“Hmm…And you agreed as well.” Isabella’s eyes hold a world of skepticism. “That you only want to be friends?”

Biting my lip, I look away.

Her tone turns dry. “Maybe neither of you is as honest with your feelings as you believe.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Mami,” she says with affection. “It’s simple. Do you want this man as your friend or as your everything?”

A bubble of emotion pops within my chest, and I find myself huffing out a weak laugh. “Well, when you put it like that…”

She grins, leaning into my shoulder for a minute. I smile too, but it quickly fades.

She kisses me on the temple then sets my hand back on my thigh. “It isn’t easy to admit when you’ve been wrong. Especially for stubborn women like us. Then again, letting love in never is.”

“I thought loving someone was supposed to be easy.”

Isabella shakes her head slowly. “My dear, I was talking about loving yourself. If you don’t do that first, you’re always going to push away those who try to love you.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Brenna

 

Stella!!!: Emergency pajama party in the kitchen. 15 min

WhipIt: I don’t wear pajamas.

Stella!!!: Well, find some. No one wants to see your bare ass

So-Sophie: I want cocoa or it’s a no-go

WhipIt: You can’t make that judgment, Stells, without seeing the product first

JaxJax: Whip, you’ll be seeing my foot up said ass if you keep flirting with my woman

So-Sophie: See what I did there? Cocoa no-go? Eh? Eh?

Stella!!!: Yes, you’re very clever, Soph. Signed: John’s “woman”

JaxJax: Is this some sort of feminist thing I messed up?

Stella!!!: If I have to tell you, it doesn’t count. And why are you texting me? We’re in the same bed

JaxJax: :-*

Killer: Can you all please shut up? It’s one in the morning. I’m not in the mood for No-Go Cocoa

So-Sophie: No-Go Cocoa… :D

Stella!!!: You’ll have cocoa and like it, Mr.

Killer: No

Stella!!!: Libby

Libs: I’m on it.

Killer: I resent the idea that you women think you can

WhipIt: She took his phone, didn’t she?

JaxJax: Count on it. Scottie? I know you’re curled around Sophie like she’s your woobie, but we’ll need confirmation of attendance, because you’re evil and no one trusts you not to turn into a snake or something to get away.

MrScott: Sorry, must run. About to dematerialize.

BrennaBean: I’m joining Scottie aboard the mothership, away from you yahoos

Stella!!!: FUNNY. Now get your butts down here. All of you. RYE! I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing.

Rye-Rye: I was having the weirdest dream. You all were in it. No. Wait. It was a nightmare. Or should I call it a wakemare since I’m fairly certain I’m awake now, and you’re all still texting.

WhipIt: HUR!

So-Sophie: Cocoa, Rye-Rye. You love cocoa

Rye-Rye: I will not be swayed by a mere beverage

Stella!!!: And cookies. Lots of cookies

Rye-Rye: I’ll be down in 5

 

Groaning, I mute my phone, push my head under a pillow, and welcome the muffled silence. I flop onto my back and stare at the lavender silk canopy above my head. When I was a kid, I slept in this bed and called myself Princess Brenna. I wanted a prince to love me. I’m not going to even deny it. I did. And I wanted to be a knight who took on the world and won. I wanted it all.

Along the way, my definition of “all” evolved. It meant relying only on myself, no more risks to my heart. I would go after what I wanted, safe in the knowledge that I’d get it. I’d played it safe because I kept a part of me locked away. And that part of me has slowly withered.

Life is risky now. Uncertain.

I don’t know if I’ll get what I want. And I don’t like that. But I’m done playing it safe.

Muttering, I shove myself upright and push my hair back from my face. Stella and Sophie will march up here and sit on me if I don’t get moving. Besides, Stella is the best out of all of us at reading people’s needs. And while I selfishly ran and hid away in my room for the night, she’s trying to help Killian by having us all there for him. I know my cousin. He’ll grump and bitch, but he truly feels better when his friends are around him.

Ashamed that I didn’t think of this first, I crawl out of bed and slip on a black long-sleeve shirt and a pair of pink flannel pants with black French poodles dancing across them. It’s the closest I have to pj’s, and frankly, I’m tired of dressing up. Having stayed here many times and knowing how cold the floors can get, I have a pair of slippers on hand. I put them on and head downstairs.

As in many old English homes, the kitchen is located on the ground floor and away from the main rooms. The corridor is narrow and fairly dim. I’m not going to say I believe in ghosts or anything, but I’ve never felt any desire to linger in the hallways down here.

Hurrying around the corner, I nearly collide with Rye. His hands automatically grasp my arms to steady me, but he doesn’t let go. With the warm light of the kitchen barely touching us, he’s a shadowy figure, but I feel every inch of him, even with a foot of space separating us. He’s showered, his skin fragrant with the rosemary lemon soap they provide here. It’s never smelled so good. I have to restrain myself from burrowing my nose into the center of his chest.

“Bren,” he says, pulling me out of my scent-induced lust. “We need to talk.”

The dull, almost pained strain in his voice sends alarm skittering down my spine. His expression is serious, hard, even. “Bren, I—”

Killian’s annoyed mutter echoes from down the hall, and I jerk back, knowing he’ll round the corner any second.

“Okay. But not here,” I whisper, glancing toward the sound of Killian’s voice. “Not now.” What I have to say isn’t for my cousin’s ears.

Rye grimaces, his brows knitting. Killian’s voice is closer, complaining loudly about cold-ass floors. The familiar gripe makes me smile despite myself. I touch Rye’s forearm, trying to reassure him and find it rock-hard with tension. He turns his head, checking the hall.

“Better go,” he says, stepping back to put space between us.

Flustered, I slip into the kitchen without another word. I expect Rye to follow, but he doesn’t.

Like the rest of the rooms in Varg Hall, the kitchen is super-sized. But with its wide plank, worn-oak floorboards, sage-green cabinetry, lime-washed plaster walls, and the great big masonry fireplace, it’s also cozy.

Whip is feeding kindling into the growing fire as I walk past. I ruffle his hair and then take a seat midway down the old pine farm table that stretches like a felled tree in the center of the room. Scottie, who sits opposite me and one chair down, grunts in greeting then sets his phone with the baby monitor app playing on the table. He’s wearing ice-blue Dolce & Gabbana silk pajamas.

My lips twitch. “Sophie got you those, didn’t she?”

There is a certain model featured in a Dolce & Gabbana perfume ad campaign that could be Scottie’s twin. We’re never allowed to speak of it or him. But Sophie likes living dangerously. That, and she has her man twisted around her clever little fingers.