Page 18

EIGHTEEN

LUCAS

I haven’t played tourist in my own city since I was on a school field trip in seventh grade. We walked through Boston’s historic neighborhoods on what’s dubbed the Freedom Trail. It was a memorable experience, and not because we saw Benjamin Franklin’s statue or the Old Law House, but because Rebecca Steinberg let me feel her up on the bus ride home.

I planned on showing Charlotte my version of Boston rather than the historical one—the ice cream parlor we’d stop at after Finn’s baseball games, the park where my friends and I would spend hours kicking around a soccer ball, the amazing Chinese restaurant we go to every Christmas. Similar to how Americans don’t learn much about Australia’s history, they don’t learn about ours, so I figured Paul Revere’s house and Ben Franklin’s statue wouldn’t be that exciting for her.

But, of course, in usual Charlotte style, she manages to surprise the hell out of me.

In her quest to find a punny shirt, she stumbles across one featuring John Adams and John Hancock sitting on the Boston Harbor, sipping cups of tea, with a speech bubble above Hancock that says Spill the tea, sis . That leads to a redacted version of the event known as the Boston Tea Party, which she finds wildly amusing and hilarious given the “absolute genius level of pettiness” and insists we learn more.

So yeah, that’s how we end up spending our entire afternoon at the fucking Boston Tea Party Museum.

I drag her out after three hours, but not before she buys a shirt from the gift shop that says Time to Par-Tea! with two tea bags dancing on it.

“How upset are you about going off schedule?” she asks as we walk back to my car. I parked in an area that would be central to the places I planned to take her, which is not at all near where we are now.

“I’m not.” Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, I turn to face her, my pulse ratcheting up. “Why would you think that?”

She nibbles on her lower lip, and if I wasn’t holding her shopping bags, I would reach out and stop her. “You had our whole afternoon organized, and I completely disregarded that and went off course. I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate your planning or that I ruined things.”

If her vulnerability at this admission wasn’t written all over her face, I would scoff at the ridiculousness of it. “You didn’t ruin anything, Roo. So we didn’t stick to the original plan. That doesn’t mean the detour was any less fun.”

She studies my face, eyes wary, as if looking for deception. But it only takes a moment for her shoulders to relax. “Learning about the tea party was fun.”

I love how she says tea party as if it’s afternoon tea at a hotel rather than over one hundred American colonists protesting against British taxation by boarding ships and dumping their tea into the Boston Harbor.

“Lucas Adler?”

At the sound of my name, I turn, finding the six-five captain of the Boston Panthers jogging our way .

“Cole Berrett.” I shake my head and grin at the hockey star. “What’re the odds?”

He chuckles, his expression mirroring mine. “How are you? I didn’t realize you were in town.”

“Keeping it quiet,” I admit with a shrug. If anyone gets it, he does. “This is Charlotte, by the way.”

“Hi. Nice to meet you.” Charlotte smiles, but then her jaw drops and she claps loudly. “Oh my God, I know you.”

Cole scratches the back of his head and grimaces. “Uh?—”

“You’re TikTok famous,” she announces, her lips twitching up into a mischievous smile.

I can’t help but chuckle. I didn’t think Charlotte was a hockey fan, so I figured she wouldn’t recognize Cole for his three Stanley Cups wins and being one of the best centers in the NHL, but I definitely didn’t think it’d be because of TikTok.

“Well, not you, but your dog,” she clarifies, her eyes dancing. “Goose, right?”

Cole coughs out a laugh. “Um, yeah. I’m Goose’s dad.”

Charlotte squeals and does a little happy dance. “Oh, he is so adorable. The videos your girlfriend makes of him choosing her book club’s next read with his paw literally make my heart melt. Did she teach him to do that?”

Cole’s posture eases, and his expression is pure amusement as she goes on. Clearly, he appreciates Charlotte’s love for his dog and lack of interest in his career. The two of them chat about Goose, the golden retriever I had no idea even existed, for the next twenty minutes as I listen, chuckling internally the whole time.

Only Charlotte .

The conversation ends with Charlotte working to convince Cole to take Maya on a date to the Boston Tea Party Museum. While I didn’t find the experience romantic in any way, shape, or form, it also wasn’t a date. Unfortunately .

The drive back to Brookline and my childhood home takes about twenty minutes. It wasn’t my first choice of places to stay while Charlotte’s here, but Finn and Ezra live in my penthouse downtown. I stayed with them for the first few days of my visit, since the master bedroom still has my shit in it, but I doubt Charlotte would enjoy the experience. The twins may be twenty-seven, but they’ve turned my professionally decorated Architectural Digest –worthy home into a frat castle. They seriously have a poster hanging on one wall that says Don’t Do Coke in the Bathroom . So yeah, I’d rather deal with back pain from squishing into a twin-size bed than subject Charlotte to that.

Also, I don’t need to give Finn additional opportunities to flirt with her. I don’t blame him for shooting his shot, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Of course, that backfires because he’s lounging with my dad in the backyard when we get back to the house and greets Charlotte with a “Hey, gorgeous. Are you a parking ticket? Because you’ve got fine written all over you.”

She gives him a cursory once-over. “Are you a fire alarm? Because you’re loud, obnoxious, and hurting my eyes.”

Finn throws his head back and laughs, but Charlotte simply turns to greet my dad and chats for a moment before announcing that she’s heading inside to shower and get ready for dinner. Dinner is beer, chicken wings, and nachos at a local sports bar with my brothers and some friends, but for Charlotte, dressing up is practically a requirement, regardless of how small the occasion.

Once the back door slides shut, I narrow my eyes at Finn. “Stop being weird and checking her out.”

“Last time I checked, you weren’t my parent, and therefore can’t tell me what to do,” he says with a smug smirk.

My dad clears his throat and straightens in his chair. “As your parent, I don’t appreciate you making Charlotte uncomfortable in our home, so I’m telling you to stop. ”

Actually, Charlotte finds Finn’s cheesy pickup lines “endearingly lame” and takes zero offense to them. But I keep that information to myself. If my dad can get him to stop, I’m all for it.

“You can’t tell me what to do either,” Finn argues. “I’m a grown-ass adult.”

Dad simply arches a brow. “Then you can do your own taxes next year.”

With a grumble, my brother shifts in his seat and rests his forearms on the armrests, suddenly not so combative.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I ask, settling into the open lawn chair next to my dad. “I thought we were all meeting at the bar later.”

“Got off work early and wanted to come hang,” he says, feigning an innocence he hasn’t possessed in more than two decades.

My dad chuckles. “That’s code for he knew your mom made chocolate chip cookies for Charlotte and wanted some for himself.”

Finn shrugs, completely unashamed. Can’t say I blame him. Our mom’s chocolate chip cookies are legendary and were always the most popular item at school bake sales, even beating out Robby Anderson’s mom’s superhero-themed cake pops. Take that, fucker .

“What’d the two of you do this afternoon?” my dad asks, leaning back in his chair. “Mom mentioned you were going to take her to the Charles River Esplanade.”

I readjust my watch—the one Charlotte got for me. “Uh, we ended up going to the Boston Tea Party Museum instead.”

My dad and Finn whip their heads in my direction in perfect unison, their mouths hanging open. Their reactions are warranted. If anyone else wanted to visit that museum, I’d be throwing myself into the Boston Harbor, posing as the tea and reenacting that infamous day to avoid it, since American history was always my least favorite subject in school.

But I never could, and probably never will, say no to her.

The Barrel is the stereotypical neighborhood bar. Neon beer signs line the walls, and there’s a pool table standing proudly next to a jukebox that only plays ’80s rock and jazz. The high tops and booths that have seen better days are chock-full of patrons with their attention glued to TVs mounted throughout the room. Every eye in the place shifts, though, the moment Charlotte, Finn, and I step into the bar, and for once, it’s not because of me. Not to be cocky, but people get excited when a professional Formula 1 driver visits a local haunt, even places I’ve frequented for years. But with Charlotte beside me, I may as well be Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Not only does she look gorgeous, but she’s wearing a ruffly pink romper and strappy silver heels in a bar that’s known for their cheese curds. I would expect nothing less.

Automatically, I rest my hand on her lower back, in part to warn others that she’s unavailable, but also because I like touching her, and this is about all I can get away with without raising eyebrows. Finn scans the space, and when he doesn’t spot “our crew,” his words, not mine, he offers to grab a table while we get drinks. That’s his subtle way of telling me to start a tab with my Amex.

The Red Sox are playing the Yankees tonight and an NBA final is on, so the bar’s packed with fans eager to cheer for their team while indulging in local stouts. I grab Charlotte’s arm so she doesn’t get lost in the crowd, but when I’m met with cool, hard plastic rather than warm, soft skin, I jerk back. Thrown off by the placement of her insulin pod and not wanting to accidentally knock it off, I reach out again, this time grasping her elbow to guide her to the bar .

“It’s not contagious,” Charlotte says, lifting her arm, motioning to the small pump that’s no bigger than a case for wireless earbuds. “Nor will it bite you for touching it, so you don’t have to act like it’s a monarch butterfly.”

“A monarch butterfly?”

“Madison says they’re poisonous.”

When the comment registers, I burst out laughing. She can’t be serious, right? When her brows lower and her eyes go icy, I realize that yes, she is serious, and yes, I did just make a bad situation worse by laughing. She turns and takes a step, then another, her movements harsh, like she’s going to storm off, but the sticky floor prevents her from getting far before I pull her back and spin her around using her belt loops.

“I’m not laughing at you.” I tug her closer so she can hear me over the ruckus around us. “I’m laughing at how ridiculous it is that you think I care about your pump.”

If possible, those eyes go glacial.

“Let me rephrase that.” I inhale a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I care about your pump because it keeps you alive, but I don’t care that you have to wear it. I just didn’t realize it was there, and it caught me off guard. My first instinct was to move my hand so I wouldn’t accidentally knock it off.”

Her body softens against mine. “Oh.”

“You seriously think I’d care about that?” I ask, my chest aching at the idea.

“No.” She sighs. “It’s a reflex, I guess. I dated this guy once, and he asked me if I could take it off ‘just for sex.’”

Instantly, red crowds my vision. “You’re fucking with me,” I growl. Who in the ever-loving fuck would ask a question like that? Not only should it not matter, but her pump should be the last fucking thing on his mind if she’s naked in front of him.

“Unfortunately, no.” She shrugs. “Don’t worry, though. I got even. I use his email when stores ask for one, so he’s been getting junk emails for years now. ”

Some of my anger fades at this, though I rub at the pain in my chest that hasn’t subsided. “Still fucked up.”

“Yep,” she agrees. “I change the location of my pump depending on what I think I’m going to wear.”

I study her, dumbfounded by the information. “What do you mean?”

“I have to change it every three days,” she explains. “So, if I know I’m going to be wearing jeans in the next few days, I won’t put it on my thigh, since I don’t like how bulky that looks. If I plan to wear a tighter shirt with a skirt, then I’ll put it on my thigh rather than my stomach.”

“I had no idea.”

“Why would you? You’re not exactly privy to my closet.” She laughs. “But yeah, my outfits are about the only thing I plan ahead of time, and that’s just because I want to make sure my pump sits comfortably. Wearing it on my stomach while in high-waisted jeans is not a good move, you know?”

“Huh,” I note.

Charlotte’s low key about being diabetic. She doesn’t hide it—hell, her pump and glucose monitor are visible most of the time—but she doesn’t let the disease stop her from doing what she wants. Because of that, I’ve never put much thought into where she wears her pump.

“Anyway,” she says, moving on from the topic. “What’s good to drink here? Is there anything they’re known for?”

I chuckle at the question. “Cheap beer is what they’re known for, Roo.”

She crinkles her nose. Like Theo, she doesn’t like beer, but she doesn’t enjoy sugary cocktails either. “I’ll take a glass of wine, then, please.”

There’s a good chance this bar doesn’t serve wine, but I bite the bullet and ask for it anyway. Turns out that not only do they have it, but they have options. The bartender is so excited by the order that she offers to make Charlotte a flight of her favorites.

As we approach the booth Finn commandeered near the pool table in the back, we find the rest of our group has arrived, and they’ve taken over a second booth. They all look scandalized by the wine flight I’m holding, considering they all drink Sam Adams Boston Lager like it’s water, but my friends are more interested in meeting Charlotte than commenting on her drink choice. I go through the introductions quickly since I don’t appreciate how they’re all staring at her with a little too much interest. Conversation is easy between us as we watch the game—minus Charlotte, who doesn’t even pretend to have interest—and shoot the shit. A few drinks in, Grayson stands and announces that he wants to play pool.

“Charlotte, you’re with me,” he says, making teams without anyone’s input. “Finn, you’re with Ezra. Rack up.”

That motherfucker .

While there’s ample space for players around the pool table, there’s little room for an audience. Grayson set it up this way so Jesse and I would be forced to stand off to the side. Alone. Fuck me .

I take a deep breath and turn to the brother I’ve done my best to avoid. We’ve been in the same room, sat at the same family dinners, laughed at our dad’s corny jokes together, and salivated over our mom’s home-cooked meals, but talked? We haven’t done that.

“Let’s get this over with,” I say, crossing my arms. Maybe the look comes across as hostile, but I’m feeling defensive. “Say what you have to say so we can be done.”

He flinches and scans the crowded bar. “Oh. Here?”

“It’s as good a time as any.” I shrug as a mix of pain and irritation swirl inside me. “You wanted to talk, so talk.”

As much as I would love to not have this conversation, I can’t evade it forever, especially now that Grayson has involved himself. And at least here, there’s crowd control in case it gets… heated.

“What do I have to do?” Jesse asks, his shoulders slumping. “How do I get you to forgive me? I never wanted things to go down the way they did, and I regret how I handled it, but?—”

“See, that’s the thing,” I interrupt him. “You regret how you handled it, but not what you did. How the hell do you expect me to forgive you when you’re not even sorry? Exes are off-limits, and you knew I was still into her.”

His dark eyes narrow, and his chest expands with a harsh breath. “Be fucking honest, Lucas. You were barely dating.You fucked her when you were in town, but barely referred to her as your girlfriend. I was one of a handful of people who even knew you were seeing her. You wanted to have your cake and eat it, too.”

“How I define my relationships is none of your business, and not the point,” I snap, clenching my free hand at my side. “She was still my ex. How did you think I was going to react? Say congrats and get you a gift? Ignore how you went behind my back to hurt me?”

“I didn’t date Kylie to hurt you . Not everything is about you. Did you ever think that maybe I was in love with her long before you got with her? Did you ever consider how I’d feel when you started dating one of my friends? No. You didn’t. You may have been interested in getting back together, but that’s only because you liked the idea of having someone. It had nothing to do with who she was.”

There’s a lot to fucking unpack there, but anger rises in me like a tide, making it impossible to think of anything but my hurt. “So after I date her is when you decide to make a move? Sure, maybe I wasn’t in love with her, but what you did was still shady as shit.”

Jesse takes a step forward, invading my space. His lips twist into an ugly smirk. “What I did was shady? That’s really hypocritical, considering you’re fucking your best friend’s little sister behind his back, Lucas.”

“I’m not sleeping with Charlotte,” I bite out through gritted teeth. “And she has nothing to do with this, so keep her name out of your mouth.”

Jesse tips his face up and barks out a laugh. “She has nothing to do with this? You’re pissed that I broke bro code, yet you’re doing the same shit, man.”

“There’s nothing going on between the two of us,” I hiss, poking him hard enough in the chest that he stumbles back a step. “So fuck you.”

Definitely not my greatest comeback, and I’m sure something more profound will come to me later, but I stick with it.

“No, fuck you, Lucas,” he says, his voice harsh. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I truly am. But you’ve been punishing me without looking at your own role in all of this. I love you, man, but I’ve lived in your shadow for years .” His voice wavers a little on that last part. “Yeah, going for Kylie without speaking with you was shitty, and yeah, I could’ve handled it better, but rather than give me the benefit of the doubt, you make me the villain and don’t give me five fucking seconds of your busy life to try to mend things.”

I can read Jesse well enough to know he’s about two breaths away from either turning and taking off or driving his fist into my face. Grayson must sense it, too, because suddenly, Jesse’s being pushed toward the pool table while I’m pulled farther from it.

“You good?” Grayson asks, his hand resting on my shoulder.

Shrugging his hand away, I round on him. “I told you not to get involved.”

The flicker of a wince wrinkles his forehead. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

I shoot him a droll look and take a long sip of my beer. The caramel sweetness and the bitter, spicy hops do nothing to alleviate the tension in my shoulders. The sound of pool balls shuttling into pockets and breaking against the sides, darts thunking into the dartboard, and the good-natured ribbing and cheering as a team scores become background noise. I’m not sure what I expected from my conversation with Jesse, but it certainly wasn’t that. I had no idea he had a thing for Kylie before I got with her. They had been friends for years, and yet he never once indicated that he had any romantic interest in her. Hell, he’s the one who introduced us. I don’t?—

“Oh, fuck,” Grayson says, shoving past me and hightailing it to the pool table. My mind jumps to Charlotte, and I follow him blindly, in the dark about what’s happening, but needing to know that she’s okay.

A cursory once-over reveals that she’s fine, but Jesse? He’s doubled over, staggering backward while clutching his groin and groaning. Fuck, does that have to hurt. A phantom pain hits me, almost causing me to double over, too.

“I did warn him to back up when I lined up for my shot,” Charlotte grumbles.

Huh . It wasn’t Ezra or Finn who hit Jesse in the nuts. There was no brotherly annoyance involved. It was Charlotte and her pool cue. And based on the way she looks about 15 percent apologetic and 85 percent pleased with herself, I don’t think it was an accident.

Lowering my head, I sidle up next to her and say, “I thought we agreed to no dick punching.”

She peers up at me, wearing an innocent smile. “I thought that was just a suggestion, not a hard and fast rule.”

I duck my head to hide a grin. I might not want my brothers involved in my issues with Jesse, but I’ve got to admit it’s nice knowing Charlotte has my back. She’s one hell of a beautiful ballbuster.