“She’s right.” Vaughn steps down to be on our level. “So, what is it you want to say to me?”
“F-you.” He’s direct.
“Try harder,” I mutter to my brother.
Briggs’s jaw tenses. “Fine. My sister deserves the world, so don’t be an idiot. Whether I stay in Lake Spark or not, you best believe I will be getting the full report on how you treat her and my niece. To be honest, congratulations, because having you now be the GM just makes me more eager to sign elsewhere.”
“I’m not talking hockey right now with you, so let’s keep the topic on Isla.”
“Then answer me,” Briggs volleys back.
Vaughn’s piercing gaze remains on Briggs. “You have my word. Now, if we can save the lecture for another day when I actually have patience for you, then I’m sure you can find your way out without the door hitting you in the ass. I need to chat with your sister.”
I stretch both of my arms out to my sides. “Both of you chill and accept that you eventually need to find neutral ground. I can’t deal with this every single time.”
They both glance at me then adjust their shoulders, as if they’re both struggling to accept my request but will go with it.
“Fine.” Briggs goes first, and I’m having a hard time believing him, but I’m choosing my battles today.
“Also fine,” Vaughn adds.
I sigh in relief and stand up. “Great, let’s move on.”
“Sure, I’m out of here anyway. I’ll text you later, Isla,” my brother informs me before I nod in understanding.
He throws Vaughn one more steely glare in parting.
The moment that Briggs is out of the house, the tension in the air deflates and turns to a new kind of tension, the unknown abyss that I’m heading down with Vaughn.
Vaughn has one hand tucked into his jeans pocket and he scrubs the other across his jaw as his eyes draw a line up my body to my nervous smile.
“Settling in?” he asks.
I salute him and give a coy smile. “Yes, master.”
His lips form a contrite smile. “Charming.”
I turn serious. “Yeah, I am.”
He indicates the boxes with a nod. “I’ll have someone come to construct this stuff, just tell them where to put it.”
“Oh, you don’t want to have a say where it goes in the room?”
He seems kind of exhausted. “I don’t care nor have the time.”
“Okay, then can you have someone come to paint the walls gray?”
Lines knit together on his forehead. “Gray? That’s your choice for the baby’s room?”
I walk a few steps to him. “Yeah, I don’t want to do pink, and gray is neutral.” I continue my walk to my purse on the stool of the open kitchen and pull out samples to show him. “I think North Rain Gray is a better choice to Cloud Gray, so North Rain Gray it is.”
“Cloud Gray,” he counters, and it feels like he is doing it on purpose.
“You don’t care,” I say, calling him out on his attempt.
“Cloud Gray,” he repeats.
I drop the paint samples, now aggravated. “Is this your way of saying you’re still pissed at me? Because I’m positive that debating shades of gray isn’t going to solve it.”
