The sound of his name has his head tipping up, full scowl in place. “I’m neitherscowlynor a monster.”
“Your expression says otherwise,” she teases.
And I watch his face soften too.
Know it won’t last long after he finds out what I was going to do to his daughter.
“Hi,” Chrissy says, leaving the gaggle of men and introducing herself. “It’s so nice to meet you. Sorry to intrude on your morning. We were having breakfast and Dad”—she tilts her head at Jean-Michel—“heard about what was happening and wanted to come over. Jace offered to bring him…and well”—she shrugs—“the rest of us are just nosy.”
“But we brought treats!” Tiff says, holding up a robin’s egg blue box.
“And alcohol,” Marie adds dryly, showing me a bag with a couple of bottles of prosecco.
“And we’ll go if you want,” Chrissy chimes in, lifting a hand when Marie starts to protest. “Because we understand we’re a big, noisy group that can be overwhelming?—”
“But we hope you’ll let us stay,” Marie interrupts. “Because we’re annoying, but we’re also cool.” She does finger guns in my direction. “I promise.”
I blink. Once. Twice.
And still can’t find the appropriate reply.
Chrissy snorts. “I told you not to do the finger guns.” Then she grins. “Why don’t we sit down and eat and drink something. Rome has a game tonight?—”
“Go, Gold,” Tiff says and my gaze ping-pongs to her smiling face.
“Rude,” Chrissy grumbles, but it’s also paired with a smile and an explanation. “My hubby plays for the Eagles and my dad owns the team.” She waves a hand. “It was a whole thing, but we’re good now.”
I blink again.
“And Tiff used to nanny for one of the players on the Gold, who they’re playing tonight.”
“Oh,” I manage to say.
Chrissy winces. “See? Overwhelming.” She holds up the box again. “But good pastries make everything better, I promise.”
“Right.” I squeeze out, my throat feeling tight. “Of course. I, uh, just need to use the restroom.” I start edging toward the hall. “Um, don’t wait on my account to get started on the pastries. I’ll be right back.”
“We—” Marie begins.
But I’m already hurrying away.
And by the time my vision narrows to a tiny speck of light, black crawling in from its edges, I’m safely tucked in the corner of the bedroom, clutching the pillow that smells of Brooks, the blanket firmly pulled over my head.
TWENTY-ONE
BROOKS
I watchBriar hurry down the hall and spare only a second for the confused expressions on the women’s faces before I follow her.
She rushes into my bedroom, closing the door behind her.
It clicks shut in my face and I spare another moment, this time longer, not wanting to invade her privacy, but also remembering another time, another life.
Too much.
Too fast.
She’s not used to it.
