Page 16

“You need to come with me,” London insists, pushing my shoulder while I sit at my desk in my home office.

“I really don’t,” I insist.

“Your crisis has been averted. You found the issue and from what you said last night you even made the algorithm and the interface of the app better than before, so now you need to get up, take a shower, and come with me .”

My hands stop moving over my keyboard and I slowly turn my chair to face her.

Even sitting down I’m almost at eye level with her.

“I didn’t know you knew most of those words.”

Her brows scrunch up in that adorable way that always means trouble.

“I listen when you speak, you dick,” she cries and shoves my shoulder again .

I smile up at her, my love for her bursting through even while I know I have to scold her.

“You know you can call me whatever you want when you turn eighteen, but before then you can’t curse.” I remind her of the deal we made.

I know for a fact that the second the clock strikes midnight on her eighteenth birthday she’ll make sure I’m within hearing distance while she calls me every name under the sun.

“Whatever,” she mumbles. “Just shut down for the day and go outside, touch some grass, and get some sunshine on that pasty-white face of yours.”

I frown at the second thing.

“Touch grass?” I ask.

“It means go feel the world and get back to reality. The reality where your world isn’t even close to coming to an end and life goes on.”

I think about it for a minute, and though I still can’t know if her interpretation of touching grass is accurate, I nod and sigh.

“Fine.”

And that’s how we end up having lunch at London’s favorite restaurant. She insists on telling me all the gossip about people from her school, even after I explicitly told her I don’t care, and she asks me if we could take a few days for a vacation before classes start back up.

Her month-long trip to England to go to an equestrian camp wasn’t enough for her, it seems, and though I know I’d rather do anything else, and I have mountains of work to do, my mind does start to think about where we could go for a long weekend or maybe even a week.

I’ll have to talk it through with my brothers—who would bitch at me forever if I leave them out of this plan—and our parents of course. Though I can more than take care of all four of us, they will insist on going or sending Paco and Eric with us.

They could have a “staycation” as Mom calls it.

The idea starts to take root in my brain and I keep thinking about it even while London goes on and on about the stupid drama of her peers.

I know not to call it stupid drama out loud at least, because if I did, I’d earn a bruise on my arm that I don’t need since I have a session at the studio tomorrow morning.

We end up at some park and walk around in the shade of the trees, which I’m thankful for. She listens to me talk about the bug we found in the app again, and as always she lets me rant to my heart’s content.

I’m not sure what time it is when London grabs my arm in a strong grip and shouts as she points.

“Look, Liam!”

“What?” I demand, instantly worried since we don’t have Paco here with us. If we’re in danger, there’s very little I can do on my own to keep London safe?—

“That building there, it says MP. Didn’t Carter tell you about his friend’s bakery? I think that’s it.”

I think back, trying to remember which friend was the baker, and I think Theo told me he was? Carter only told me he’s a sweetheart and that I’d probably relate to him the most .

“Can we get something?” London pleads, still holding on to my arm and looking up at me like a starving puppy.

“Yes, let’s go.”

I don’t even entertain the idea of refusing her, there’s no point.

I keep up with her quicker pace, and have to hold her back to remind her to look both ways before she crosses the street as if she were a toddler and not months close to adulthood.

“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbles before I can berate her. “I need something sweet,” she demands.

And everything smells sweet when we step into the bakery. Even with all the dogs in the fenced-off area in the back part of the establishment, it smells like most bakeries I’ve been to.

I look down at my watch and see it’s four in the afternoon. Being this time of the day, I wouldn’t have thought there’d be so much left, but we can see the amount of sweets on display next to the register is substantial.

The cinnamon rolls look especially enticing, so as we get in line behind an old lady who’s a bit taller than London, I already know what I’m getting to eat.

The smell of recently ground coffee is like a siren call, so I look up to the menu hanging on the wall and see they have oat milk available.

I’ll have to ask which brand, and if it’s not one of the ones I like, then I’ll just take a cold brew to go.

“I say we get something different so we can try more things,” London says, and her smirk tells me she’s excited about the prospect of sweets. “Then we go back to the park and eat them at one of those benches, and then we can stop by Rossi’s for lasagna and take that home to share with everyone.”

It’s been said before, London thinks with her stomach, and she has good thoughts.

“I agree,” I tell her simply, and nod in approval when she orders a piece of the chocolate-on-chocolate cake that looks like it should be illegal.

It takes the girl working behind the register less than a minute to pack up our sweets and hand over our beverages. A lemonade for London—which I don’t think a lot of bakeries offer—because she knows the length of the sermon I’ll give her if she consumes caffeine in front of me.

“We should do this weekly over the summer,” she says happily when we find a bench and start unpacking our food.

I’m about to agree when she takes her first bite, and as soon as she does, her eyes roll to the back of her head and she falls back until she’s practically lying on the bench.

The panic is instant, but when she groans and says, “More,” in a kind of feral growl, I understand she’s being dramatic. Curiosity wins over and I grab my fork then deftly steal a bite of her cake.

I understand she might not have been acting that dramatically.

“I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth,” I say when I’ve swallowed.

London snorts and shakes her head.

“Never change, bro.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” I say, confused as to why she’d say that. It only makes her snort again, but then she demands I open my cinnamon roll and we dive into another marvelous experience.

“We’re definitely doing this every week,” London declares when we’re done and sprawled on the bench.

“I agree,” I tell her softly.

“I kinda want to forget about the lasagna and go back in there,” she mumbles, and I have to snort and look back at the bakery.

That’s when the sign on the building next to it catches my attention.

Sculpt.

That’s all it says as far as I can tell from over here.

“Come on,” I tell London. Something in my brain is lighting up but I don’t know exactly what.

“I don’t think I can walk,” she whines.

I think about telling her to get it together, but I know I’d never do that. Instead I crouch in front of her, giving her my back.

“Climb on.”

She giggles softly, reminding me of when she was a lot smaller and would make the same sound every time I offered her a piggyback ride.

“Are you seriously going to get another cinnamon roll?” she asks softly once we’re walking in the direction of the bakery again.

“No.” I don’t give her any more explanations, and her silence tells me she’s really well on her way to being in a sugar coma, but I do know I need to say something , even if it’s to explain it to myself. “We’re going to check something,” I decide on .

When I get to the glass front of the building I see it’s a gallery, and that’s when the dots connect in my head. This is Sebas’s gallery, right?

Through the glass I can see colorful walls and columns as well as a lot of sculptures that look to be made out of metal. There are others that look like ceramic, and even a handful of paintings on the walls.

I crouch again so London can climb down, then I grab her hand and pull her in.

“Hello,” Sebas says, and then his tone changes. “Hey.” His smile is bigger this time, so I assume he remembers me.

“Hello, Sebas. This is my sister, London.”

“You’re Sebas David,” London says as she walks over to him and shakes his hand. “I love your sculptures,” she gushes.

“Where have you seen his sculptures?” I demand.

“On his IG,” she tells me without looking at me. And I hear the duh even if she didn’t add it at the end.

“Thank you,” Sebas tells her. This time his smile is smaller, and did his cheeks get redder? Why? Is he embarrassed by something?

“Is this all your stuff?” London asks him, and they go off and start talking about everything in the room.

Not everything is his, as it turns out.

He walks us through the left side of the room to the back, explaining all the pieces and the artists they come from. Almost at the corner there’s a pair of shoes made of metal. They’re clearly athletic shoes, but very slim and small. Not the actual size, but... yeah, compact .

“You made this,” I conclude from everything I’ve seen before.

“Yes,” Sebas says, and I see a small smile on his face as his eyes fix on the shoes.

“They’re Adam’s shoes,” I state after staring at them for a moment longer.

“Why do you think that?” Sebas asks me, and his eyebrows are raised at me.

“Liam is good at conclusions,” London says quickly.