Page 45 of Whiteout

Out on the drive, glittery frozen stars tumbled softly from the night sky. Derek’s Jag was missing from its spot underneath the porte-cochère, and presuming he’d already left for Sacramento, his mother spoke openly, “I don’t like this, son.”

“I don’t either.”

He didn’t. Not one bit.

“You can’t let him—”

“I won’t.”

Her fingers brushed snowflakes from his beard. “You need to tell Breanna.”

“You know I can’t.”

Not yet.

Ian kissed her cheek. “She wouldn’t believe me, anyway.”

“You’re not giving the girl enough credit.” Pamela opened her car door. “I have a feeling she’s going to surprise you.”

“Heh. Maybe so.” Of that, he had no doubt.

“It’s up to you to look out for her.”

“I am.” And he had, from the moment he saw Breanna at Hank’s. Holding her by the hand, he assisted his mother into her car.

“I raised you right, Sinjin.”

“Love you, Mom.” He kissed her again. “Text me when you get home. Drive safe.”

By the time he went upstairs, the room next door to his was dark. Ian took his dog and his half-empty bottle of bourbon out onto the deck and tossed a log into the fire. How the fuck was he going to pull off this shit?

He kicked a shot back straight from the bottle.

The faint scent of oranges mingled with crisp, wintry air and burning wood. Ian sensed her presence even before she made herself known.

“You sonofabitch.”

“Don’t say that about my mother, princess.” And turning around to look at her, he smirked. “She likes you.”

But Breanna didn’t appear to be amused.

“You left me.”

Once she’d cleared the stairs and was out of sight, Breanna tore down the hallway, escaping inside her room. She’d never been so grateful to get away from someone in her entire life.

Which someone?

All of them.

Derek refusing to give her even an inch of space. Treating her like a child one minute and hitting on her the next. Pamela and all her questions. Breanna made such an ass of herself thinking the woman was his wife. God, how could I be so stupid? Even now, her cheeks burned hot at the thought.

And Sinjin? Ian?

“Whatever the fuck he’s calling himself today,” talking to herself, she pulled the tie from her hair and the pink sweater dress over her head.

At least you know you’re not crazy, Bree.

The dude might not have a shrimp dick, but his brain must be the size of a pea if he thought for one minute a haircut and expensive clothes would keep her from knowing he was who he was.

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