Cassian’s about to answer. I slide my empty glass toward the bartender, not looking at either of them.
I take another drink. The whiskey hits rough, and it fits.
“Back up,” I say, cutting through the mess they’re building. “Why are we here? Not at The Sway, but in Pine Hollow.”
Cassian’s smirk slips. Not much, just enough to show the crack underneath.
“Grandpa,” Jett says.
“Exactly.” I set my glass down, slow, controlled. The bartender glances over, trying to decide if we’re about to become a problem. Wouldn’t be the first time. “We came here because Ben said Grandpa needed help. He was sick. The land was too much. And Ben had this grand vision of turning it into an AirBnB empire. The Burnside brothers saving the family legacy.”
A couple at the bar laughs too loudly, perfume and spice drifting over. It mixes with the bite of whiskey, cleaning supplies, and the faint omega-sweet of someone in the back. The Sway always smells like polished lies.
“And now?” Cassian asks. His voice isn’t playful anymore.
“Now Grandpa’s in a home, and Ben’s running the place with Penelope like he’s king of the mountain.” I nudge the glass away from me. “Ben, who can’t hold a job and only stays consistent when he’s taking something from someone else.”
“He’s a piece of work,” Jett mutters, picking at the label on his beer.
“He’s a wild horse,” Cassian says. Not angry.
I drag my finger along the rim of my glass. The bar lights catch the ink on my arm, every line and symbol a promise that doesn’t wash off. Permanent. Unlike family agreements. Unlike our so-called legacy.
“The thing about Ben,” I say, keeping my voice even, “is he never does anything without an angle. And it’s always money. When he showed up with Penelope, it took me about a week to figure out what game they were running.”
“She’s a con artist,” Cassian says.
“She’s as much of a con artist as he is.” I swirl what’s left of my whiskey. “They’re balanced. Two predators circling the same territory. Fine. Let them tear each other apart. What’s not fine is using Grandpa’s dementia as a shortcut to ownership.”
Jett’s jaw flexes. That’s his version of shouting.
“So we’re talking about the wedding,” he says. “Ben and Penelope’s wedding.”
“They’re going through with it,” Cassian replies. He drums his fingers on the table, restless energy he can’t burn off. “The question is why.”
At least my brother is on the same page as me. One thing for sure Ben and Penelope do not strike me as the happy in love couple, or they would make more of an effort to sort out their wedding.
“And Sharon,” I say, “is supposed to make it look like a fairytale.”
The attentive bartender slides a new round in front of us.
The new whiskey is smoother than the last, but it still hits sharp.
Cassian watches people at the bar like he’s waiting for the world to give him a reason to fight. “So here’s the question. DoesBen deserve a second chance? I mean, maybe we’re being harsh and he’s actually in love.”
Around us, life keeps moving. A couple trades small touches and shy glances. The chess game in the corner clicks piece to board, piece to board. Somebody laughs at a phone screen.
“No,” Jett says.
“Fuck no,” Cassian adds.
I think on it, because I’m the one who does. Ben knew exactly how to play us. He said Grandpa needed help, and we came running. Family loyalty is a flaw people romanticize.
“He’s not,” I say, “but that’s not the real question.”
Cassian leans in. The firefighter shows in the way his brain starts sorting problems into steps. “Then what is?”
“Sharon thinks she’s planning a wedding for a loving couple.” I tap the rim of the glass. “She’s busy worrying about centerpieces and vendors. Does she know the groom and bride are both predators?”
