I don’t respond at first.
“Which one am I?”
“What?”
“Which fucking brother am I?”
I want to know. Has she kept us in the proper birth order? Is the eldest my late brother Tavish, with his shaved head and blazing blue eyes? The second eldest Leith, muscled and powerful, a natural leader and protector of all? The third would be me, then… the one she describes as “the gentle giant.”
I’ll fucking show her how wrong she is.
I try a different angle. “Alright, then. Let’s pretend for a moment that you aren’t the writer. That you’re telling the truth, that it’s someone else. But you know the person, don’t you?”
She doesn’t respond at first, then says softly, “And what if I do?”
“I’ll have to question you to get the answers I need.”
“Why do you feel so threatened by romance novels?”
“I’ve told you that already.”
Silence. Then, “And what answers do you need?”
“Who the fucking writer is.”
“And when you find out, what will you do to them?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
We’re minutes away from home now, and the snow’s begun to fall in thick swaths. The wipers on the car move back and forth at a breakneck speed.
Back.
Forth.
Back.
Forth.
We watch them, as if this is the most fascinating thing in the world.
“We’ll go back to the main house first. Check in. We won’t say a word about the books, do you understand me?”
She nods silently, and her lower lip trembles. I almost feel bad for her.
Almost.
“Then when we’re done eating dinner, you’ll come back to my place with me. I’ll tell them I promised I’d keep an eye on you.”
“The girls will think we’re hooking up.”
“Let them think that.”
She opens her mouth to protest. “Why the hell would I let them think that?”
Sudden need flares in me, and I grip her knee punishingly. She flinches.
“Because maybe, love, that’s exactly what we’re doing.”
