“It’s different when I do it. I’m the youngest. I’ve got privileges.”
“Is that so?” I shift, propping the phone between my ear and shoulder as I reach for my glass of whisky on the side table. “And what privileges might those be?”
“The privilege of making sure my big brother doesn’t scare off a perfectly nice woman before she even gets a chance to know what she’s missing.”
I roll my eyes. “Christ, Lou, we’ve barely spoken three times. I’m not planning our wedding.”
“No one said anything about a wedding.” She lets her voice lose some of its edge. “But, Knox, when was the last time you did something just for yourself? Something that wasn’t about the distillery or helping one of us out of a jam?”
I take a slow sip of my whisky, letting the familiar burn settle before answering, “I do plenty for myself.”
“Like what? Working sixteen-hour days? Taking on extra shifts when Callan needs time off? Spending your weekends helping Mum?”
“That’s different,” I mutter, though the argument sounds weak.
“Is it?” she challenges. “When was the last time you took a proper holiday? Or went on a date that wasn’t arranged by someone else?”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with truths I don’t particularly want to face.
“That’s what I thought,” she says, but there’s no triumph in her voice. “You’re always taking care of everyone else. The responsible one. The steady one. When do you get to just be Knox?”
Fuck, when she says it, I feel the sting of it. What does it say about me that when I try to think back, to recall the last time I did something for myself, just because I wanted to…there’s nothing. Not a damn thing.
I don’t have an answer for her.
“I’m fine, Lou,” I finally manage.
“You’re always fine,” she sighs. “That’s the problem.”
“What do you want me to say? That I’m lonely? That I’ve spent so long making sure everything runs smoothly for everyone else that I’ve forgotten how to want things for myself?”
“That would be a start.”
“What the hell,” I mumble, running a hand through my hair. “When did my little sister get so bloody wise?”
“Around the same time my big brother started forgetting he deserves to be happy, too.”
The last time I chased after something for my ownhappiness, it bit me in the ass and tried to drain my bank account in the process. So yeah, happiness isn’t exactly a priority for me these days.
We wrap up the call and say our goodbyes, but the weight of her words lingers. Every decision in my life has been filtered through the lens of responsibility to my family and to the distillery.
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face. I need to focus. I planned on going through the menu options Rose sent over from the caterer. With a resigned breath, I grab my laptop off the coffee table and pull up the document.
“Christ,” I mutter under my breath. She should’ve sent me this menu without the pricing. I’d rather be clueless if I’m going to enjoy any part of this. I quickly shoot her an email, telling her she can pick whatever fits the budget. I make sure to underline that last part.
twelve
JULIETTE
Every Friday night, Aunt Rose flits off to the local brewery to meet up with her friends, a true social butterfly. She invited me along, but after the day I’ve had, a quiet night at her place sounded a lot more appealing.
The rain’s stopped, leaving behind that damp, earthy smell and a sky still streaked with clouds. It’s taken real effort to shake off the lingering tension from my conversation with Knox earlier. That’s three times now I’ve been caught zoning out around him. It’s completely absurd. I barely know the man.
As if that wasn’t enough, I’ve also landed myself in the doghouse for hanging up on Bree. The strongly worded text she sent me afterward made that much clear. With a sigh, I settle into one of the old wooden chairs on the back deck with a blanket draped over my legs. I pull up my contacts, my finger hesitating over her name before I give in and hit call. I barely get a chance to brace myself before she picks up, ready to let me have it.
“Juliette Skye Miller. Who do you think you are, hanging up on me?”
Yep, there it is.
