CHAPTER TEN #13
Elijah cuts me off, brows pulling tight.
"Yeah, what's up with that? Why did she suddenly take a gap year?
" He shakes his head, then adds quickly, "Not that I was complaining, man.
You knew I celebrated it. Hell, I wish she'd taken another year off.
Then she could start next fall... when I'm not here anymore. "
"Wow. You're really planning your entire college career around dodging my sister?"
"Damn right I am."
"Believe me, she wanted to start last year," I tell him, smirking. "But... she was way too busy living her best life on that Euro trip with Mom. First real vacation Mom's taken since Dad passed, and Sam wasn't about to cut it short."
I clap Elijah's shoulder again. "Honestly? I think she figured you needed that one extra year to breathe. You know—let you enjoy the single life, feel all free and untouchable. 'Cause once she gets here?" I grin wider. "Game over, bro."
"Dude, stop. I'm actually gonna be sick," Elijah mutters.
Liam, who's scrolling on his phone, suddenly pipes up. "What I don't get is what exactly you don't like about Zach's sister. She's fine."
Luke leans over his twin's shoulder, eyes locked on Sam's Instagram.
"Hot, actually. Damn. Look at this pic—beach shot. Red bikini. Classic."
"Don't talk about my sister like that, dumbass."
Elijah jerks his head toward them, "Hot? Are you guys blind? You need your eyes checked. Immediately. Like, today."
"Hey!" I snap, half-offended, half-laughing.
"Sorry," Elijah deadpans, though his grin betrays him.
We both chuckle, the twins still scrolling and making way too much commentary for my liking.
*****
I roll into Naples just before noon, and Florida does what Florida always does—hits me in the face with a wall of heat that feels like someone cranked the oven to broil and forgot to turn it off.
The sun's so brutal it feels personal, like it has a vendetta against my skin. My shirt's glued to me, sweat dripping down my back before I even shut the engine off.
Don't even get me started on the drive. Four hours of traffic that crawled like molasses in January, and this is with me leaving Miami at eight in the damn morning. Every snowbird and their grandma was on the highway today, and apparently half of Florida decided to ride the brake pedal for fun.
Still—worth it.
Because today I pulled up in my brand-new Defender Octa. Black, sleek, sexy as hell. Mom surprised me with it when I turned twenty-one back in December, said it was time for me to stop 'driving that death trap' and get something that wouldn't collapse if I sneezed on it too hard.
Now, I'm not the kind of guy who drools over cars. I don't memorize engine stats or follow luxury car accounts like it's porn.
But the second Land Rover dropped the Octa last year? Man, I was hooked. Those sharp lines. The growl of the engine. The way it looks like it's ready to run someone off the road and then take you to a five-star dinner after.
And since my old rusty beater decided to officially die on me right around the same time? I took it as a sign from the hockey gods.
Like, bro, you're an adult now. Upgrade already.
So yeah, I did.
The second I kill the engine and step out, Naples heat sucker-punches me again. I practically jog inside, and the moment I push through the door, it's heaven. The AC's blasting, cool air wrapping around me like a hug, chasing away every bead of sweat.
And then—bam. The smell hits me. Freshly baked ziti. Cheese, sauce, pasta—all of it coming together like the universe finally decided to cut me a break. My stomach growls loud enough I swear it echoes.
There's the sound of clinking in the kitchen, pots shifting. Figures. "Mom?" I call, voice carrying down the hall.
"In here, honey!"
I head straight in and yeah, there she is. Mom's pulling a pan of baked ziti from the oven, wearing those ridiculous pink floral mitts and the faded apron we bought her seven years ago that says World's Okayest Chef. (Sam's idea of humor, not mine.)
She turns, and her smile is brighter than the damn Florida sun. "There's my boy."
"Hey, Ma." I cross over, folding my henley sleeves up my forearms before leaning down to kiss her cheek. She smells like tomatoes and basil, and home. Always home.
"How was the drive?" she asks, setting the pan on the stove.
I drop onto one of the stools at the island, stretching out my legs. "Long. Hot. Traffic sucked. I swear Miami drivers forget how to use a gas pedal."
She chuckles, shaking her head. "And here you are, alive and in one piece. I'd call that a success."
"Barely. The only thing keeping me sane was knowing I'd walk in here to AC and your delicious dish."
Her grin widens as she starts fussing with plates. "Well, lucky for you, I made plenty."
I lean my elbows on the counter, watching her do her little kitchen ritual—checking the sauce, wiping down the counter even though it's already spotless, humming something faint under her breath.
Mom's only in her early forties, sandy blonde hair pulled back in that low twist she always wears. A couple strands of gray peek through, but honestly? She wears them better than most people wear highlights.
She's still young. Still beautiful.
She could be out on some beach date, or sipping wine with some guy who actually deserves her. God knows I've tried nudging her toward it—"try a date," "sign up for one of those apps," even threatened to make her a profile myself once. She just shot me that look and said no.
Always no.
It's been five years since Dad passed, and she hasn't so much as thought about moving on. Says she's keeping her vows—that you only love one man, marry one man, and that's it. That just because Dad's gone, doesn't mean the vows don't still count.
She says she had her once-in-a-lifetime love. That was enough.
And every time she says it, I feel my chest squeeze. Because yeah, it's heartbreakingly sweet... but also? Kinda brutal.
"Where's Sam?"
And like I summoned her by name, there she is—my little sister barreling into the kitchen with her squealy, too-loud, too-excited voice.
"Zachyyy! You're home!"
Before I can even blink, she's in my arms. Sam hugs the way only she can—tight, warm, like she's trying to squeeze all the air out of my lungs but still somehow makes it feel good. My arms go around her automatically, pulling her in.
God, I missed this. For all the ways she drives me crazy, there's nothing in the world like being on the receiving end of her bear hugs.
"I've missed you, angel."
She tips her head back, grinning up at me with those ridiculously bright eyes. "Aw, I've missed you too, big bro." Her grin sharpens, mischief dripping off every word. "But I've missed my Eli even more."
And there it is—the shift.
She scans the room left and right, practically bouncing in place, that wide, glowing smile plastered on her face like she's about to catch him walking through the door any second. She only ever smiles like this when Elijah's name comes up.
That bastard doesn't even know how rare this smile is. How she hoards it for him.
"Where is he, anyway? He came with you, right? Right?"
I hate it. Hate having to puncture that glow. But I can't lie to her either.
"Sorry, angel." I rub her back gently. "Elijah didn't come with me today. He's got stuff to handle—captain duties, hockey things. His schedule's packed."
Her smile drops like someone flipped a switch, and her shoulders slump.
"Lies," she mutters, rolling her eyes. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say he didn't want to come because he knew I'm here." I catch the flicker of hurt in her eyes, sharp and raw.
That one punches me in the chest.
Then, just as fast, she masks it. Straightens, flips those long sandy-blonde curls over her shoulder, and slaps on a fake smile. "Whatever. I'll see him tomorrow then."
Our mom breezes back in before I can say anything, setting plates down on the island, the smell of baked ziti filling the whole kitchen. "Food's ready, grab a seat before it gets cold," she says, sliding one plate in front of me and another beside me.
Sam climbs onto the stool next to mine, folding her arms like she's trying not to pout but failing.
I nudge her with my elbow. "Where've you been, anyway?"
"Next door," she says casually, but her fake smile falters again. "Just wanted to see Esther before I leave, check how she's doing."
My chest tightens.
Two months ago, Esther—Caroline's mom—got into that car accident. Weeks in the hospital with a broken arm and both legs busted up. Scary as hell, but thank God that's all it was. The thought of worse... no, I don't even let my brain go there.
"She just got discharged a couple weeks ago," Sam says softly, picking at her nails.
"How is she?" I ask, my voice lower than I meant.
Sam twirls her fork into the baked ziti, blowing on a piece before answering. "She's getting better, but her leg and arm are still in casts. So, she can't really move around when she wants to. But Franklin hired a nurse for her. Helps her a lot."
Caroline.
Her name flashes across my brain like someone smacked me in the head with it.
Did she come home? She had to, right? It's her mom. Of course she did.
But when? How long has she been back? Is she right now, literally, a few steps away on the other side of the fence?
I want to ask. God, I want to ask.
The words claw their way up my throat, but my mouth feels like it's glued shut. My leg bounces under the island stool, jittery, restless. My fork's stirring the baked ziti like it's a crime scene, shredding the noodles into some sad, unrecognizable mess.
Finally, I cave. The words tumble out, too rushed, too eager.
"Is... she there? Is she home?"
Sam just hums, blowing on her fork before shoving another bite into her mouth, cheeks puffing like a chipmunk. "Yeah."
My pulse kicks. "Really?" The word comes out an octave higher, cracking in the middle.
Shit. I sound like I just hit puberty again. "She—she's back? Are—are you sure?"
Smooth, Westbrook. Real smooth.