Page 21

TWENTY-ONE

LUCAS

As Theo drives from the track to his childhood home, he drones on about how the reward system of his favorite coffee chain has gone downhill over the past few years, so I let myself zone out. And of course, my mind focuses on the one thing it shouldn’t: Charlotte.

My words circle through my head like a merry-go-round.

That was a mistake. You’re Theo’s sister. Can we just forget this happened?

Like I could ever erase the memory of her lips on mine. I’m not one of those guys who likes to rush kissing and skip straight to the action. I love kissing. It may not be as intimate as other acts, but I enjoy the slow buildup, the teasing of what’s to come. And fucking hell can Charlotte kiss. Her lips have haunted me for years, and now that I’ve had a taste, I’d give up a championship win for another.

She’s off-limits .

The unspoken code among friends has me in its clutches. Charlotte is Theo’s sister. Pursuing anything with her would be a betrayal, plain and simple. But that knowledge has no bearing on how I feel about her. It doesn’t stop the way my heart races when she walks into a room or how my thoughts drift to her more often than I care to admit. And it doesn’t keep my smile from widening when she laughs. And now that I know that a single kiss from her is better than any sex I’ve had, I’m screwed for the rest of my life.

The car comes to a short stop at a red light, causing my seat belt to choke me and the momentum to force a grunt from my throat. I shift in my seat, ready to badger him about forgetting how to operate a regular car, but when the worry etched into his features registers, I snap my mouth shut.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he says in a stern tone. “Why have you been pouting all day?”

I take a deep breath to center myself so I don’t throttle him. Despite what he thinks, I’m a thirty-one-year-old man who absolutely doesn’t pout. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine, man.”

Humming, he drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “Liar. I know something happened with Jesse. Grayson told me.”

Irritation flares in my chest. How is it that my oldest brother doesn’t understand the concept of backing the fuck off? “He shouldn’t have said anything, and I don’t appreciate the two of you texting about me. It’s unnecessary.”

Theo’s unusually stoic expression morphs into a smirk. “He didn’t tell me shit, but I knew that’d get you to admit something happened.”

I drop my head back against the seat. Yup. I walked straight into that one .

“It’s not a big deal,” I say, annoyance ratcheting up to agitation. “We got into an argument.”

Understatement of the year. Jesse’s assertion that I’m a hypocrite for calling him out while crushing on Charlotte got under my skin more deeply than a splinter. That’s why I panicked after we kissed. I’ve successfully resisted her for two years, but watching her spend time with my family, joking and chatting like she’s exactly where she belongs? I hit my breaking point. Then I told her we should forget about it. Fucking asshole . I keep telling myself it’s for the best, but I’m not sure for whom.

“Charlotte told me you can hire a witch to curse people,” Theo says, his lips pulled into a serious frown. “Just say the word, and I’ll find a good one for you.”

I crack a small smile at that. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” he says with a satisfied smirk. The light turns green, and he speeds forward, ignoring all speed limits. “Do you think Blake’s proposing to Ella tonight?”

“No.” It’s the same answer I gave him when he asked me this morning.

“Why else would he miss dinner tonight, though?”

“Because it’s an AlphaVite team dinner, and last time I checked, Blake drives for McAllister.”

Theo scoffs. Blake may not be part of the AlphaVite team, but Mrs. Walker considers him extended family regardless, so he still got the dinner invite.

“ Or ,” Theo says, drawing out the single syllable, “he said no because he’s taking her out for ice cream to pop the question. I bet he’ll hide the ring in her soft serve. Oh! Or they’ll put it on top with sprinkles surrounding it.”

Blake bought a ring—a whopping 5.2 carat diamond from a trusted jeweler, a.k.a. my dad—but has been tight-lipped about when, where, and how he’s proposing. Theo, naturally, is beside himself about not being kept in the loop, and now he’s on high alert at all times. Any time Ella and Blake are alone, he’s convinced it’s going to happen. Grabbing a coffee? He’s going to propose with the ring around the straw. Going to dinner? Surprise, there’s a ring baked into the dessert. Walking Champ? He’s going to be wearing a bandanna that says Will you marry my dad ?

“Blake won’t propose if her family’s not in town,” I point out. “And I highly doubt he’d do it with a sticky ring.”

“Maybe,” Theo muses. “I can’t wait for the two of us to be his best men.”

Cringing internally, I simply nod. Blake’s going to ask Ella’s younger brother to be his best man, and Theo’s going to lose his ever-loving mind when he finds out he’s just a regular groomsman.

Theo spends the rest of the car ride guessing how tonight’s proposal will happen—ignoring the reality that it definitely isn’t—including a scenario where Blake pulls the ring out of a kangaroo’s pouch. He’s still yammering on as we pull up to his childhood home and he expertly navigates the cobblestone driveway that winds its way up to the front entrance.

“Home sweet home,” he says, drumming his hands against the steering wheel as we come to a stop.

More like mansion sweet mansion. No one in their right mind would consider the Walker’s gleaming white stone house, with its tall, arched windows, dark slate roof, and views overlooking the Port Philip Bay a simple home. It’s an estate.

The engine is still running when the front door swings open and Mrs. Walker waves at us. The greeting has my lips quirking of their own accord. Charlotte’s looks aren’t the only thing she gets from her mom. That cute little wave must be hereditary, too.

“Hey, Mrs. Walker,” I say as I step out of the car. She insists I call her Laura, but I was raised to call friends’ parents Mr. or Mrs., and even now, in my thirties, I can’t seem to break the habit. “How are you?”

“Hi, honey,” she says, pulling me into a quick hug. “Come in, come in.” She leads us through the house and out onto the sprawling terrace, where she’s hosting our team barbecue.

The L-Shaped outdoor kitchen island and bar-height table are covered in a spread full of foods typically found at an American barbecue—pasta salad, potato salad, coleslaw, roasted vegetables, corn on the cob, and pineapple rings.

“Smells delicious, Mum,” Theo says, reaching out to snatch a chip from a nearby bowl.

She smacks his hand away like she was expecting the move. “You’re here to help, not eat before guests arrive.”

“Lucas is here,” Theo argues, jerking his thumb at me. “And where’s Jos? You’re not keeping my girlfriend hostage somewhere, are you?”

“Lucas isn’t a guest; he’s family.” She moves in front of him to block the buffet. “Richard and Josie ran to the store to pick up a few last-minute things, so I need you to finish cleaning the grill and get the drinks from the garage. Lucas, do you mind grabbing Charlotte?”

“Sure,” I reply, my heart stumbling a little at the prospect. “Where is she?”

She hasn’t been around much the past few days. Though it’s probably because she’s catching up with friends and family, I can’t help worrying that she’s avoiding me after what happened in Boston. Charlotte’s the queen of forgive, but don’t forget .

If it wasn’t for the brief flash of hurt in her big blue eyes after we kissed, I’d think she didn’t care one way or the other how things played out between us. She’s been her usual self since. Her ponytail still swings back and forth as she chats animatedly about every topic that pops into her head, whether it’s where Taylor Swift gets her Amazon packages delivered while she’s on tour or how it’s bullshit that sunscreen isn’t universally free when it’s technically medicinal. It’s maddening, trying to keep my feelings in check when every little thing she does makes me fall harder.

“In her room,” Mrs. Walker replies, giving Theo a little shove between the shoulders to get him moving. “Upstairs, third room on the left. ”

I find her bedroom easily and waste no time knocking on the door. Not only because I’m eager to see her, but because I’m nervous I’ll chicken out if I don’t. When she doesn’t answer after my third attempt, I twist the knob and push the door open.

Scanning the space, I take my time soaking in the details. The walls are adorned with a mix of Vogue magazine covers and art prints, while the oversized dresser is topped with collages of family photos. An unmade queen-size bed with a colorful duvet and an assortment of mismatched throw pillows takes up one side of the room, and against the opposite wall is a desk cluttered with a sewing machine, fabrics, and thread.

I double back, surveying the bed, only then realizing that one of the pillows isn’t actually a pillow, but Champ Hollis-Gold. He’s sprawled out and dreaming with his belly up and tongue out. At my chuckle, he lazily blinks, and when he spots me, he scrambles to his paws and lets out a small bark, his tail wiggling at rapid-fire speed. He leaps off the bed with the grace of a trained show dog, then struts around for a few moments before picking an item up off the ground and presenting it to me.

Hanging from his mouth is a thong.

A lacy lavender thong.

A lacy lavender thong that’s smaller than a piece of dental floss.

Champ waits, head lifted, for me to take it from him.

Stomach churning, I shake my head. Hell no. I’m already pushing the envelope by being in here alone and uninvited. The last thing I need is to hold her fucking underwear like some sort of pervy stalker.

“Pick something else,” I tell him, motioning to the plentiful options surrounding my feet. Charlotte’s not what I’d call organized. The hardwood floor is scattered with socks, shirts, and pajamas. How the fuck she manages to look put together twenty-four seven when her room looks like it was recently burglarized is beyond me.

Champ lets out an annoyed bark despite the material he’s still got dangling from his mouth. Fuck . How do I explain to a dog that there’s no way in hell I’m touching Charlotte’s thong? I have no way to know whether it’s clean, not that it matters. Either way, this is bad.

But if I know Champ, he won’t move on until I accept his present, so I take the thong from his mouth and hold it from the tips of my fingers like it’s radioactive. Christ, do those even qualify as underwear? Does it need to be made from a certain amount of material in order to make the cut? At a loss as to what to do, I tuck them into my pocket. Only then does Champ lie on the floor and rest his face on his front paws.

Puffing out a breath, I wander over to her desk, curious about whether she’s working on the design she showed me in Boston. I make myself comfortable in her desk chair—as comfortable as a six-foot man can be in a plastic swivel chair—and study the article of clothing in front of me. As I take in the details, I let out an impressed whistle. She only has one pant leg done, but already, the original design doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. Her talent blows me away. As much as I appreciate fashion, I could never in a million years design a sock, let alone clothing as detailed as this.

I pick up a pile of patches next to the sewing machine, breath catching at the Alpha Arrow design from the early ’70s. How the hell did she find these? Beside the pile, there’s a container of beads in an array of blues and silvers and a few ribbons in varying patterns.

A cough from behind me has me jumping up from the seat, banging my knee on the underside of the desk in the process. I turn, finding Charlotte leaning against the doorjamb, wearing a neutral expression and holding a spool of ribbon. Dressed in denim overalls and a white T-shirt, with her hair tied back in a ponytail, she’s the epitome of the girl next door.

“Your mom asked me to get you,” I tell her. That doesn’t explain why I was sitting at her desk, but it’s a start.

Charlotte nods, her eyes roving from my head to my toes. There’s nothing sexual about the appraisal, but my balls tighten, nonetheless. “Mm-hmm. Did she also tell you to shove my G-string into your pocket?”

My dick immediately deflates and my stomach bottoms out. I can only guess by the heat engulfing me that my face turns fire-engine red. If my cheeks burst into literal flames, I won’t be the least bit surprised. Not sure there’s any way to recover from this, I blurt out, “It was Champ.”

Charlotte takes a few steps into her room and scoops Champ up from the floor. He licks her cheek. I won’t lie and say I’m not a tiny bit jealous of him.

She nuzzles into his furry face before turning to me. “This lil guy?”

I nod, whipping the ridiculously small scrap of fabric from my pocket and tossing it to the ground like a poisonous snake.

“I know the dog ate my homework excuse is a common one, but I’ve never heard anyone claim that their dog put a woman’s G-string into their pocket.” She hums. “It may be creepy, but I’ll give you points for creativity.”

“No, really,” I stammer. “Champ gave it to me when I came into your room, and I felt bad not taking it—shit, that doesn’t sound much better. You know how he gives presents when he greets you? Not that your underwear is a present. I’m just, um, explaining what happened. Well, he?—”

“I’m fucking with you, Lucas,” Charlotte says, a playful smile teasing the corners of her lips. “No dramas. I’m well aware of Champ’s undergarment fetish.”

“Oh, well, good,” I say, my heart rate beginning to slow. “I mean, not good that he has a thong fetish, but good that you realized it wasn’t me with the fetish. It was him. I don’t have any fetishes. Not that there’s anything wrong with a fetish. Just saying.”

Shut the fuck up, man .

“What’s he doing here, anyway?” I ask, wiping at the sweat that’s suddenly beading on my brow, desperate to divert the conversation.

Charlotte studies me for a couple of breaths before laughing. “I volunteered to babysit him while they go out tonight. He’s been a good boy, with the exception of nibbling through the back of a sandal. Well, that and giving you a pair of my underwear.”

Cheeks still hot, I grimace. “Am I ever going to live that down?”

“Probably not,” she freely admits. “Are people here already?”

“Not yet, but soon.” I inhale deeply, then let the breath out through my nose, trying to ignore the pounding of my heart in my throat. “That’s why your mom wanted me to get you.”

With her lips twisted into a small frown, she presses her hands together and taps her fingers in front of her chin. “Okay. But I want to finish sewing the last pocket, so can you tell her I’ll be down in a few?”

A smirk licks at my lips. I know full well that to Charlotte, a few can mean anywhere from five minutes to five days. Not wanting to leave her room yet, I nod, gesturing to the desk. “The pants are coming along great. Where’d you find those patches?”

She breaks into a genuine smile, her beautiful face blindingly gorgeous. With a kiss to his head, she places Champ on the floor, then shuffles over to her desk and picks up a patch. “I bought a few of them online. I was nervous it was a scam since the only other thing the storefront sold were wool socks. But I lucked out, and they showed up last night. ”

She opens up the top desk drawer and rifles around the clutter of buttons and hardware until she finds a small pin shaped like the Marina Bay Street Circuit in Singapore. Dropping it into my palm, she says, “Isn’t that a good find?”

“Yeah.” I turn it over in my hand and inspect the details. “You could use it in place of the button on the pants.”

Charlotte claps, a small squeal escaping her lips. “Oh, I like that idea. I’m using an old Chanel one as the front button, but this could look good on the back pocket, maybe? Actually, it may hurt to sit on that sort of pin. I don’t know. Maybe I can make a blazer and use this on the lapel and—ah, shit, I’m rambling, aren’t I? Sorry.”

“Never apologize, Roo,” I tell her with a chuckle. “I’d happily listen to you read your grocery list.”

Her smile shifts from pleased to polite, the subtle change making my heart sink. Shit . It’s a damn good thing I didn’t say what I was really thinking, which is that I’d listen to every word that escaped her simply because I like the sound of her voice and I crave being in her presence.

Desperate to break the tension that’s filling the air, I ask, “Are you going to make other items, or just the pants? Not that the pants aren’t impressive on their own.”

Lips pressed together, she regards her sewing machine. “I don’t know. These haven’t been difficult, but that’s because I have all my sewing equipment here. I already travel with two huge suitcases, a carry-on, and my purse, so I don’t think I can get away with bringing this, too. I have a few more ideas, but I should see how these pants turn out first. When they’re done, I may decide they look try-hard instead of cool.”

At the mention of more ideas, I step closer. “Have you sketched anything else out yet?”

“Mm-hmm,” she replies. “Do you want to see?”

I nod, but I don’t speak. Irrationally, I worry that the sound of my voice will spook her out of showing me .

Charlotte opens the second desk drawer—which is somehow less organized than the top one—and takes out her sketchbook, then flips toward the middle. She explains her vision to me, her words escaping her quickly as she gets more excited by her ideas.

Despite my best efforts to keep my attention on the page, I find my focus drifting down to her lips. I take a deep breath, steadying myself so I don’t give in to the urge to kiss her until she’s breathless. Fuck . There are plenty of women out there, so why does the one I’m utterly obsessed with have to be my best friend’s little sister? If keeping things platonic is really for the best, then why does it hurt the worst?