The Pact (Winslow Brothers 2)

Winnie snorts, and my smile grows right along with my confidence to continue my little newlywed stand-up routine.

“As for the socks in bed, I think all of his clothing just evaporates off him, especially at bedtime. One minute, he’s dressed, and the next, he’s not.” I shrug, and Winnie groans her face into her hands.

“Oh God. I’m not sure whether to get excited that I’m related to a superhero or be disturbed by the vision of my brother’s clothes evaporating into thin air.”

“Be impressed,” I say easily. “Your brother is very impressive.”

Sophie dissolves into hysterics, and Winnie squeals. My cheeks are red and heated with embarrassment, but it’s the good kind. The kind that makes my chest ache a little because it’s not going to last.

“It must be genetic, then,” Sophie says with a waggle of her brows and adds to Winnie’s suffering so much that she lifts her hands to her ears and pretends to keel over.

“What’s wrong, Winnie? Isn’t Wes impressive too?” Sophie teases relentlessly.

“Oh God, you’re terrible. Both of you.”

I’m overcome with laughter, but Sophie keeps going for both of us. “Horny, Winnie. I think the word you’re looking for is horny. Jude’s on some ridiculous kick that we can only have sex every other day leading up to the wedding. Some kind of sacrifice to the Fortune-Teller Gods, he says. I’m dying here.”

I suck my lips into my mouth and shift in my seat. Flynn and I haven’t had sex since the night I got here, and Sophie’s right—it’s killing me. Hell, I think that’s probably seventy-five percent of why I’m letting Tara Fuckface Insley get to me so much. I keep waiting for him to take charge and fuck the anxiety out of me, but no matter how many coy looks I’ve given, we still just climb into bed and go to sleep.

“Oh, sweet Jesus. The fortune-teller?” Winnie murmurs, putting her hand to her chest.

“What? You know something about it?”

Winnie nods and then shakes her head. “It’s been…well…fifteen years or so? Before Remy’s wedding, they all went to a fortune-teller, and she had all these things to say about the trajectory of all of their love lives.”

“Remy’s married?” I ask in confusion.

Winnie shakes her head. “No. It never happened. Charlotte…” She pauses and licks her lips. “It was a long time ago, and it was bad. She left him at the altar. I swear that’s why all of my brothers have avoided commitment like the plague.”

My throat tightens exponentially. “What’d the fortune-teller say about Flynn?”

Winnie waves me off. “Oh, I don’t know. They’ve all been pretty tight-lipped about what she said, honestly, but I know Jude feels like she was right about him and Rem.” Winnie glances up at my face, which I’m almost positive is as white as a sheet, and smiles sympathetically. “Oh, honey, don’t worry. You and Flynn are together, and you’re happy. Whatever that fortune-teller said, you’ve obviously got your lives figured out.”

I force a smile, but inside, I feel sick. Flynn and I…we don’t have anything figured out at all. And when Winnie and Sophie find out in two and a half months, they’re going to hate my stupid, lying guts.

Flynn

I turn the page in my philosophy book, the sheets and comforter resting comfortably at my hips, and watch Daisy as she dances from one spot in the room to another, propping her toes up a little so she can rub lotion down the length of her pretty legs. She’s got on a long black-floral satin robe that dusts the floor with every bend and obstructs most of my view, other than the tanned length of skin that runs from her calves to her toes.

“Lunch with your sister and Sophie was really great. They’re both so fun and funny,” she says, glancing at me over her shoulder.

“Mm,” I hum, looking down at my book, but when she shucks the robe and bends over again, my eyes move right back to her. This time, there’s nothing blocking my view of her sheer panties and thin white tank top. My cock twitches under the covers and starts to harden immediately.

She hasn’t dressed like this for bed since she got here, and she can’t seem to keep herself from adding to a rolling ramble, so it’s not a secret that something is different, even if she thinks it is.

“I really needed that after the week I’ve had at work,” she says, and her hands keep spreading that fucking lotion up and down her legs, her fingers lingering every so often, and her eyes keep looking toward me like she’s trying to make sure I’m watching the show. “It’s…good, you know? But it’s a transition. It’s not at all like working with my boss, Damien, in LA. He’s kooky and spirited, and the people here are pretty serious, I guess.”