The Dirty Truth

Your favorite (and only) brother,

Will

PS—Seriously though, if I don’t make it home for some reason, take care of my girls. That’s all I ask.

Tears cloud my vision as I fold the letter and hand it back.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t blame myself for his death,” West says.

“You couldn’t have known . . .”

“You want to know why I rejected your article?” he asks. “I didn’t like how it made light of dating in the military. It made me think of Lexi and Scarlett and all the people like them who have a loved one overseas, who have lost husbands and wives and mothers—meanwhile Made Man is peddling active-duty dating apps.”

“West, I never would have . . .”

“You didn’t know,” he says. “And you couldn’t have. It wasn’t intentional on your part, and I get that. But I didn’t feel like explaining it to you that day outside the boardroom. And I didn’t feel like explaining it to you the other night, either, because being with you, Elle . . . is the only time I don’t feel that gnawing void inside of me that nothing seems to fill—except you. We were having such a good time together, and I didn’t want to lose that; I didn’t feel like excavating an old wound.”

For a sliver of a second, I don’t see a boardroom tyrant, a multimillionaire titan of industry, or an infuriating playboy. I see a man. Nothing more, nothing less.

Rising from the bed, I slide my hands up his chest before resting my eyes on his glassy teal gaze.

“Everything you’ve ever done was for him, wasn’t it?” I cup his chiseled cheek as I study him.

“Everything.”

I was wrong about him.

He’s not a human Fyre Festival. He’s just a man struggling to forgive himself, trying to live the life his brother never got to. He’s not fake perfect. He’s not fake chocolate. He’s not fake anything.

He’s 100 percent genuine West Maxwell.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

WEST

One Week Later

The Napier house is abuzz with prewedding festivities. Mona is flitting about, calling out orders in her sweet drawl and making sure everyone is fed and on task. Elle’s father, Bob, is on a ladder, cleaning the gutters, while two of her sisters make wedding mints and the bride-to-be is chatting Scarlett up in the next room.

It’s like a scene out of that movie with Julia Roberts—minus the diabetes.

Settled on the living room sofa, feeling like a bum despite the fact that I was ordered to “relax and make myself at home,” I check my phone and handle a few work emails before heading over to the family photo above the fireplace.

Four daughters is no small feat.

I can hardly raise one young woman, and these two managed to raise four of them without issue. Once the wedding dust settles, I’ll have to pull Bob aside and ask him for pointers. I only have Scarlett a few more years, but I’ll be damned if I screw those years up.

“Bob!” Mona yells from another room. “Has anyone seen Bob?”

“He’s outside, Mom,” one of the sisters yells back. “Cleaning the gutters like you told him to, remember?”

“Why on earth is he doing that? I told him to clean those days ago. I thought he was waxing the car? We’ve got to be at the rehearsal dinner in less than an hour, and he still needs to get showered . . .” Mona’s voice trails into nothing as she disappears into one of the recesses of their old Victorian.

She returns within seconds, making a beeline for Elle this time.

“Sweetheart, can you please try your bridesmaid dress on again?” she asks with batting lashes. “I just want to be sure it fits.”

“And what if it doesn’t?” Elle asks, shooting me a teasing wink.

“You know I have my tailor on speed dial.” Mona toys with her gold-and-diamond pendant, dragging it side to side on its fragile chain like a nervous tic.

“I can assure you it fits like a glove.” Elle places her hands on the sides of her mother’s shoulders before leaning in to deposit a kiss on her forehead. “Relax, okay? Everything’s going to be perfect—just like you planned it to be.”

Mona drags in a haggard breath and releases it with sagging shoulders. A moment later, she claps her hands together, paints a smile on her face, and marches into the next room, a woman on a mission.

“The one and only Mona Napier, ladies and gentlemen,” one of Elle’s sisters says once their mother is out of earshot.

“If you think this is nuts, you should see us at Christmastime.” Elle sneaks up from behind me, slipping her arms around my waist as she hugs me from behind. “My mother puts up five trees. And my dad does a light display in the front yard that people drive from miles around to come see each year. Don’t even get me started on the food either. You can’t leave here without gaining a solid five pounds.”