Page 6 of Brewer Family Collection, Part 1

Her head pokes around the corner, eyes wide as saucers. “Okay, this tub is massive . And did you see the view from there?”

I chuckle. “I saw it.”

“I might live here. Seriously. I might never leave.”

“ Where are you ?” Brock calls from below.

Blakely jumps. Yeah, I forgot they were here too .

I jam a thumb over my shoulder and exhale. “I’ll see what they’re up to while you get situated. Was this worth staying with us? I don’t want to disappoint you.”

She hurries to me and presses a soft kiss against my cheek, careful not to make further contact. “You’re the best. Thank you, Renn.”

“You’re very welcome. Happy birthday.”

She takes her suitcase and wheels it into the closet.

This will be one long weekend.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love Blakely’s affection. Coming from a large, tactile family, hugs and kisses are par for the course. Except with Gannon. Fuck Gannon . But outside the family? I don’t trust anyone’s touch … or agenda.

Usually . Blakely is an exception.

“Renn!” Brock shouts.

“Hold on, dammit,” I shout back, shaking my head. Give me a second so you don’t see me hard over your little sister, please and thank you very fucking much .

I descend the stairs and then head toward the kitchen. Brock is opening a bottle of water when I enter.

“I thought you forgot how to tell time.” I take a bottle too. Maybe this will help cool me off.

“Sorry. Ella was really mad.”

“Bet you hated that.” I take a long drink, my adrenaline beginning to ease. Ella bounces down the hallway. “Hey, El. What’s the plan tonight? Don’t the two of you have something you want to do?”

“Kinda.” She laughs. “But not anymore. I’ll talk to Blakely and see what she wants to do. She ruled out tattoos and piercings, so those are a no-go.”

Brock and I exchange a curious glance.

“Nice suite, Renn, by the way,” Ella says, poking her head through the doorway. “Where’s Blakely?”

“Upstairs.”

She pivots on her heel and heads that way.

“That girl is a ball of energy,” I say.

Brock chuckles. “You have no idea . She just bit the fuck out of me.” He clasps a hand over his shoulder. “Not complaining but fucking hell . It hurt.”

I laugh.

“So about tonight …” He yawns. “I just want to make sure my sister has a good time and is safe. She’s been stressed over this birthday, and I want her to start it off on the right foot.”

“Stressed? About what?” I ask, taking another swallow of water.

He shrugs. “I tried to follow along. But all I got was wrinkles, calcium pills, and a sperm bank.”

I cough, water spewing across the kitchen. My words from earlier echo through my brain. “I have an idea … You can have a baby and tell my mom it’s mine.”

“Are you all right?” Brock asks, concerned yet curious.

“Yeah.” I suck in a breath before coughing again. My voice is raspy, my throat burning. “I’m fine.”

“Okay …”

I sputter until I can breathe easily again. Just as I recover, Ella comes bopping by again.

“We decided on dinner, and we’re leaving in an hour, boys,” Ella says, heading back to her room. “Brock, can you grab my luggage? I need to shower. And do one of you two think you can pull your magic I’m famous card and get us a reservation?”

“I’ll do it,” Brock says. “I’ll grab your suitcase, and you can tell me where you want to go.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“See ya in an hour, I guess,” he says to me.

Judging how long “fifteen minutes” is in his book, will we even see them again tonight?

“See ya,” I say.

I empty the water bottle and then toss it in the garbage. I need to stop with the single-use plastics . I also need a shower—and a blow job, but that looks out of the question.

Irritated, I head toward my room. I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my texts.

Ripley: You didn’t wind up with my sunglasses in your bags, did you? The ones with the gold frames that I wore to the concert.

Me: Nope. Did you ask Tate? It would be a very Tate thing to wind up with your glasses.

Ripley: Funny. He said the same thing about you.

I roll my eyes, bumping my room door shut with my hip.

Ripley: Remember Carly from the Beau McCrae after-party?

Me: I’m bad with names.

Ripley: Of course. Let me try again. Red hair. Ginormous ass. Black leather skirt. Hung out with us for a while.

Oh, yeah . I grin.

Me: Turns out I’m great with adjectives.

Ripley: Well, she wants your number. Said she hit you up on Social but didn’t know if you’d ever see it.

Me: I never check that shit. It’s a sea of sharks.

I move away from the text app and open Social instead.

Ripley: I figured.

My eyes bulge at the number of unread messages in my account.

Me: The last time I responded to a girl on Social, it cost me a cease laughing emoji

“There was nothing funny about that,” I mumble, hitting my profile picture. I find my followers list and click it. My stomach swirls as I type in Blakely’s name.

Ripley: So, Carly? Yes or no on the number?

Blakely Evans follows you.

“That’s my girl.” I open her profile page, entirely too satisfied by this revelation. “ Holy fucking shit . Why have I never looked at this before?”

Each picture provides a deeper insight into her world.

I sit on the edge of my bed and swipe through her posts. Blakely with Ella. A stack of books—romances, maybe. A cup of coffee. Blakely with Brock when they were younger, posted with a story about Christmas morning.

Ripley: Don’t ignore me, asshole.

Me: I’m busy.

I type Tate’s name in the search bar. Once I’m on his profile, I ignore the plethora of shirtless images and click on his followers.

Ripley: So that’s a no to Carly?

I growl, going back to the texts.

Me: No to Carly.

Ripley: Good choice. clapping emoji

I pause.

Me: Was this some kind of test from Dad and Gannon?

Ripley: laughing emoji

“Fucker.”

I open the app again, and this time, I type Blakely’s name into Tate’s followers.

No users found .

“Ha,” I say, laughing as I drop my phone onto the bed. With more satisfaction than I should have, I head for the shower.