“Everything’s alright,” I say, though that feels like a stretch. “But you should hear this too. He has some things he needs to tell Calvin. Family stuff, related to Calvin’s biological parents.”
I have no fucking idea how to handle this, honestly. Mateo should be the one to tell both Calvin and Maren, and I definitely don’t want to break the news without Calvin here, but life doesn’t exactly hand you an instruction manual for moments like this.
Maren nods slowly, her eyes moving between me and Mateo like she’s trying to read everything we’re not saying. Though she’s always been good at that. “Alright.”
“Actually,” Mateo says, “is there any way I can change my mind on that drink?”
Maren lets out a surprised laugh, and some of the tension in the air cracks loose. “Yeah, I think we could all use one,” she says, reaching for another glass. “What’s your poison?”
“Whatever’s strong,” he says.
“Coming right up,” she says, and pours him something amber and generous. She slides it across the bar and leans her hip against the counter, her posture relaxing just a little. “So, Mateo, Dom mentioned the wreck when he called yesterday. I’m glad you’re okay. That stretch of road can be nasty, especially at night.”
Mateo nods and starts telling her about the hospital, the discharge, the totaled car, but I’ve stopped listening. I scan theroom, willing Calvin to walk through that door so we can get this over with. That’s when I see her.
Brooke is at the other end of the bar with a negroni in front of her, wearing jeans and a button-down that would look stiff and corporate on anyone else. But she’s got the sleeves rolled up and one too many buttons undone and her hair loose around her shoulders, and somehow she makes it look so fucking good that for a moment all thoughts about family drama drain right out of my head.
She’s also not alone. Some guy I don’t recognize is leaning against the bar next to her, angled toward her like she’s the only person in the room, and she runs a hand through her hair and laughs at whatever he just said. She tips her head back, with that wide gorgeous smile on her face, and my hand tightens around my glass before I can stop it.
I catalogue everything about this guy without meaning to: mid-thirties, decent build, expensive watch, leaning in too close. I don’t like him. I don’t like the way he’s looking at her. I don’t like any of it, and I like even less that I care.
I force myself to look away and take a sip of bourbon that I barely taste. It doesn’t matter. Brooke Bennett can talk to whoever she wants. She can laugh at whatever stupid joke this guy is telling. It’s none of my business.
The door swings open and Calvin walks in, and I’ve never been so grateful for my brother’s timing in my life. His dark hair is pushed back, his jacket collar turned up, and sure enough there’s a paperback tucked under his arm because the man cannot exist without a book within arm’s reach.
He sees me first and raises a hand in that easy half-wave, then starts heading over. Then his eyes find Mateo, and his face goes through the same series of expressions Maren’s did, with confusion flickering into something sharper as his brain tries to make sense of what he’s seeing.
“Hey Dom,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder, but his eyes don’t leave Mateo’s face. “Who’s this?”
“Mateo Navarro,” I say, keeping my voice even. “He’s got something he’d like to talk to you about.”
I glance at Mateo, who gives a half nod but looks about as shell-shocked as Calvin does. The three of us just stand there for a moment, no one saying anything, the silence stretching out awkward and heavy. This is so far outside my wheelhouse I might as well be on another planet.
“Well,” Maren says, coming out from behind the bar and wiping her hands on a towel. “Let’s all talk then.”
Calvin gives her a small smile, but it fades when he looks back at Mateo.
“Maybe somewhere quieter,” Maren says gently, guiding Calvin toward one of the back booths. Mateo follows, lowering himself carefully into the opposite seat, and Maren slides in beside Calvin, her shoulder pressed against his.
I stay at the bar. This isn’t my conversation. My job was getting them in the same room, and now the rest belongs to them. Besides, I can see them from here, so if something goes dramatically sideways, I can step in. Though what I’d actually do in that situation, I have no idea. Throw a chair? Give an inspirational speech? My skill set doesn’t exactly cover half-brother reunions.
“What’s going on over there?”
I turn, and Brooke is leaning against the bar next to me. Her admirer is nowhere in sight, and she looks even better up close than she did from across the room. Dark hair falling around her shoulders, those eyes that see everything and give nothing away.
“Family thing,” I say, in a tone that I hope also communicatesnow kindly fuck off.
“Relax, Dom.” She rolls her eyes like I’m being unreasonable. “Believe it or not, I’m not always out for a story. Noteverythingis about supposedly ruining your life.”
“Forgive me for being skeptical.” I take a slow sip of my bourbon, keeping my voice flat even though my shoulders are already tensing up. “Considering our history,sweetheart.”
Her eyes narrow. “You are such a fucking asshole, you know that? Your fighter destroyed your career by pumping himself full of PEDs, withyourhelp. I just reported what happened.”
“You reportedhalfof what happened.” I set my glass down. “You took one shitty source’s word about my involvement and ran with it because it confirmed what you already wanted to believe about me.”
“Well, I tried to reach you for a comment,” she says, tilting her head with mock sympathy. “I believe your exact words were ‘fuck you.’”
“You think I was going to sit down for an interview? Give you some nice quotes you could chop up and slot into whatever story you’d already decided to write?” I shake my head. “I’m not that stupid, Brooke.”
