Page 25 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Twenty-One

Simone

Atlas is coming out of my library just as I walk through the front door.

Great. Another Timberbridge treating my house like it’s a community center with zero adult supervision.

Just fucking perfect. Yesterday it was Malerick who came with Cassian, the owner of the bar—well, that’s his cover.

He’s really an agent for Crait Quantum Shield.

They needed to ask questions, but I only allowed one of them to visit with Keir.

Today, it’s Atlas who looks perfectly at ease, like this is his fucking house and he just finished reorganizing my bookshelf by spine color.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, not bothering to hide the irritation coating my words. The Timberbridge brothers have never understood the concept of boundaries—the importance of asking before barging into someone’s life as if they own the place.

It’s been a full-time job keeping them out of here. They call every day. Sometimes twice. Sometimes all four of them taking shifts like this is a damn relay. When the calls don’t work, they show up under the pretense of checking on their brother. I don’t buy it.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I ever catch them orchestrating a jail-break through the back window while the others ran interference in the kitchen. They want their brother. Listen, I’m not going to say ‘over my dead body’ but I’ll fight them.

Though, they don’t give up. They’re resourceful in the most infuriating ways.

“I came to see my brother, obviously,” Atlas says, calm as ever, like we’re just chatting on a porch swing while having iced tea.

Before I can cut him off, he adds, “Your boss gave me permission. We needed some information. And since the neurologist says he’s totally fine . . .”

He trails off like that means something. Is he expecting me to fill the blanks for him?

Certainly not. I cross my arms, shifting all my weight to one hip, the universal stance for try me. Or maybe it’s hands on hips. Not that it matters. I’m trying to make a point here and I hope it’s coming across. He’s not going to fuck with me. Keir stays, and it’s the end of the story.

“Cassian was already here asking questions,” I say, watching his eyes for a twitch. “Don’t act like this is some innocent drive-by—when you know he can’t have visitors.”

Atlas doesn’t even pretend to look guilty. He scoffs. “And you’re going to stand there and tell me Keir was one-hundred percent honest with a stranger?”

I exhale hard through my nose because I know Keir Timberbridge.

The man doesn’t trust anyone—not even mirrors on a bad day.

Of course he didn’t tell Cassian the truth.

He lies by omission. It’s a second language he majored in around the age of five.

Gives you just enough truth to sound sincere, then leaves you chasing your tail trying to piece the rest together. It’s practically a superpower.

If there were a college course, it’d be The Art of Being Keir 101: Advanced Techniques in Telling the Truth Without Actually Telling You Shit.

“No,” I admit, pressing my fingers against my temple because this—this—is what it’s been like since he woke up—one long, exhausting attempt to survive Keir’s nonsense even when we don’t speak at all.

“Exactly,” Atlas says, stepping closer. Too close. Like proximity gives him the upper hand.

I level him with a look. “So, did you get anything useful, or should I expect Malerick to climb through the window next?”

That earns me a grin. Infuriatingly charming.

Timberbridge charm is a fucking disease—it spreads before you even realize you’re infected.

This is the one thing you warn people when they’re close to one of them: be careful—their DNA includes weaponized dimples, strategic brooding, and a bullshit filter that only works in reverse.

“Oh, he already tried last night,” Atlas says, shrugging like it’s not insane that his brother is attempting to sneak into a secure medical recovery house. “You’ve got a good security system. Almost broke his ankle on the motion-sensor planter.”

I fight the twitch in my lips.

Barely.

“Tell him next time I’ll let the hell hounds lose to take care of him.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“I’d like to see him hobble back to his truck with his tail between his legs.”

There’s a brief pause. A breath of something that isn’t quite humor, not quite tension—something older. Familiar.

“Simone,” Atlas says, quieter now. “We’re not trying to sabotage what you’re doing here. We’re just trying to make sure that we get all the information we can to get these guys while keeping all of you safe.”

“I’m safe,” I tell him, because this isn’t my circus. I’m only an observant. Though, I would be pretty concerned if any of my friends or their babies get hurt. “But you listen to me. You keep my girls and the kids out of harm’s way, or I’ll hunt you down, Timberbridge.”

He salutes me. “They’re safe and we’re making sure you and the curmudgeon old man in that room are safe too. That brings me to—” He takes a deep breath. “You need to find him a therapist.”

“That’s not my responsibility.”

He bobs his head a couple of times. “No, but I think it’d be nice if he works on himself before you have the grown-up talk with him.”

“The grown-up talk?” I scrunch my nose because what is he talking about? Keir and I don’t have anything to discuss. We weren’t even over—because, as he always reminded me, we were just friends.

Just friends.

Friends who kissed a lot. Kissing, which I often confused with love, and .

. . yeah, I’m not going there. This is exactly why I’m avoiding him and why I’ll avoid him for probably the rest of my life.

If there’s something I’ve learned in these three days, it is that we can coexist while I ignore him.

“Your brother and I weren’t a thing and?—”

He cocks his head. “Simone, I know your connection with CQS and the Decker family,” he states in a tone that doesn’t leave any room for me to correct him or to defend myself. “And he should know too.”

I try to muffle the gasp, but he catches it. Atlas doesn’t press. Doesn’t say another word. Just gives me one last look—quiet, knowing, far too close to the truth—and walks past me toward the door.

Halfway out, he pauses, hand on the knob, voice low.

“You think you’ve got time to avoid him. But the truth always shows up, Simone. Usually when you least fucking want it.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

And just like that, the house feels colder. I glance at the library, where I had planned to spend some time, but I guess that’s out of the question. I’ll just grab my tablet and read it in my bedroom. The last thing I need is to deal with Keir. Not now and maybe not ever.

He didn’t give a fuck back then, and I . . . I don’t have to do anything. Right?

Unless Lyndon . . . I don’t even want to think about it. Not now. This . . . if I can get through this period. I’ll handle the rest later.

Not now, I repeat, trying to manifest whatever the fuck I need to manifest.