Page 19

NINETEEN

CHARLOTTE

“It’s not going to fit, Roo.” Lucas sighs.

I puff out a frustrated breath and glare at him through the strands of hair falling in front of my face. “Yes, it is.”

A choked noise comes from his lips. “Be serious. It’s way too small to fit this much.”

“You’re not trying hard enough,” I argue, lifting my chin.

“One more shot,” he negotiates. He takes off the rings adorning his fingers as if that will somehow help and sets them on the dresser. “And then we’re doing this my way.”

Grumbling a half-assed agreement, I get back into position on my hands and knees. “All right, go.”

Lucas rests his hand next to mine for additional support while using the other to force the zipper to move farther up the track. He yanks it an inch, then comes to an abrupt stop again. Shit . Knowing he’s right and my suitcase isn’t going to shut, but not wanting to admit it, I climb off and plop myself onto the floor with a huff.

“Now what?” I ask, arms crossed.

“Now we pray for a miracle,” he says, slipping his rings back on. “What the fuck do you have in there, anyway? ”

“Evidence that the moon landing was faked,” I deadpan. “Clothes. Toiletries. Shoes. Accessories. Hair tools. More clothes.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rubbing his forehead. “No wonder it’s bursting at the seams.”

“In my defense, this is a month’s worth of clothing.”

“This is most people’s entire closet, Roo,” he points out, although there’s no judgment in his voice. “And you do know we have access to washers and dryers, right? You didn’t need to pack twenty-five pairs of socks when you barely even wear tennis shoes.”

“I like to be prepared,” I say, pulling my shoulders back.

He’d lose his mind if he knew I have a half a year’s worth of underwear in there. So what if I pack as if I’m going to pee my pants every day? I’d rather be overprepared than underprepared.

He shakes his head, glowering at my luggage like he’s got a personal vendetta against it. “You need to repack.”

Before I can disagree, because packing the first time was torturous enough, Lucas tugs on the zipper, undoing all our progress, and lays both sides flat on the ground. He mutters about cubes, then starts tossing things out, not even bothering to keep my clothes in their semi-folded piles. I’m too stunned to cuss him out, so I simply watch in horror as he ruins all my hard work. That may be an exaggeration since it only took twenty minutes, but those are twenty minutes I’ll never get back.

Once my suitcase is as empty as the day Josie gifted it to me after my university graduation, he stands and places his hands on his hips. “Much better.”

“Something’s seriously wrong with you if you look at the mess you just made and think yes, much better .” I sit taller, shifting on the floor. “And just so we’re clear, you’re repacking all of that. ”

“I know,” he says, as if that was his plan all along. “We just need packing cubes.”

It doesn’t hit Lucas until we step through the sliding glass doors of Target that it’ll be a challenge leaving here with just a set of packing cubes. None of the posts I’ve seen on social media about America’s favorite retailer give the sprawling wonderland the justice it deserves. Just inside the doors, we’re greeted with a dollar section full of adorable magnets, patterned socks, and fun frames. To the left, there’s home decor galore, with plush throw pillows, stylish rugs, and elegant lamps. All the way in the back? Neatly stacked organic vegetables, brightly colored exotic fruit, and aisle after aisle of packaged goods with hanging signs above listing items like breakfast cereals and international cuisine ingredients . And don’t even get me started on the beauty and personal care section to my right. Dear lord, I could buy and fill a whole new suitcase with skincare products alone.

“Do I need to get a cart?” Lucas chuckles.

I snap my mouth shut, check it for drool, and turn to him. “We have dinner in an hour,” I say, already distracted by a nearby accessory display with an adorable wicker purse.

He nods. “I know.”

“You brought me to America’s pride and joy, knowing I won’t have enough time to peruse to my heart’s content.” I shoot him a scowl. “That’s red flag behavior, Lucas Adler.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’m just making sure you come back here with me in the future.”

“America has free refills, AC everywhere, movie theatre popcorn, and Girl Scout cookies.” I wave him off. “Of course I’m coming back.”

“You said that was all canceled out by our use of the imperial system. ”

There’s nothing sexier than a man who listens, especially to complaints about not knowing how many cups of sugar equate to 150 grams.

A laugh burst from my chest. “Very true, but the Boston Tea Party tips the scales in its favor.”

The reason my suitcase isn’t zipping is because I now own three mugs featuring American presidents I can’t name.

“Now stop distracting me. We have to leave in”—I grab his arm and peek at his watch—“thirty-seven minutes.”

“It’s fine if we’re a bit late,” he reassures me, his tone soothing.

I poke him in the chest. “Your mum’s been the sweetest host. I won’t disrespect her by showing up late to the dinner she took the time to make.”

Lucas’s lips twitch up at my outburst, but he maintains a straight face when he announces, “I made dinner.”

His confession has me doing a double take worthy of a slapstick comedy. “You made dinner? When?”

“I prepped it all while you were sleeping,” he tells me. “My mom’s just popping things into the oven and turning on the grill.”

“You cook?”

Lucas willingly wakes up at five or six—practically the middle of the night—so it makes sense that he accomplished so much before I rolled out of bed, but that doesn’t leave me any less impressed.

“Yep.” He chuckles. “It’s hard when I’m traveling, but I do it as often as I can. I could tell you all about my broccoli pesto pasta and baked salmon with grapefruit salad, but if you don’t want to be late, we only have about thirty-five minutes?—”

I snag his arm with one hand and a small shopping basket with the other and yank him forward. I’m like a bloodhound when it comes to finding deals and steals, but that talent extends to finding exactly what I’m looking for in a time crunch. It’s one attribute of being a chronic late packer. I often realize I need a certain item the night before a trip.

“Which ones?” I ask, motioning to the shelves lined with options. Rather than grab a package and be done with it, he picks one up, turns it over, and studies the package. Hell no . Refusing to waste time, especially because I don’t think I need cubes in the first place, I leave Lucas to his examination and wander the aisles.

He finds me in the arts and crafts aisle fifteen minutes later, my basket filled with fun finds: bronzing drops, a new primer, a black-and-white-striped jumper that may or may not make me look like a prisoner, a pair of fuzzy socks, a rosemary vinegar hair rinse, a bag of cheddar onion popcorn, a mini colander with a berry design, and a dog toy shaped like a purse that’s emblazoned with Chewy Vuitton .

Amusement dancing in his eyes, Lucas inspects my haul, then takes the basket from my arms. “The more stuff you get, the harder it’s going to be to repack, Roo. Why are you getting a dog toy? You don’t have a dog.”

“Tell me Champ won’t love that,” I say. He should be glad I didn’t get the orange liquor bottle–shaped toy that said A-Paw-Rol , too.

With a shake of his head, he grins. “What are we doing in this aisle, anyway?”

“I need colored pencils and dual-tipped markers for an idea I have.”

“Ideas are good,” he says, the corners of his lips tipping up. “Are you going to tell me what the idea is, or do you want me to guess?”

I hold up a hand to stop him right there. “You’re a horrible guesser, Lucas.”

He reels back in offense. “No, I’m not.”

“I’ve watched Jeopardy with you,” I remind him.

I’ve discovered that when Lucas is on a plane, he does one of three things: He watches Jeopardy , catches up on sports games he’s missed, or plays word games on his phone. If he didn’t let his competitive nature take over and blurt out the first answer that came to his head, he’d probably be decent, but alas, he doesn’t. It’s why he says shit like “Who is Dr. Seuss?” instead of “Who is Ralph Waldo Emerson?” I watch it with him every once in a while, not because I enjoy it, but because the show is guaranteed to lull me to sleep on the plane.

“Whatever,” he mumbles, shooting me a mock glare. “So what’s the idea?”

“It’s easier if I show you later,” I explain with a dismissive wave. “Now stop distracting me. I’ve got a lot of aisles to get through in the next five minutes.”

He chuckles but lets me be as I pick up a few more items, then drag him to the shoe section. I’ve got to hand it to him; he doesn’t complain, nor does he rush me, as I toss items into the basket like it’s a black hole. He insists on paying and warns me that if I argue with him, it’ll only make us late for dinner and he’ll still end up swiping his card.

We make it back to the Adler house three minutes and forty-two seconds after the official start time for dinner. Grayson, Jaclyn, and Madison pull into the driveway moments after we do, and the rest of the Adler brothers are already snacking on hummus, pita, and veggies in the kitchen.

Lucas invites me outside with him to grill, but I decline because, well, mosquitos and Jesse. The former loves me—and it’s not mutual—and the latter is avoiding me. I barely got out a full “hello” before he was hightailing it into the backyard. I don’t blame him after what I’m dubbing the “pool cue and penis incident.” But he deserved it. I hope. I don’t know what was said during their conversation—and Lucas won’t tell me—but I’m willing to bet it wasn’t pleasant.

I temporarily regret my decision to stay indoors when I notice Lucas manning the grill like a pro, all while his niece hangs off his back like a spider monkey. It’s a sexy sight and may replace my current favorite look—the porn pants, of course.

“We’re on table duty,” a deep voice says nearby, interrupting my peepshow.

Thankfully, Grayson doesn’t call me out on my blatant yet respectful ogling of his brother. Instead, he simply nods in the direction of the dining room.

“I was surprised when Lucas told me you were coming to Boston,” he admits, walking around the table while putting down placemats.

I look up from my phone, where I’m googling whether the fork goes on the left or the right side. I always fuck it up. FYI: it’s the left .

“Why?” I ask, my heart jumping into my throat as I consider that maybe the surprise wasn’t a good one.

“He doesn’t bring people home,” he replies. “Or at least he hasn’t until you.”

Blake, Theo, and Ella have all been to Lucas’s Boston penthouse, but I read between the lines. Lucas doesn’t bring single female friends home. Unsure of what to make of this information, I throw Grayson a wink, “What can I say?” I joke. “I’ve got a stellar sense of humor.”

Chuckling, he says, “I think it’s because you put him at ease.”

I can’t help but grin at that. I’ve been called loud, outgoing, vivacious, bubbly, and energetic, but I’ve never once been referred to as the kind of person who puts another at ease. “Um, I don’t think you’d be saying that if you’d seen him trying to zip my suitcase earlier. He was anything but at ease.”

“You wouldn’t be disagreeing with me if you realized how much calmer and happier he is when you’re around.”

My cheeks heat, but before I can respond, he continues.

“He gave up a lot to get where he is today, and I respect that, but he puts an insane amount of pressure on himself. He’s always go, go, go. Lucas is so laser-focused on Formula 1 that he’s forgotten there’s a life outside of it. You… balance him out a bit.”

“We’re just friends,” I tell him. It’s lame, sure, using the oldest line in the book, but I don’t want him to read into anything. I do enough of that myself.

“Even so.” He gives me a knowing smirk. “He’s been so wrapped up in racing these past few years that he’s forgotten how to be a kid.”

I arch a brow at him. Lucas is anything but a kid. Those muscles? That stubble? Those tattooed forearms? That’s all man. “You’re only, what, three years older than him?”

“Yeah, but he’ll always be my kid brother,” Grayson says, sounding far too much like Theo when he talks about me. I could be married with kids, and I guarantee my brother would pretend I’m a virgin.

“The two of you went to the Boston Tea Party Museum, right?” With the last placemat in position, he moves on to napkins.

I nod, curious as to where he’s going with this. “Mm-hmm. Interpreters wearing costumes led the tour and everything.”

He tilts his head, studying me. “And Lucas had a good time?”

“I mean, he didn’t throw his arms up and say ‘I had the best day ever,’ but he was an active participant when we threw tea off the replica vessel, and he said he had fun.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Lucas hates museums, and the only test he ever cheated on was American history.”

My heart stutters, and I blink in slow disbelief. Now that’s some tea.