The Bet (Winslow Brothers 1)

“Girls, please. Can we not even have a wedding without the two of you sniping at each other?” our mother Katerina asks from her spot at the ironing board in the corner of the room. Our dad Anthony’s pants are in her hands, and she’s working on them furiously. That, of course, begs the question of where exactly my father is without his pants, but I really don’t want to know, so I don’t ask.

“How long do we have? I’m starting to sweat through my deodorant,” Belle remarks, making me laugh.

She’s a pain in my ass, but I love her more than anyone else in the world. There’s a special kind of bond that comes with being a twin sister—half devotion, half loathing, and another completely unexpected fifty percent dedicated to an understanding so deep no one else will ever comprehend. Our mother refers to it as “sniping,” but in reality, it’s all just a special part of our dynamic. Normally, she ignores it, but since our parents moved back to Miami, we don’t see them as much as we used to. As a result, I think Katerina feels an extra need to mother us when she’s around.

I glance down at the slim gold watch on my wrist that Belle gifted all her bridesmaids and calculate the time. It’s her big day and she’s anxious, so I’ll do my best to be understanding. “Just about ten minutes to go. Last time I checked in with Julie, she said the groomsmen were getting themselves together to head into the atrium.”

“Pretty sure you mean popping mints to cover the smell of all the alcohol they’ve been drinking,” our elder sister Katelynn says from her spot on the couch. She’s been married for five years already, and apparently, she gets it.

I laugh. She’s pretty spot-on, to be honest. “That, among other things. You wouldn’t believe how many grooms I’ve had to make switch pants with one of their groomsmen at the last minute because of a stain.”

“Oh yes, I would,” Belle interjects. “John is an actual attractant for sauces. I swear. Somehow, you can see stains on even his black stuff. I told him he’s going to have to take all his shit to the dry cleaners if he wants our marriage to last.”

She may be cracking jokes, but her hands are shaking, and I know my sister better than anyone. She’s nervous as hell, and all this talk is just her way of trying to cover it up.

I step closer, handing off my bouquet to Tonya, who stops fluffing her boobs to take it, and pull Belle gently into my embrace. “You’re getting married, sis,” I whisper with a smile. “I’m so happy for you.”

Her eyes are wide and innocent as she breathes, “I love him so much, but I’m terrified, Soph. What if…what if it doesn’t work out or we start to hate each other or—”

“Belle,” I interrupt calmly, cupping her cheek with my hand. “John loves you. You’re going to fight and quibble and disagree sometimes, but I know you’re going to work out.”

“Really?” she asks hopefully.

I smile. “Really. And if not, I have a feeling I’m going to look damn good in an orange jumpsuit.”

Jude

Hands full with beer, I bang on the front door with my foot and wait for one of my family members to answer my call. After Winnie assigned me the role of Beverage Bitch for Uncle Brad’s birthday shindig, I went all out and got seven thirty-packs of beer, five cases of soda, a case of water, and a big jug of wine for the moms.

Evidently, something happens to women after giving birth that makes their bodies need wine to survive. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I’m not sure what brand I got, but with these lushes, I figured quantity was better than quality. As it is, I’ll have to make several trips back to the trunk of my Audi A4 to get the remainder of the drinks. Living in the city, I don’t drive a ton, but knowing I’d be hauling this much stuff, using my car was a necessity.

When the door finally swings open, a woman I don’t recognize at all smiles and swings her arm gallantly into the house. She’s got a frisky little blond haircut and dark-brown eyes, but I don’t have one fucking clue who she is. I lean back to check the numbers on the house—yep, this is my mom’s place—and then glance back to her with furrowed brows.

“Hi,” she says then, smiling again, but this time, it’s a bit self-consciously.

“Uh, hi.” I want so badly to ask who the fuck she is, but when she reaches out to take the cases of beer from my arms, I think better of it. At least she’s helping, unlike the rest of my no-good family. “Stay here,” I tell her instead. “I’ve got more shit to carry.”