“I think it’s fair to say that’s a possibility.”
He glances at me briefly out of the corner of his eye. Then with a hesitant resolution, he speaks. “I have four brothers. Holt, the brother getting married, is the oldest.”
“That makes sense.”
“Why?”
“Okay, I guess that was silly of me. You don’t have to get married in the order you were conceived.”
He looks at me, puzzled.
“It was a joke.”
“Right,” he deadpans.
I sigh. “Anyway …”
“Oliver is …” He makes a face. “I don’t know if my brothers are engaged or dating or what.”
I shift in my seat, turning my body to get a better look at him. “How do you not know if your brothers are engaged? Like, isn’t there a ring or a party or something?”
“My mom designs jewelry. There are always rings.”
“Ooh,” I say. “Fancy.”
He scoffs. “As far as parties go, my family is large, and they get together often. It always feels like a party for something. I tune out the reasons and show up. I generally know when to bring a gift. It works out.”
The tick of the turn signal is the only sound reverberating through the car. Since Wade seems lost in his own thoughts, I take the opportunity to do a little investigation.
The lines around his temple are relaxed. His mouth isn’t pressed into a firm line. No lines are marring his forehead.
It doesn’t add up. He doesn’t add up.
Despite Wade’s hard exterior and grumbliness, it doesn’t match how he talks about his family. It doesn’t match how he looks right now after talking about them, and it doesn’t match the glimpses that I’ve gotten, albeit briefly, of the man behind the glower.
He tries so, so hard to be a broody bastard. You can’t be that grumpy without serious effort. But I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s an act, a carefully constructed shield he’s built around himself. Because as growly as he is, as detached and as irritated as he makes himself out to be, his body gives him away.
Why does he do this? I have no idea.
Yet.
Wade pilots the car around a corner and then proceeds down an oak tree-lined street.
“Oliver is with Shaye,” he says, snapping me back to the present. “And Coy is with Bellamy, although Bellamy is likely going to miss the wedding.”
“Coy and Bellamy had the baby.”
He looks at me and gives me the softest, briefest smile. “Yes.”
“Baby Kelvin.” I wrinkle my nose. “Holt was right. That’s a pretty terrible name.”
Wade’s lips twitch. “And then there’s Boone.”
“Ah. The Boone? The race car driver like me?”
He rolls his eyes. “That would be the one.”
“Why did I never realize he was your brother?”
“Probably because I don’t tell people that willingly.” He smirks. “Boone is the baby of the family, through and through.”
“I like him already.”
Wade turns his head to mine. His expression is unreadable. He turns away before giving me too much time to figure it out.
“Boone is with Jaxi, and they have a little girl, Rosie.” He chuckles to himself. “She’s a pistol.”
“That’s an adorable name. Rosie is so cute.”
“She’s a cute kid.” He pauses, as if he’s considering that, and then just shakes his head. “But that’s it. Those are my siblings. They’ll all be there tonight.”
There’s a note of pride in his voice that I can’t miss. It’s adorable.
“Where do you fit in?” I ask.
“In what? The lineup? I can’t remember.”
“I’m third—between Oliver and Coy.”
I scoot around in my seat and face forward. “Well, if that doesn’t just make all the sense in the world …”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re the proverbial middle child,” I say.
He scoffs, regripping the steering wheel.
“You are,” I insist. “You’re independent.”
“How would you know?”
“Oh, please.”
He looks at me, confused. “Please, what? Do tell. I’m riveted here.”
“You’re an asshole—which is also a middle-child trait, I think.”
“I’m an asshole because I have a woman in my car who thinks she’s figured out who I am based on my birth order.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “That’s rich, Dara.”
I sit up straight. “It’s the truth. Are you not strong-willed? Even-tempered? Competitive?”
He withdraws one hand from the steering wheel and places it on the middle console. His arm brushes against mine. The contact is brief, but it’s enough to send a flurry of goose bumps across my skin.
I withdraw my arm so he doesn’t see the way my body reacts to him.
“You’re also starved for attention,” I say, knowing I’m walking a thin line but going for it anyway. “That’s why you act out.”
“Act out? What are you talking about?”
My stomach tightens, and I swallow a lump of anxiety down my throat. I should walk away, backtrack, point out the line of cars ahead of us going into the venue—but I don’t. I foray into the minefield I’ve just marched into.
“You didn’t just put your arm here on purpose?” I ask. “Because it felt pretty intentional, Mr. Mason.”