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Chapter 1
Nolan
“You have to be married in three months,” Emerson blurts out.
I stare at him.
Married… three months…
The words don’t seem to go together.
Emerson is still tracing that infinity symbol into the chocolate cake remnants on his plate, but there’s almost no chocolate left. His stainless-steel fork is scraping across one of the porcelain plates we got a deal on from some supplier that was going out of business and remembered a favor Dad did for them once upon a time. But the main thing is that what he just said, that crazy talk, was out-of-fucking-bounds and im-fucking-possible.
Dad wouldn’t have put in such a useless, out-of-left-field requirement. He just wouldn’t.
His voice echoes in my head: “Don’t end up like me, Nolan boy, old, sad, alone and regretful. You find yourself a good girl, you stick with her, no matter what. Even when it’s hard.”
I scowl, even though it’s my own dumb-ass brain bringing back these blasts from the past.
C’mon, that was one late night in some weird underground speakeasy when Dad was drunk on this terrible wine from Greenland, of all places, and had just found out that Mom had remarried.
“Nolan?” Landon prompts.
I can feel his gaze nudging me to look at him. But I can hear the sympathy in his voice, and I don’t want to see it in his face. I don’t want his fucking sympathy.
Kyra and Harley just look sad, like I’m a puppy dog who got kicked, who they might give a hug if I so much as sniffle. Although a hug is the last thing I need right now.
Whatever Emerson—the most honest brother of all of us—said, it can’t be true.
“You can’t be serious,” I say lightly.
To think I actually bought it for a second there. I guess I had this coming, though; with all the pranks and jokes I’ve pulled on my brothers over the years—Landon’s still pissed about those shrimp tails I hid in his curtain rod that took him a good two months to find—they were bound to seek retribution sometime.
Although I can’t say this is their best work. Out of all the shit they could’ve claimed Dad specified in his will, there’s about a thousand things that I would’ve bought before this: Dad having about twelve illegitimate children he’s leaving money to, Dad having learned he’s the son of Putin and wanting us to visit him, a pet polar bear for each of us. But not this. No fucking way.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I insist.
But none of them—Greyson, Harley, Emerson, Kyra—will meet my eye. As for Landon… when I finally meet his eye, the expression there is as good as a condemnation.
“No fucking way,” I hiss, although this time it’s nothing more than sheer denial.
30 minutes earlier…
Sometimes all it takes is a glimpse. For Sierra Hill, it took even less.
Not that I know it yet—I don’t have a fucking clue.
Right now, she’s just a split-second once-over: hot little Coke-bottle body, brown-red hair the color of that delicious red velvet cake Mom used to make us for our birthdays, blue startled eyes, the curling of a generous lower lip that could be the cousin to a smile.
Yeah, a half-second glimpse that ends with me knowing. Not her name, not yet.
Just that I want what I see.
Too bad now’s not a good time. It’s a really fucking shitty time, actually.
Tonight’s not about me. Although maybe later, once the dinner’s over…
Tearing my gaze off her as she continues to the bathroom, I raise my glass and my smile to the others at the table. “Here’s to my brother and his love—may you be as happy as you look.”
Everyone chuckles, although Landon shoots me a glare.
I just wink. “You almost make being engaged look palatable.”
Something’s been up with him tonight. Something that’s making his responses come seconds too late, his smiles too. Something that he’s not saying.
We’re at the Miller comedy club and restaurant, although the comedy club is out of commission. It’s under renovation—renovations which I’m overseeing, unfortunately. Normally, I like construction and supervising, but this project has been plagued by one mishap after another.
Right now, Landon’s bringing the back of Kyra’s hand to his lips, affection kindling in his hazel eyes. “What can I say—this girl makes it easy.”
