The question hovered on her lips, I could read it as clearly as I could see how perfectly green her eyes were. But instead of asking that unspoken question, she said, “Ready?”
I nodded once.
She held it out. “You rip it open, I’ll pull it out.”
A slow, wicked smile tugged at my mouth. “You know,” I said lightly, “pulling out takes skill.”
Her reaction was instant and spectacular—cheeks flaming red, eyes bright and scandalized, and a scowl trying desperately to pretend she wasn’t laughing.
“Behave,” she ordered.
But the tension cracked. Just a little. Enough.
While she was busy trying not to smile, I tore the envelope open.
“Hey—!” she protested, snatching it from me, but it was too late. The paper slid free into her hands. She stared at it, eyes darting back and forth as she read, processing numbers and names and lines that suddenly carried the weight of our entire future.
For the first time since this nightmare started, a flicker of doubt slipped through my certainty.
Then her breath hitched.
“You were right,” she whispered.
Relief slammed into me so hard I almost laughed. I tucked that brief, traitorous fear away and grinned at her, all smug confidence.
“You know,” I said, “you should really start remembering that I’m always right.”
She let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob, shaking her head even as tears streamed down her face. “You are such an ass,” she managed, but she was smiling through it.
That was it.
I shoved my seat back, reached across the console, and unbuckled her seatbelt before she could protest. Then I pulled her over into my lap, wrapping my arms around her and holding her tight. It wasn’t graceful. The steering wheel dug into my side and her knees bumped the dash, but I didn’t care.
We made it work.
She buried her face against my shoulder, laughing and crying at the same time, and I held her like I’d been waiting my entire life to do exactly this.
“You’re not my sister,” she murmured, still shaky. Then she let out a snort laugh. “I mean, I’m not your sister.” The quaver in her voice betrayed the tears still escaping her.
“No,” I said into her hair, fierce and sure. I alternated between rubbing her back, and stroking her hair. “You’re not.”
Thank. Fuck.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
FRANKIE
Iwas still in Archie’s lap when the laughter finally started to fade.
The kind of laughter that came after fear — too loud, too sharp, too close to tears. My face was damp, my eyes burning, my heart still racing from the emotional whiplash of the last ten minutes.
“You’re not my sister,” he’d said.
Not softly.
Not uncertainly.
