There’s no way this won’t be all over the news.
“I gather you like kids,” Jack says easily.
I nod. “I helped raise my baby sister and brother. I’m used to changing dirty diapers and being spit up on.”
“Me too.” He explains further, “My parents worked long hours, so I looked after my brother a lot before I left for college.”
I want to know more. Like what his parents do for a living. How did his brother take it when Jack left? But my phone buzzes.
Has your location changed? – Thatcher
Before I can answer, another text pings.
I don’t want to ask over comms and worry Farrow and Maximoff on their honeymoon. – Thatcher
“Everything okay?” Jack eyes me as I read the messages.
“I can’t tell,” I say honestly. “I know Farrow better than I even know my own brother.” It just came out, and fuck, I can’t believe I’m admitting that to anyone, let alone Jack. I swear the guy is made of truth serum. But I just keep talking. “It’d have to take a crater-sized issue for Farrow to interrupt his honeymoon with Maximoff, and if something is going down at the lake house…I wish I were there.”
Everyone in SFO is too far away to protect them.
I text Thatcher back: Still in New York
Copy that – Thatcher
My radio crackles in my fist. “Farrow to Thatcher, are you sure security isn’t coming here?”
I make an educated guess out loud. “He must see a security vehicle pulling into the lake house.” Why else would he single out security?
Thatcher replies on comms, “Unless someone is lying, no one should be at the lake house but your family.”
Jack stands off the barstool. “Who do you think it is?”
I watch him approach the sink near me. “Maybe Quinn.”
Jack frowns, and he’s about to wash out the cereal bowl, but I reach for it.
“You’re my guest—”
“You already fed me,” Jack interjects. “Really, I should’ve brought over breakfast for the meeting.” He runs the water. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Mention of why he’s here—for the show about my client—puts everything in tense perspective. The air strains. I scratch the back of my head, feeling the knot to my bandana.
“You think your brother would lie about his location?” Jack asks me.
I lean my waist against the counter. “Probably. He’s been imitating Farrow’s rebel ass way too much.”
At first, I thought it was funny that my brother looked up to Farrow. Mostly because I knew Farrow wanted to be no one’s mentor. But here he was, stuck mentoring my baby brother.
Now I’m concerned Quinn is taking it too far, but I don’t tell Jack that. My brother issues are thick roots that I can’t see as they’ve grown under an old oak tree.
I feel like I have to chop the thing down and dig to understand what’s there. And I haven’t tried because even trying elicits rage from Quinn.
And I hate meeting his anger.
I shake my head, thinking out loud. “But Quinn has no reason to be at the lake house.” I take the clean bowl from Jack and dry it with a dish towel. Ignoring how my hand just brushed against his fingers. “It could be anyone on Epsilon or Alpha…” I trail off because one name latches in my head.
Jack is two seconds from asking.
So I just tell him, “Donnelly.” I explain how he’d often crash with Farrow at Yale. He’d even tag along dates. Why not join his honeymoon? Farrow won’t care.
I continue with a laugh, “The guy attaches himself to Farrow like he’s another appendage. He’s practically Redford’s sixth toe at this point.”
Without a doubt, I love Donnelly as much as I love Farrow.
Jack smiles, but while he leans against the sink, I see his eyes drag across the ground.
Why?
I don’t understand that. Facing him, I say casually, “You ever have that one friend that’s just such a pain in the ass but you love them for it? They could take a shit on your front lawn and you’d laugh about it and tell the story decades later?”
His broad shoulders contract and almost bow forward as he shrugs.
“Come on, Mr. Popular,” I say with an edging grin that falters. “Your phone is probably bloated with numbers.”
His lips lift. “I’m definitely not starved for those, dude.” He takes a step from the sink, closer to me. And like he’s polishing a trophy, he adds, “I was Prom King in high school.”
Don’t give him a once-over.
I nod a few times. “Checks out.” My voice is more stilted. I grab my water bottle. “I was Mr. December in a fan’s Hot Bodyguard Calendar.” I swig my water.
Jack eyes me, the two-second up-down. “That’s well-deserved.”
The kitchen is fifty-degrees hotter. “I’d say so,” I tell him.
Look at me, willingly floating towards the sun like Icarus. If I get too close, I deserve melted-wings and a hundred-foot plummet.