Doesn’t prevent my gaze from wandering to the backside of his gray joggers, though.
I tip my head as Brandon heaves Mom’s Louis Vuitton suitcase off the conveyor belt without being told. Did he spend time memorizing our luggage earlier?
Mom gives him a prissy smile. Dad does nothing as Brandon sets his own luggage in front of him, because he’s still staring blankly across the concourse. I swear, his fathering nature only ever activates if his reputation is threatened. The rest of the time, he’s like a sleeper cell—emphasis on thesleepingpart.
A few minutes later, Brandon spots Liza’s and Cam’s luggage on the carousel. He swipes it off and hands it to them, waving away their thanks.
I grin. He winks.
A forty-minute shuttle ride later, we arrive at the beach-front home Mom inherited from Grandma Rochester. It looks the same it ever has. And by that, I mean chic, spotless, and entirely impersonal.
Home sweet home.
Brandon’s green eyes blow wide as he spans the open concept living area, beach accents, and stainless steel kitchen. The wall of sparkling glass across the rear of the home can be retracted completely to convert the raised patio space into a sea-breeze haven.
Brandon’s fresh perspective of this vacation feels like a breath of salty air all on its own. I slip a giddy hand into his and tug him down so I can whisper in his ear.
“Just wait until you see the pool.”
He quirks a brow. “There’s a pool? Why? The ocean is literallyrightthere.”
I laugh but catch Mom frowning in our direction.
“James,” Mom chides to Dad, drawing him out of whatever etheric plane he keeps trying to escape into. “What are we going to do about the sleeping arrangements?”
Dad shrugs.
Mom huffs, straightening her sculptured blazer with the big navy buttons. She looks like a politician’s wife on vacation, and her sleek bob is beginning to fray in the humidity. After a moment, her lips lift.
“Liza, Cam, why don’t you take the two bedrooms upstairs beside the master?”
Liza and I look at each other quizzically.
“Mom, that’sallthe bedrooms,” Liza says. “Unless you want Brandon and Kate to sleep in the craft room and office? Or the gym equipment room?”
Mom titters. “Don’t be silly. You’re forgetting the pool house.”
Brandon lowers his head. “There’s a pool house?”
I mutter, “Focus.”
“There’s two bedrooms in the pool house for Katherine and Brandon.” Mom tries to smooth down her frizzled bob, smiling with all her teeth.
“Mom,” I say, “wasn’t the pool house’s AC broken last summer?”
Mom flaps a wrist toward me. “They told me it’s fixed.”
“Who’s they?” Liza and I ask.
“The maintenance staff.” Mom says this like we are toddlers draining her sanity. “Speaking of which, the kitchen staff will be here soon to prepare dinner. Let’s clear out these suitcases before they arrive.” Mom waves her hands with a pointed look at Brandon, who springs to life.
I stunt his path with a palm to his chest. “Brandon isnotstaff,” I say calmly to my mom. “He’s our guest, and my boyfriend.” I turn to him. “Shmooksy-poo, let’s take our things out to the pool house.”
Brandon tries not to laugh but has the audacity to nuzzle his nose across mine like we’re baby fawns in a forest.
“Alright, cupcake,” he says.
We drag our suitcases out the back door, down the stilted steps, and onto the stucco pathway. Brandon’s neck almost dislocates as he takes in the opulent poolside. The staff Mom hires must have already been here, because beach towels sit folded neatly on each padded lounge.
