Page 132 of Slapshot Bride

Easton’s hand tightens around mine as we walk in.

I see Mason before he sees us. He’s standing at the table with his phone in his hand, and his sleeves pushed up, and my heart swells with excitement. I’m across the room before Easton can register it.

“Mase.”

“Ri—”

He catches me. He lifts me an inch off the floor the way he’s done since I was a kid, and I laugh into his shoulder, and for about four seconds, everything fades away except the excitement.

Then he sets me down and looks over my head.

And stops.

I feel it happen. The way he goes still, all at once, the way a room goes quiet when the music cuts out.

“Easton?”

I turn around.

Easton is standing three feet behind me. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at my brother with an expression I have never seen on his face.

“Mason,” he says.

I look between them. I’m still smiling.

“You know each other?”

Neither of them answers me.

Mason’s eyes move. To Easton. To me. Then back to Easton. Something is assembling behind his face.

“Ri.” His voice has gone very quiet. “How do you know Easton Blake?”

“He’s—” And I stop. Because I don’t know the version to tell him. The truth, or the media one? “He’s the friend. The one I’ve been staying with.”

“Mason—”

“You’re the woman.”

Mason isn’t talking to me. He’s talking to Easton, and his voice has an edge to it I’ve never heard before. “She’s the woman. At the bar, the woman you couldn’t name.”

“You never told me about her, either,” Easton says. “You never mentioned it that day.”

“I didn’t talk about my sister and the scandal because she’s not a topic up for discussion.” It comes out hard enough that a woman at the next table glances over.

Mason drags a hand down his face. “Preston turned her into a topic. Every dinner, every party, everyone in that man’s orbit had an opinion about my sister. I wasn’t going to be one more person doing it.”

Easton’s head turns slowly. He looks at me like he’s never seen me before.

“Wait…” I glance between the two of them, taking a step back.

Mason looks at me, and his face breaks a little.

“He’s my best friend, Ri.” A breath. “Since high school.”

The floor goes out from under me.

Fourteen years. Mason was seventeen in high school when I was twelve and living in my father’s house with our mom. Mom had left a broken marriage. Mason was the result of that.