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Jonathan glanced at his cards, then folded. “I admit I’m curious to see this sister of Audrey’s.”
“You’ve seen one of them before,” Cade replied easily. “Daphne Petty.”
Hunter had no idea who that was, but Reese seemed impressed. “No way. Daphne Petty? The Daphne Petty? The one in the tabloids constantly?”
“Who’s Daphne Petty?” Logan frowned, then looked over at Hunter as if he’d have the answers. Hunter shrugged.
“An old childhood friend of mine,” Cade said. “And Audrey’s twin. She’s also—if rumor has it—heavily into drugs and alcohol, thanks to her career.”
“Her career,” Logan said blankly. “What career is this?”
“Singer. Pick up any magazine and you’ll probably see her sloppy drunk on the cover,” Reese said. “Holy crap. I never knew. Audrey looks nothing like her.”
Cade grimaced in agreement. “I know. Daphne’s not . . . well. Audrey’s much healthier.”
Hunter thought of Logan’s extremely curvy assistant and drew a blank at her face. All he knew was that she wore her hair in a bun and she was brisk and efficient and didn’t ask many questions.
She was nothing like Gretchen in that aspect, he thought with a hint of a smile touching his mouth again. Nosy, too inquisitive Gretchen who didn’t know the meaning “mind your own business” if it bit her on the chin. But he kind of loved that about her.
“Ah, hell,” Jonathan said in disgust. “He’s grinning again. Whatever it is, he’s got it bad.”
“Now I’m definitely coming to this party,” Reese said.
“You weren’t invited,” Hunter pointed out, glaring. The last person he wanted around Gretchen was Reese, the epitome of a ladies’ man.
“You’re in the Brotherhood, Hunter,” Cade said with a slap on the back. “You know our rules. We’re all invited. Even the obnoxious ones like Reese.”
Hunter grunted in resignation. The teasing died back down again and they continued on for hours.
When they were ready to leave, Hunter pulled Logan aside. “I need your advice.”
“Oh? On what?”
“On Gretchen. I want to do something for her. Something that shows her how much I appreciate her.”
Logan gave him a wry smile. “Don’t buy her a diner.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just something I did for Brontë that backfired in my face. What did you have in mind?”
“Something . . . thoughtful. Not jewelry. She’s not a jewelry type.”
“Well, you dodged a bullet there,” Logan said. “Then again, jewelry makes it easy. Brontë’s not much of a jewelry type, either. Gets mad every time I try to buy her a necklace. The trick is you have to find something that you can do for her that no one else can.”
Hunter shook his head. “I don’t know what that would be. Property? It’s too much. Cars? Anyone can give her a car.” He didn’t share that he didn’t want to give her a car because he was afraid she’d spend her days driving away from the house. He liked that she was stuck there with him.
“You said she likes books, right?”
“She’s a ghostwriter.”
Logan shrugged. “There’s your answer. Something with books. Is she successful?”
Hunter considered this. “I don’t know. She writes astronaut books or some such.” It had seemed like an odd match to him—his silly, outspoken Gretchen writing overly masculine space pulp, but he didn’t question it.
“So buy them. Buy all of them.” Logan considered a new cigar, then put it down with a grimace. “I shouldn’t smoke this. Brontë doesn’t like the smell.”
“Buy all of them?” Hunter asked.
