Roman tugs her closer and presses a kiss to her head. “Calm down, Little Rose. Not everyone can handle when you’re mean.”
She scoffs. “Please. Who do you thinktaughtit to me?”
I smirk, my shoulders loosening.
“Jules is right. I’m the superior brother,andher favorite. If you fell in love with her mean streak, then really, you’re just in love with me.”
Paxton pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we not do this?”
“We can’tnotdo this,” Alex adds. “Mainly because it’s tiring to pretend like this entire town doesn’t know thatI’mthe best Calloway. Genetics play favorites, and I fear I won the lottery.”
Felicity cackles but then her eyes slide behind me and that grin drops. “The real question is who the hell invitedhim?”
I follow her gaze to the front door, where Art’s walking toward our table.
“There you are,” he says. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
Felicity offers a thin smile. “How efficient. Now you can leave.”
“Freeloading off the Calloways again, Felicity? How convenient for you.”
“Please don’t project your insecurities onto me, Arthur. It’s embarrassing.”
Paxton’s mouth twitches.
Art ignores them both and turns to me. “I need to talk to you.”
“No,” Juliette says. “We’re having dinner, and it was hard enough getting him to show up forthat.”
“Jules…” I press my lips together, that tightness in my shoulders raring to life.
She deflates, reading me, and her jaw sets. She turns away, and Roman’s hand cradles the back of her neck softly, as he murmurs something into her ear and then gives me a disapproving look.
“Aw, man, come on,” Alex says. “It’s family time. At least tell us what the gossip is if you’re about to ditch us.”
“It’s private,” Art replies.
I down my drink and push to a stand, guilt dripping through me like acid.
“I’ll be back.”
“No, you won’t,” Juliette says.
I toss my napkin beside my plate and follow Art toward the door.
The autumn air hits my face as we step outside, and Artdoesn’t stop walking until we’re in the alley, away from the windows.
Even under the dim light, he looks like shit, which makes me worried. Art’s always been the kind of guy who runs on fumes and people pleases his way into trouble. And my job was always to be at his back, and make sure he wasn’t alone.
“Did you see theRag?” he asks.
“Come on, man, you know I don’t read that shit.”
He pulls out his phone, scrolls for a second, and flings it toward me. The headline glows on the screen:
Late-Night Stroll or Something More?
My stomach sours as I skim the article.Did they see me go inside her apartment?
