The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,149

outside, sitting and reading and sleeping in the chair we placed near the butterfly garden for him.

“Well, spit it out. I’m too old for suspense.” He glowers at my mother from under his heavy brow.

“There’s a gang of criminals living in Rivers Wilde. A bookstore owner and her eighteen-year-old girl,” I say and waggle a brow at him.

“Is she robbing people in their gardens?” my grandfather says, his eyebrows raised with dry mock horror.

“It’s not funny,” my mother, never one to allow light to be made of anything, says. “You all have grown up in the lap of luxury. But trust me, I know what it’s like when unsavory elements start moving in. It’s just them now, but next thing you know their friends from Third Ward will start visiting. And there goes the neighborhood.”

“Third Ward is a historically significant neighborhood and home to many of our stores,” my grandfather reminds her in that stern, disapproving way that only he can.

“Isn’t Beyoncé from Third Ward?” Regan asks.

“Yes, she is. And you can tell… Money doesn’t buy class. Breeding is important. Remember that you are Wildes. Stay away from that girl.”

“Well, this is more excitement than I can remember having in a long time. I might walk down to the town square just to catch a glimpse of our very own Thelma and Louise.”

“Liam, it’s not exciting, or funny, and I don’t want you encouraging the kids. It’s bad enough that Remi has to deliver things to that store every day,” my mother says with agitation.

“Nothing encourages a kid like telling them not to do something. Sounds like you got the encouraging covered. And, Remi and Regan are both old enough to drive. They aren’t kids.” My grandfather’s voice is stern and full of warning.

“They’re my kids,” she pushes back with that thread of steel she always gets when he challenges her like this.

“Funny how she remembers that, now,” Regan whispers to me, and I give her a warning glance.

“What was that?” My mother’s voice is cold and lets Regan know that she heard her and is daring her to repeat it.

Regan’s never been good at playing chicken. “Nothing. I’m going back to bed,” she says as she snags an apple from the huge bowl of fruit in the center of the too big table and shuffles out.

“That girl has the worst attitude,” my mother says and shakes her head disapprovingly.

“I thought you were leaving for work,” Ty says and walks over to her and puts an arm around her. She leans into him for a second and pulls out of his grasp. She’s always been uncomfortable with affection. Tyson, with his endless optimism, keeps trying with her.

“I am. I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page before I leave. I mean it. Keep contact to a minimum.”

“Remi, I think that’s her.” My brother nods at the window that overlooks the entire main street of Rivers Wilde. Our house was the very first home built in the neighborhood and my grandfather put it on one of the artificial hills they erected.

From the second-story family room that also serves as our study area, you can see straight into the square, even though it’s a good quarter of a mile away. It’s a perfectly designed grid, and from here, I can see how well-thought-out it is. It’s small-town America in the middle of the urban sprawl of Houston. The minute you drive through the majestic iron gates that mark the entrance, it feels like a different world.

I follow Tyson’s gaze over the pristine treelined street until I see what caught his eye. A young woman is making her way up the street that serves as the main artery of the town square.

Her hair is a crazy mess of curls gathered at the top of her head. She’s got on a red T-shirt that says Bae Watch and some tiny denim shorts, that show off long, toned legs. She’s wearing bright blue Jordan’s, and her hands clutch the front straps of the backpack that’s slung over her shoulders. The dozen or so silver bangles that adorn her arms glint in the sunlight. And, there’s something very familiar about her.

It’s been bugging me all day. When Pops and I were walking through the square this morning, she was outside the bookstore, wiping down the huge bay windows that jut out onto the sidewalk and make it look like a real small-town bookstore.

She was wearing those same sunglasses.

I started to cross the