scratch the back of my head, feeling the knot to my bandana.
“You think your brother would lie about his location?” Jack asks me.
I lean my waist against the counter. “Probably. He’s been imitating Farrow’s rebel ass way too much.”
At first, I thought it was funny that my brother looked up to Farrow. Mostly because I knew Farrow wanted to be no one’s mentor. But here he was, stuck mentoring my baby brother.
Now I’m concerned Quinn is taking it too far, but I don’t tell Jack that. My brother issues are thick roots that I can’t see as they’ve grown under an old oak tree.
I feel like I have to chop the thing down and dig to understand what’s there. And I haven’t tried because even trying elicits rage from Quinn.
And I hate meeting his anger.
I shake my head, thinking out loud. “But Quinn has no reason to be at the lake house.” I take the clean bowl from Jack and dry it with a dish towel. Ignoring how my hand just brushed against his fingers. “It could be anyone on Epsilon or Alpha…” I trail off because one name latches in my head.
Jack is two seconds from asking.
So I just tell him, “Donnelly.” I explain how he’d often crash with Farrow at Yale. He’d even tag along dates. Why not join his honeymoon? Farrow won’t care.
I continue with a laugh, “The guy attaches himself to Farrow like he’s another appendage. He’s practically Redford’s sixth toe at this point.”
Without a doubt, I love Donnelly as much as I love Farrow.
Jack smiles, but while he leans against the sink, I see his eyes drag across the ground.
Why?
I don’t understand that. Facing him, I say casually, “You ever have that one friend that’s just such a pain in the ass but you love them for it? They could take a shit on your front lawn and you’d laugh about it and tell the story decades later?”
His broad shoulders contract and almost bow forward as he shrugs.
“Come on, Mr. Popular,” I say with an edging grin that falters. “Your phone is probably bloated with numbers.”
His lips lift. “I’m definitely not starved for those, dude.” He takes a step from the sink, closer to me. And like he’s polishing a trophy, he adds, “I was Prom King in high school.”
Don’t give him a once-over.
I nod a few times. “Checks out.” My voice is more stilted. I grab my water bottle. “I was Mr. December in a fan’s Hot Bodyguard Calendar.” I swig my water.
Jack eyes me, the two-second up-down. “That’s well-deserved.”
The kitchen is fifty-degrees hotter. “I’d say so,” I tell him.
Look at me, willingly floating towards the sun like Icarus. If I get too close, I deserve melted-wings and a hundred-foot plummet.
I take another hearty swig, then grab my phone.
Mentally, I go back to security, and something isn’t adding up. Donnelly has a client in Philly, and I doubt he’d ditch his duty to Xander Hale just to hang with Farrow.
Donnelly is a lot of things, but he cares about the families like we all do.
So I shoot a text to my other best friend: You lying to Thatcher?
His response is almost instant.
Call you later. – Donnelly
That’s a yes.
I let out a breath of relief. “Looks like no one is impersonating security. It’s just Donnelly.”
No idea why he’s there, but he’ll tell me when he can. More so, I’m stunned at how easily I just informed Jack of security’s business.
Again, what in the ever-loving hell.
“What’s wrong?” Jack asks.
“Nothing,” I say rigidly and return to the contract, pretending to read the thing. I feel his confused eyes on my back.
I just hate how comfortable I am with this guy. I’m already so fucking attracted to Jack, and I don’t want to like him even more.
But I’m so used to dating people and meeting solid roadblocks, and I’m starting to realize those don’t exist with him.
No guy or woman I take out to a simple dinner can have the details of my job or know what I know about the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts. It goes against the word security.
I’ve been yelled at for not “opening up” and “sharing” enough with short-term relationships that I thought would last longer.
Can I blame them? “I can’t talk about it” gets stale fast, and last thing I want is to be stale bread to the person I’m dating.
Not when I’m a motherfucking feast.
In my peripheral, I see Jack move around to his messenger bag on the floor. My phone buzzes