And just like when we were kids and I tucked him back in bed after a nightmare, I’m still the one looking out for us.
“I need to see what was more important than we were. Hold it in my hand, crush it, and destroy it. And yes, I do feel some call to avenge him, but I need to see this through. Not for him, not really. But for us. I couldn’t handle it if whatever led to his death came back to haunt us and got us—got you—hurt or worse. I need answers, and the only way to get them is to follow through with this.”
He sighs deeply. “I don’t want to lose you too, Nathan. Losing Dad sucked, but I didn’t really even know him. My childhood? I remember you. Grant some too, since he was always around, fussing about dinner and school. But mostly . . . you raised me, taught me what to do and not do, and made sure that I didn’t end up a total asshole. Whatever shit Dad got mixed up in, I wish you’d stay far away from it.”
I can hear the brotherly love in Caleb’s words, and I wish I could give him the peace he’s seeking. “I hear you. And I promise to be careful. But this is me protecting you, and myself, and maybe even our company. We’ll do this the same way we’ve done everything else, together, side by side. I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine.”
“And the girl? Emma?” Caleb asks, a smirk on his face that lets me know he’s moving past the heavy shit for the moment and easing back to some brotherly teasing. “Do I get to have her back too? You can have the front,” he says, like it’s a concession. “Or do you want the old-fashioned spit roast?”
I growl, but it’s jokingly. “Fuck no. You’re my brother, but I’m not into that sharing shit.”
He laughs. “I don’t know. She seemed to jump right into the kinky shit at the party. Maybe she’d be into it?”
“No,” I say tersely. “She’s all mine.”
I mean it to sound salacious, but it comes out a bit more genuine than I’d intended. And possessive.
Caleb’s smile falters for a split second, but he recovers. “Just be careful, Nathan. With Nikolai and with Emma. I’m not sure which of them has you more by the balls. Enjoy your . . . date.”
“I hear you. And I will . . . be careful and enjoy it,” I tell him with a grin.
My promise is still on my mind when my driver pulls up to the front steps of the MOMA. Out of habit, I scan the crowd of tourists, looking for outliers and analyzing threats.
But then I see her and everything else disappears.
Emma is standing near one of the columns, her blonde hair long and sunny against the yellow of her dress.
A smile curves my lips. Yellow, not canary, but buttery and soft. And I wonder if she wore her favorite color as a sort of armor for our date. A buzz of amusement hits me at the thought. Maybe she is just as affected by me as I am by her.
I climb out of the car, telling the driver, “I’ll call when we’re ready to be picked up.”
I assume he responds, but my attention is focused solely on Emma. I catch the instant she sees me, the look in her eyes changing from one of anticipation to one of excitement as she watches me climb the steps toward her.
“Hi,” she says demurely, but I know better. She’s not shy. She’s steel and fire covered in satin. And for the next few hours, she’s mine.
“Hello,” I say, taking her hand and planting a kiss to the back of it like I’m a gentleman, though we both know I’m not. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you. You look handsome too,” she says, looking me up and down. I came straight from the office, but my standard custom suit and silk tie seemed reasonable and I’d barely given them a second thought. But now I’m curious what she sees as she looks at me. When her tongue peeks out to wet her lips, the flash of pink makes me want to chase it with my own mouth.
I offer her my elbow, my eyes barely flicking toward the entrance. “Shall we?”
Though she slips her hand around my bicep, she argues, “I was sure this was when you said to meet, but the museum is