Chapter 18
Eighteen
August
I wanted it to be true!
May’s plaintive wail runs through my head on repeat. It pushes through the music I turn up as I make a midnight smoothie in the kitchen. I’m strangely bereft, like I’ve lost something, done something wrong. I can’t focus.
The blender stops. I grab a tall glass from the cabinet when my phone pings a warning that the front gate has opened.
Alarmed, I set the glass down and pull up the security app.
Cameras show a Mercedes SUV rolling up the drive.
It’s either a wealthy thief, total nutter, or someone I know.
I keep an eye on my phone, and the emergency call button for my security company, as I head for the front door.
I can take most guys, sure. But my contract says I gotta protect the arm.
And I’m not trying to get hurt playing hero when I have a house set up for all manner of protection.
The SUV pulls up to the front. From the safety of my phone screen, I see the passenger get out. A curse rips free. Setting the phone on the hall table, I whip open the door.
“How the hell did you get past my gate?”
January smirks. “You use the same damn password for everything, little brother.” He opens the back door of his SUV and hauls out a travel bag. “You gotta stop doing that.”
Balderdash! That’s my word—complete with exclamation mark; because obviously it’s needed. And, yeah, it’s not the smartest idea to keep using the same code. Especially in this family.
“At least it’s not TacoTuesday,” I mutter.
Jan halts and grins. “I swear, sometimes I forget you and March aren’t twins. You’re both equally boneheaded.”
I let that slide and open the door further so he can come in.
I haven’t seen him in person since my draft day.
He looks good; his arm no longer wrapped, his weight back up instead of edging toward gaunt.
He’s dressed like a ’50s film star headed for the Riviera—camel-colored wool slacks and an ivory silk knit polo.
Knowing my brother, the whole outfit is bespoke, the brown loafers on his feet handmade in Italy.
The man always looks effortlessly sharp.
In so many ways, he’s been my hero. Except right now. Right now, he’s on my shit list.
“Speaking of twins.” I lock up behind me. “I can’t believe you sicced the Terrible Twosome on me and Pen.”
“Better you than me. They were screeching and wailing so bad, I’d have sent them to Hawaii if they’d asked. As it is, you totally deserved their company.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a little thing called brotherly solidarity.”
“Don’t complain.” Jan sets his duffel by the stairs and looks around as if taking the lay of the land. “Mom and Dad wanted to come too.”
“At this point, I might have preferred that.”
When Jan wings a brow at me, I shrug.
“I’ll talk them down easily. I’m their favorite.”
His deep laugh booms in the vastness that is my house. “Good one, Augie. We all know I’m the favorite.”
I flip him the bird and go to the kitchen where my smoothie waits.
Unfortunately, January follows. Out of all of us boys, he’s the biggest. Five years older than me, he’s also two inches taller and a tad wider in the shoulders than March.
With his build, you’d think Jan would have gone for tight end or tackle.
But no, he’s a quarterback like me. The quarterback, a legend in the making, with three Super Bowl titles and four rides to the show under his belt by age twenty-seven.
Then the accident happened. Last winter, my legend of a brother was riding passenger with his fiancée when a drunk driver crashed into them.
They both survived, but my brother’s throwing arm was broken in two places, his elbow shattered.
The world mourned and prayed for a miracle comeback.
But Jan has been adamant. He’ll never be what he was, so he’s done with playing, and trying to work on his future.
One that doesn’t hold a fiancée. I’m not certain what happened with Laura. Jan remains tight-lipped about it, only muttering once that they weren’t in similar places emotionally anymore. From his expression, it was clear that no more information would be forthcoming.
The whole incident both depresses and scares me. I want to make it better for my brother but know I can’t. The reminder has me softening enough to pour him out a portion of my smoothie and pass it his way.
“Thanks.” He takes a sip, then looks round again. “So . . . this is . . . a place.”
“You can just say you hate it.” I take a drink. “I’m immune.”
“To personal style? Yes. Yes, you are.”
When I pull out a stool, the sound echoes around the house. “I liked it at the time.”
“You liked your real estate agent a whole lot better.”
I flip him off with more feeling. He responds with an easy laugh.
“Is this where you and the future Mrs. Luck will reside?”
“Cut it out.” The response lacks heat.
Jan grins like an evil bastard. “Maybe she can put some life into the place. Add a few throw pillows.”
“Sexist ass.” I drink my smoothie, peanut butter and banana with flax seed. It’s a new recipe I’m testing. Pretty good, all in all. Next time, I’ll add more honey. “Besides, Mom already tried that. Didn’t help.”
“Damn.”
We sit in relative silence, one arm resting on the counter, drinks in the other hand. Our movements are eerily in sync. The press often remarks on how alike the Luck brothers are in both looks and talent. Trade one for the other, it’s all good. They know nothing.
“It’s a lie.”
Jan sets down his glass at my quiet confession. “That Mom decorated?”
The lightness of his tone tells me he knows exactly what I’m talking about and has decided to give me a chance to regroup. I run a hand over my head and sigh.
“The engagement with Penelope. Hell, the whole relationship. I made it up in an effort to look respectable in the face of my recent bad behavior.”
“I figured.”
At that, I turn his way. “It’s not that big of a stretch.”
The corner of his mouth curls wryly. “You move fast when you want to, little brother. But not that fast. Besides, Pen is Pen. It’s not likely she’d up and get engaged in the space of a week.”
Well, sure. But he doesn’t have to look at me with amused pity.
“Please. For all you know, we might have been keeping our love a secret. Oh, fine. Fuck it. Of course she wouldn’t.” My shoulders hunch as I glare down into my glass. “She thought it was a crazy plan.”
“Pen’s very sensible.”
I grunt in agreement.
“You’re usually sensible too,” he adds magnanimously.
I give him the stink eye.
He grins wide. “Well, you used to be.”
Family. I swear to God . . .
Around us the house is still and cool. And dark. I haven’t turned on any lights except for the kitchen. The reflection of us wavers in the thin glass partition wall that separates the kitchen from the great room. To look at us, you’d think we hadn’t a care in the world.
“So you lied.” Jan’s tone is thoughtful. “The question is, do you want it to be true?”
I jolt, my head jerking up. January half turns in his seat to face me. His expression is stern; the Luck eyes like glacial ice. A dozen answers spin around my head. But he narrows his gaze, cutting ahead of the bullshit.
“This is me you’re talking to, August. I’m asking you straight. Do you want it to be true?”
My big brother, famous for his dogged determination, waits patiently.
On the cold counter, my hand curls into a fist. May’s wailing lament returns inside my head.
I wanted it to be true!
Pen
“You’re dragging your feet.”
At August’s proclamation, I scowl at the phone. “I am not.”
Apparently, our united front in the face of his sisters’ wrath cleared away most of the awkward tension our denied practice kiss created. I still get flashes of want and don’t know how to make that go away. Baby steps.
“You could have cleared that room of yours out in a couple of hours,” he says dispassionately. “Yet you’re over there once again, picking through your stuff.”
“It’s been three days since she kicked me out. Stop rushing me.”
“Penelope, we both know you’re stalling.”
“I am not stalling.” I might be stalling. Just a teeny bit. With a huff, I pack up another bag. “Need I remind you that I have to transport things via my bike?”
“No, you need not remind me, Ms. Granny.”
Granny. Ha!
“My sisters are visiting you,” he goes on, “with a rental car. Why aren’t they helping?”
“They suckered Jan into taking them to Disney Land for the day.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?”
Because my first game day is tomorrow, and I’m suddenly nervous as hell. “Because I have to pack up my things. See? Not dragging my feet.”
“Then why didn’t you let me help you move everything when I offered yesterday?”
“I don’t know why this bothers you so much.” I toss an old playbill in the “Maybe” pile. “Unless this has to do with your ranidaphobia?”
He makes a sound of baffled amusement. “Rani-da-what?”
“Fear of frogs.”
He scoffs with dry humor. “Edward and I are cool. And maybe we should talk about your phobia of accepting this very good change in your life. Got a clinical name for that?”
It’s a well-known fact among the Lucks that I keep an ongoing list of phobia names. Not for any reason other than I like learning them.
“Metathesiophobia,” I mutter. “And I don’t suffer from that!”
“Thank God,” he intones. “Because it was a mouthful.”
Despite myself, a soft laugh escapes. “Okay, fine. I’m dragging my feet.”
“I’m marking this day down in my calendar. Penelope admits that I am right.”
“About this one thing!”
“Details.”
Our accord lasts about as long as a smile.
August proceeds to tell me—make that order me—to have everything packed up by noon because he’s coming to move my things.
I maintain that I can do it myself and he doesn’t have to help; I know how busy he is.
August finds this insulting, stating that he most certainly has time for me.