Page 118 of Pretty Mess

“Probably. That’s a bit too much of an Aunty Sue plotline for me.”

“She woulddefinitelyread it.” I snort, and he shrugs. “He’s got some sort of deep feeling for you.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“It’s not silly to want him to return my brother’s feelings.”

There’s a noise from behind me, and I gulp when I turn and see Mac at the bedroom door. How much did he overhear? His expression is cool once more. All feelings and emotions are locked away in the place where only he has the key.

I suppress a sigh. The last several minutes have been a disaster, but it was sort of nice to know he’d be angry if I had someone else.

I turn back to my brother. “No radio silence,” I instruct him. “Please just message me every night before you sleep, even if it’s just the sleepy emoji. Then I can sleep easy knowing you’re okay.”

He sighs. “Alright. But I won’t phone, and I meant what I said, Wes. Keep your fucking nose out of this and don’t ask any more questions. I don’t want you on the wrong sort’s radar.” He looks beyond me at Mac. “Please tell him to stop.”

“I’ve known Wes long enough to know that is an impossible task,” Mac says drily.

Incredibly, Tyler chuckles. “Welcome to the Archer family.” He kisses my nose and touches the tender part of my cheekbone as gently as a butterfly. “See you around, Wes.”

“Sooner rather than later,” I tell him. Then he’s gone, and the sound of the door shutting is almost startling in the quiet room.

When I turn around I’m surprised to find Mac standing closer. “Did you get your wallet?”

He nods and then hesitates. “Come into the bedroom. I want to look at your cheek.”

I follow him into the bedroom. The bed has been made, and the clothes put away, and somehow, the knowledge that he stood in here and did this so I could have some time with my brother is the straw that breaks me. To my horror, tears come into my eyes.

“Hey,” Mac says, drawing me into the bathroom and helping me up so I sit on the counter. “Wes, no.”

“Sorry,” I say, dabbing gingerly at the tears leaking out of my eyes and then wincing as I touch the sore spot on my face. “I’m so sorry. I’m being silly.”

“Stop it,” he says in a slightly panicked voice. “I can’t bear to see you cry, so please don’t do that.”

I sniff again. “Well, seeing as you’ve asked so nicely.”

His face is screwed up in some emotion, and suddenly, everything with my brother—all the complicated emotions—overwhelms me, and I start to cry in earnest. Then I gasp as he draws me into a hug. His grip is tight, and he surrounds me with his body as if protecting me from the world. I feel safe and comfortable as I cry, and I grab his suit lapels, trying to drag him closer and closer.

I don’t know how many minutes he holds me, but eventually, I realise that he’s rocking me slightly, his head resting on mine as he makes comforting sounds.

“I’m not doing as you told me,” I finally say with a loud hiccup.

He grips me closer. “Don’t worry about it. I gave up on that ridiculous idea a long time ago.”

“Cheeky,” I say, sniffing and burying my face in his chest.

He freezes. “Please tell me you didn’t just wipe your nose on me,” he says in a horrified voice that somehow makes me laugh.

“I think I might have done.”

He makes a disgusted sound, and I laugh again, smothering the sound in his jacket.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “I’m not laughing.”

“Really? Because that evil cackle suggests otherwise.”

That makes me laugh harder. It stops abruptly when he kisses my face, the gesture so tender and completely without the usual sexual overtones that it makes me blink. Then he pulls back grabbing some loo roll and offering it to me. “Blow.”

I lean forward and promptly do as he said.