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“Stella,” my dad warns, not looking up from his tablet at the dining room table. “Simone wants to be on the team. She can handle this assignment better than the lot of them.”
His confidence warms my heart and makes my eyes water. “Thanks, Dad.”
He looks at me with a tender smile, squeezing my folded hands resting on the table.
“Jim,” my mother huffs. The large teak wooden kitchen spoon in her hand suddenly looks more like a baton, ready to be thrown at either of us. “It has taken a year—A YEAR—to move on from what that creep put her through. This face-to-face could set her back. All this time wasted over that jerk, when she could be happy with Chase.”
I sigh. Why are people always talking about me like I’m not in the room? My parents haven’t hid their preference for Chase, often suggesting how great a couple we’d be. What made it worse was, I knew how great we’d be together, have known for a year. And just like Chase, my parents are worried about Trent weaseling his way back into my life.
There’s no chance I’d let it happen.
My dad’s brows pull together, his aqua-colored eyes focused on my mom. “The last time we gave our unsolicited advice, it nearly cost us our relationship with Jo. Do I want Simone to work on this assignment? Hell no, I don’t. But we raised our daughters right, Stella. Jo walked away from the architectural firm because she knows her worth. Simone wants to help the team because she knows her worth, too. It’s time we stop interjecting our beliefs and let them do what they feel is right.”
Unhappy, Mom returns to the robin-egg blue kitchen, slamming cabinet doors as she goes back to preparing dinner.
I love my parents, I do. They only want what’s best for me and my sister. But sometimes their opinions are biased, only thinking of what they feel, not what may be best for us.
“I’ll pay for that later,” my dad groans, returning his attention to his eBook. “You don’t think she’d poison me, do you? She’s still making my dinner.”
I smirk. “No, Dad. She still needs you for your pension.”
“I heard that,” Mom hollers over her clanking pans.
My dad and I snigger, returning to safer topics of discussion.
* * *
Wanting to drown my sorrows after dinner, I escape to Jo’s house for some quality sister time. Since Atlas doesn’t hide anything from Jo, he informed her of the team going on assignment. Thankfully, she didn’t jump down my throat, steering clear of any conversation regarding it. I’m sure Jo has an opinion, but she’s trying to respect my decision to stay on the case.
I knock back my second glass of wine like it’s a shot. It’s a shame, because it’s a superb wine and should be enjoyed sip by sip. I raise my glass above my head from where I sit on the oversized sectional in Jo’s classy mid-century modern living room.
“Fill ’er up!”
Jo rolls her coastal blue eyes, filling my glass. “Slow down and savor it, dammit. I have to live vicariously through you while I’m pregnant. The least you could do is taste the wine.”
I wave a hand at her. “Fine. I’ll drink slower. You happy?”
Jo sits next to me, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. She runs her hand over her new baby bump, trying to relax after putting her infant twins to bed. “Describe it for me—in vivid detail.”
“It’s full-bodied with herbal notes,” Punk says, taking another long sip. “It has a slight earthy zest, pairing nicely with rich currant flavors.”
God, I want to throat-punch him.It’s bad enough having Punk being my bodyguard for the upcoming assignment. But having to share my younger sister with him pisses me off.
“Why are you here?”
“It’s Winey Wednesday,” he answers matter-of-factly, glaring at me with equal distaste. It’s a juxtaposition, an inked biker in leather sitting in a posh living room, drinking a glass of red wine like a sommelier. However, I’ve witnessed Punk in bizarrely similar situations enough not to be affected by its shock value. “I’m always here on Winey Wednesday.”
Unfortunately for me, he is.
Opal, Gauge’s wife, giggles beside him, her baby bump barely showing. She’s the sweetest one in the whole MC, always bubbly with her rainbow streaked hair radiating happiness and smelling like the delicious desserts she makes daily for the club. “Punk, you’re here every day. You may as well move in.”
“Maybe I will,” Punk muses aloud. “Hey, sis? Can we be roommates?”
Jo rips her nose out of my glass to answer, grimacing as if it pains her to stop inhaling its scent. “Punk, I love you, but even I have limitations.”
“Wow. That’s harsh, sis.”
“I’ll settle for lots of sleepovers,” Jo offers.
