Page 39

Rilee

I call an emergency house meeting.

And by “call,” I mean I hobble into the living room with my ankle wrapped and my hospital bracelet still half-attached, dramatically drop onto the couch, and announce:

“We need to lie. A lot.”

Caleb’s head pops around the corner. “You rang?”

Grayson appears behind him, drying his hands with a dish towel. Hunter’s the last to enter, lingering in the hallway like he’s considering whether he can pretend he didn’t hear me.

He can’t.

“This sounds like trouble,” Caleb says, dropping beside me and flinging an arm across the back of the couch. “I’m in.”

“You don’t even know what the situation is,” Grayson points out.

“Doesn’t matter,” Caleb says. “If Rilee’s calling an emergency meeting, it’s either dramatic or illegal, and both are my favorite categories.”

Hunter crosses his arms. “What now?”

I take a breath. “Fletcher’s coming.” With everything that’s been going on—Thanksgiving and then twisting my ankle, I kind of let it slip my mind.”

All three guys freeze.

“Here?” Grayson asks, like maybe I meant emotionally coming, not geographically .

“Yes. This house. This weekend.”

“That’s in two days,” Gray points out.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Caleb says, “Well. That’s going to be… intense.”

“Intense?” I echo. “Fletcher once threatened my junior prom date with pepper spray. For bringing me home at 10:06.”

Grayson blinks. “Was your curfew ten?”

“No, it was ten-thirty,” I say. “He’s always been this way.”

“Reasonable,” Hunter mutters.

“Fletcher is very protective,” I say, unnecessarily. “And considering he can’t know about— this ,” I wave my hand toward them, “we need a plan.”

“A lie,” Caleb says, nodding. “An elaborate one. I like it.”

Grayson frowns. “I don’t know…”

“Do you want to be the one to explain the fleshlight in the bathroom?” I ask.

Grayson raises both hands. “I’m in.”

Hunter just scowls. “This won’t work.”

I turn to him. “You have a better idea?”

“I have a realistic one,” he growls. “Your brother’s fragile. He’s in recovery. He was addicted to chasing highs—physical, emotional. You drop him into a house full of lies and secrets, and what happens when it unravels? We don’t know if he’s recovered enough to have solid coping skills.”

I bite my thumbnail. “He can’t know. I can’t stress him out, Hunter. He’s better , but he’s not—he’s not steady yet.”

Hunter’s jaw clenches. “Then we don’t give him something to obsess over.”

“What do we do, just pretend?” Grayson asks, skeptical.

“Yes,” I say. “We pretend everything is chill and boring. And also—I have to be dating someone.”

All eyes snap to me.

“Otherwise he’ll sniff out the tension in, like, five minutes. And we all know Caleb won’t be able to keep his hands off me for forty-eight hours.”

“Facts,” Caleb says brightly.

Grayson blinks.

Hunter’s expression goes nuclear. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Caleb says, mock-offended. “I’m a great boyfriend.”

“I said we’re pretending,” I snap.

“Exactly,” Hunter bites. “So pretend it’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

Grayson folds his arms. “It’s not a terrible idea…”

“It’s a disaster,” Hunter interrupts. “You’re going to tell a guy barely out of rehab that his little sister is shacked up with a teammate—and you think that’ll calm him?”

“It’s the best idea we’ve got!” I say. “He’ll just think everything is fine and functional and platonic. Except for me and Caleb. He’ll be so distracted by that, he won’t look too closely at the rest.”

“Won’t be pretending,” Caleb mumbles.

“ Yes , but JUST Caleb,” I say quickly.

Grayson’s brows lift. “So we’re just choosing the guy least capable of keeping things low-key?”

Caleb beams. “Thank you.”

Hunter pushes off the wall. “I don’t like this.”

“No one likes this,” I say. “But Fletcher’s coming. And if he suspects anything’s weird, he’s going to go full overprotective chaos mode. I need you guys to help me pull this off.”

There’s silence.

And then—slowly—Grayson nods.

Caleb salutes.

Hunter… doesn’t move.

He just stares at me. Long. Hard. Frustrated.

But underneath that?

There’s something else.

Worry.

Something close to fear.

“You’re playing with fire,” he says quietly. “Don’t come crying when it burns.”

And then he leaves the room.

And I sit there—ankle aching, stomach twisting, heart pounding—wondering if I’ve just set something in motion I won’t be able to stop.