Page 24 of Falling For My Ex's Older Brother

We're somewhere over Nevada when he says, without looking up from his screen,

"The Caldwell family. Who do they sit with?"

I don't miss a beat.

"Away from the Harmon table. They have a funding dispute going back three years that hasn't been publicly resolved."

A pause. Then: "And the foundation chair's preference for the seating arrangement near the stage?"

"He likes the left side. Sight line to the podium and access to the aisle. He leaves early."

Logan looks up from his laptop. He studies me for a moment with the specific attention he gives things that have exceeded his expectation — measured, assessing, not quite a smile but something in the vicinity of one.

"You did the reading," he says.

"I always do the reading."

Something shifts at the corner of his mouth — brief, barely there, gone before it fully forms. But I catch it. I file it in the category of things I've been quietly collecting without meaning to, the small fractures in the surface of a man who keeps everything so tightly controlled that the cracks are interesting precisely because they're rare.

"Get some rest," he says, and goes back to his screen.

I look out the window at the landscape below — the particular vastness of it from this altitude, the geometry of it, everything organized and distant and clean. Dallas is down there somewhere, getting closer with every mile, and with it the evening that neither of us has fully namedfor what it is. I close my notes, and remain in my thoughts.

The descent begins forty minutes later, the city rising up to meet us through the window, and I feel the shift in my chest that comes at the start of something — the specific mix of nerves and readiness that I've learned, over the course of my life, to trust.

Whatever tonight is, I'm ready for it.

Chapter Eight

Logan

The hotel is exactly what I specified — discreet, expensive, the kind of property that understands the difference between luxury and excess. I don't need excess. I need a base of operations that functions without friction, and the Rosewood delivers that the way it always has.

What it has not delivered is what I asked for. The woman at the front desk is professional and genuinely apologetic, which is the only reason I let her finish her explanation before I respond. Adjacent rooms — that was the specification Sutton submitted when she handled the booking. What we have instead are two suites connected by an interior door, the kind of arrangement designed for families or for people who want the option of access without the obligation of it.

"I do apologize, Mr. Drake." She means it.

"We've been at full capacity since Monday. Theconfiguration was the closest available match to your request."

Beside me, Sutton is already leaning toward the desk.

"I specified adjacent, not adjoining. There's a meaningful difference and I was very clear about—"

"It's fine," I say.

She turns to look at me.

"It's a door," I say. "It locks."

The check-in is done in under three minutes. We step into the elevator and the doors close. I press fourteen.

"We should debrief before the evening," I say.

"Go over the room, the key conversations, the order of priorities." I keep my eyes on the floor numbers climbing above the doors.

"Come to my suite. Thirty minutes."

"Of course," she says. "I'll be there."