Chapter 6
Declan
Afew hours after the team pitches in and helps clean up at the boardwalk, I can finally relax back at the mansion.
Diego's organized a dinner on the back deck, mostly because it's a calm evening, with barely a hint of the ocean breeze passing through the palms.
But also because… well, he's a fucking legend.
"Gentlemen!" Diego sweeps onto the deck carrying a pitcher of margaritas like he's serving royalty, one hand dramatically pressed to his hip.
He sets the pitcher down on the table. "Fresh lime, top-shelf tequila, and a splash of magic because honestly, after watching you three stumble through basic human interaction all week, we all need something stronger than beer. "
Beck somehow perks up from the fetal position he's held since he rolled through the door an hour ago. "Diego, you beautiful bastard, I could kiss you right now."
"Please don't," Diego replies, arranging the glasses around the table. "I just got this shirt pressed, and your breath still smells like whatever that food truck tries to pass off as food."
Mason chuckles from his spot across the table. "Says the guy who's emotionally attached to that greasy takeout bag you've been hoarding."
"Keeping a clean home isn't about feelings, Mason. It's about having basic self-respect." Diego fills the first glass as if he's leading a symphony. "Unlike the full-blown meltdown you've clearly had this week every time your phone pings with a message from that girl."
Diego gives Mason a pointed look, raising a brow.
Mason tucks his phone into his pocket and stays perfectly still.
"Are we really doing therapy hour on the deck again?" I ask, accepting the perfectly salted glass Diego slides my way. "It's been a long day."
"Oh, honey," Diego says, settling into his own chair with a dramatic sigh, "we're absolutely doing therapy hour."
"Then I'm going to need more of these," I groan, taking a huge slurp of my drink.
The Pacific is stretching out before us, the sunset bleeding into shades of orange and pink as the sun begins its slow descent. The infinity pool glows nearby, tempting me into a post-dinner swim.
Biscuit is sprawled across my feet under the table, snoring softly because I haven't kicked him away yet.
I've told my brothers not to read into it.
"Okay, but seriously." Beck points a finger at me, still clenching his stomach after the eating contest. "It might be the jalapenos talking, but you were actually fun today. It was disturbing."
"I'm always fun." I take a long pull of my margarita, the lime hitting just right after a day that felt like it lasted three weeks. "You look like shit, man. How many tacos did you eat?"
"Seventeen. Maybe eighteen. I lost count after Rico started laughing at me." Beck groans and shifts in his chair, pressing a hand to his stomach. "Oh God, I think one of them is trying to escape."
Diego scrunches his face and moves to the next chair over.
"Darling, the only thing that's escaping is your dignity. Which, let's be honest, was already on life support before the taco incident."
Mason chuckles as he leans back in his chair, looking across to me. "You know what today reminded me of? That summer when Beck got his ass kicked by those older kids at the community center festival."
"Oh, here we go," Beck mutters. "Can't you see I'm already hurting?"
"You remember that?" Mason asks me, swirling his margarita before turning to tell Diego the story. "When word spread he was hurt, Dec showed up like some kind of avenging angel. Didn't even ask questions. Just saw Beck with a bloody nose and went full protective-beast mode."
I shake my head. I remember that day all too well.
Some bigger assholes had roughed Beck up for being too much of a smartass. The second I saw him with a split lip and shaking hands, something primal kicked in.
Older brother mode… Protector mode…
Whatever mode it was, it was the first time I remember feeling that kind of feral adrenaline.
Nobody touches my family. Nobody.
"They were picking on him. Someone had to do something."
"Someone, yeah," Beck says, his voice softer now. "But it was you. Even when Zoey was there, even when Mom and Dad were... well, wherever the hell they were."
Diego raises an eyebrow. "Oh, this is getting good. Continue, please."
So Mason reels off more stories, but thankfully, they're more along the lines of Beck getting his ass kicked then Declan is our saviour.
I pretend to listen while reaching for one too many of Diego's delicious tacos. He's made them with grilled pineapple and chipotle sauce, and they're so good I might just end up like Beck I'm eating that many.
The tortillas are charred perfectly, the meat tender and smoky, the pineapple adding just the right hit of sweetness.
Yet somewhere deep down, I still feel like I hate that I'm enjoying this.
The easy rhythm of my brothers' bickering. The warmth of the evening. The way Biscuit's tail thumps against my ankle every few seconds like he's making sure I'm still here.
Isn't this what I came here to enjoy?
Diego stands to refill the margarita pitcher, and I let the conversation wash over me, filling my glass as my mind keeps sliding back to this morning in the media room.
Fuck. I can't believe I let Josie put me in my place like that.
The way she shut me down, in front of the whole damn team. Then she just stood there, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, watching me crash through that practice interview like an amateur.
I left that room thinking way too hard. Harder than I have in years.
You've been coasting.
Yeah. Yeah I fucking have.
And it's been amazing.
But then I went down to The Yard for the next event she had her hands on. And the crowd that had gathered around our players, not because they were forced to, not because a ticket included it, but because someone given them something worth enjoying… it was incredible.
I couldn't help but enjoy myself.
Josie had done that.
And I'm still not sure how I feel about that.
About her.
About the fact that she walked into this franchise and immediately started proving me wrong about everything, including the part where I told myself her plan was a waste of time.
The whole town had been alive today and I'd driven back from the boardwalk after the event wound down, and you could feel it… that buzzing energy. People wearing Bears blue. Kids with face paint. A line stretching out at The Vault pop-up shop that Brooke was somehow managing.
Josie's making a difference.
I hate that.
Or I'm starting to think maybe I don't.
"Anyway, the kids loved him today too," Mason says, reaching for his own taco and pulling me back into the conversation while Diego disappears inside. "Didn't they, bro? That little girl with the pigtails? She didn't stop talking about you after she scored that goal."
"She only scored on me because I let her."
"You let her?" Beck scoffs. "Bro, she deked you so hard you're still spinning. We all saw it."
"It was a good deke."
"It was a great deke. And you know what else was great?" Beck leans forward, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Your smile."
I toss a scrap of chicken at him. "I don't smile."
"Well you did today. And it was terrifying."
"He smiled?!" Diego reappears from the kitchen door, a fresh pitcher of margaritas in one hand and a towel draped over his shoulder. "Photographic evidence or it didn't happen."
"Oh, it gets better." Mason, the traitor, opens his big mouth. "Did you see Josie watching you?"
"No, she wasn't."
"Oh, she absolutely was." Beck sets down his drink. "Darcy pointed it out to me when we were packing up the eating contest. I thought I was hallucinating from all the chilli."
She was watching me?
Thankfully, the tablet panel near the kitchen flares to life with a soft chime, cutting the conversation short.
"Visitor at Main Door."
We all stare at each other, frowning. Because the voice coming from the tablet is unmistakably, comically British.
I look at Beck. "Have you been messing with the settings on that thing again?"
"I've never been with a British chick before. She sounds hot."
The idiot shrugs like this is a completely normal thing for a human to do.
I shove out of my chair and make my way over to the screen. "You need help."
Bringing up the security feed with a few taps on the giant screen, the front gate camera shows a female figure standing at the entrance. Under the light, she looks a little like she's bracing herself for something.
Josie.
What the hell is she doing here?
I stare at the feed for a second longer than necessary, then buzz her in the gate and stride to the front door.
"Who is it?" Beck calls after me.
"Your mom," I say, the lie smooth and automatic.
"LIAR!"
The front door looms before me, and suddenly the tacos are sloshing around in my stomach. I take a breath, steadying myself, then pull it open.
And there she is.
Josie Whitfield, standing on my fucking doorstep.
"Josie?"
She's backlit by the glow of the setting sun. Her hair is slightly windswept, her cheeks flushed, and she's clutching her phone against her chest.
She's wearing a white sundress that's blowing in the breeze, and the way it flaps is revealing how smooth and tempting those pale legs look. Fuck. She looks soft and approachable, and absolutely nothing like the corporate shark from the conference room.
"Hey," she says, and her voice is breathless and uncertain. "I'm so sorry to show up like this. Rose said you might have grabbed my laptop by mistake when you left The Yard. I need it for tomorrow's meeting, and I texted, but—"
"My phone's inside."
I clear my throat as her hand falls away from her chest, revealing just how low cut that dress is.
"Um, just… Come in. I'll grab it."
She hesitates for a second, then steps right past me and into the foyer.
The scent of her perfume hits me as she passes. It's floral, sweet, and way too familiar. I remember that smell from the night we spent together.
Laptop. Get the laptop. She's here for the laptop.