She turns to me, and the helplessness in her eyes spears through my heart.
“You can’t help,” she says simply. “And I would never ask you to.”
Turning away, she leaves the terrace, closing the door behind her as I turn back to the New York skyline.
“But you don’t evenhaveto ask,” I murmur softly into the wind. The words are snatched away into the wind, as if I never said them.
Chapter 39
Jax
By the time I get home, it’s late. I stopped off to buy groceries on the way back, knowing Flynn would be there waiting for me and dragging it out for as long as I could. The more time that passed before the inevitable “big brother” conversation, the better.
Closing the door with my foot, I can smell chili cooking as I head into the kitchen.
“Where are the others?” Flynn asks as soon as I walk in. He’s in track pants and a hoodie, stirring a pot on the stove.
“Aren’t Seb and Ben here?” I ask, glancing up the stairs.
“No one’s here. Just you and me.”
I dump the groceries down on the counter and eye him warily. He’s barefoot, looking very at home.
“You still seeing your graphic designer?” I ask.
He twists around, squinting at me. “Notseeingexactly. But yeah. Why?”
“Because this is the longest time I think you’ve ever been away from this house. Not to mention the club. You in love?”
“I’ve beenworking, Jax.”
His voice is sharp as he keeps his back turned to me. I can’t see his face, but the tips of his ears have turned red.
“I bought garlic bread, you want?” I say.
“No. I’m okay. This is almost ready anyway.”
His shoulders are tense, the movement of the spoon in the pan jerky and erratic. Swallowing, I head to the bottom of the stairs.
“Scott?” I call, but there’s no answer. Heading upstairs, I check the boys' rooms, but there’s no sign of them. Frowning, I go back down to find Flynn piling chili into two bowls. I stand just out of sight, glancing up at the stairs and back down to the door, an uneasy feeling lingering at the back of my mind.
Ben and Seb are notoriously lazy. It’s very unusual for them to miss dinner. Scott almost never leaves without messaging me to tell me where he’s headed. I check my phone, but there are no new notifications. I head over to the table, a restlessness beneath my skin as I sink into the chair.
Flynn doesn’t speak as he comes out of the kitchen, a bag of grated cheese beneath his arm as he sits opposite me.
“How was your birthday?” he asks.
“Good,” I say, and shove a forkful of food into my mouth, hoping he won’t ask me any more questions.
“Was that from your boss?” he asks pointing to my necklace. The word ‘boss’ grates against my senses in a way I don’t want to analyze too closely.
My fingers move to the windchime around my neck. “Yeah.”
“It’s pretty. Looks expensive.”
“So is he,” I mutter, and Flynn snorts.
His eyes move around the living room, as if searching for something, and I chew my food, staring at a long crack in the center of the table.
