ve been seeing her for six months.”

I gawked at him. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I couldn’t. I promised. It was important to her.”

“But…but you tell me everything,” I said, incredulous.

He nodded. “I know. Which should tell you how important her trust is to me.”

I sat deeper into the sofa, my eyes moving back and forth across my lap. “Married…” I breathed. I looked up at him. “To who?”

“Her name is Nikki. She’s a recording artist. A famous one. She was in Cambodia setting up a women’s home for survivors of sex trafficking.”

I scanned my limited knowledge of current recording artists. “Nikki…Nikki who?”

“Her stage name is Lola Simone.”

“No,” I said.