Page 62 of The Trouble with Runaway Brides

Kenzie sits on a stool and rocks forward in laughter as Brinley creeps up to Van in the bar area, where I know for a fact he’s told her on more than one occasion is off-limits.

“Babe,” Brinley whispers.

He side-eyes her as if he knew she was there the entire time.

“Can we have some shots?” she asks.

“Give me ten. I’ve got help coming in, but in the meantime, take four beers out of the cooler for you guys. And write it down.”

She salutes him. “Gotcha, boss.”

“Stop calling me that,” Van says, filling a beer from the tap for one of the customers who can’t stop looking at Brinley.

“Daddy?” she asks.

“Jesus, Brin.” Van gently takes her by the elbow and walks her over to us. “Please, just keep her over here for now.”

He looks at me because, of course, I’m the responsible one. I nod and that appeases him.

“Do you really call him daddy in the bedroom?” Kenzie asks.

Brinley walks over to her. “No. I would never be able to say it without laughing and it’d probably ruin the whole mood. Do you call Will that?”

My stomach sours with Brinley’s question for Kenzie.

Easton looks at me—for a reaction, I assume—but I just take Brinley’s stick off the pool table and rest it on the wall. “Break ’em, East.”

“My pleasure.” He lines up his shot and hits the triangle, sending the number five into the corner pocket. “Solids.”

“I like stripes, like landing stripes, or at least Van does.”

Kenzie giggles. “I think you mean landing strips.”

“Fuck, Brinley, you’re our cousin. We don’t wanna think about that.” Easton’s body shakes and I can’t argue with him.

Brinley sits on the stool next to Kenzie since it’s still Easton’s shot. “Remember when we looked up how to shave down there?”

The tip of Easton’s stick hits the cue ball, but it barely goes anywhere.

“Ha! You missed!” Brinley jumps off her stool. “Mind if I go first?”

Kenzie motions to the table for her to go.

“You ladies want to play dirty?” Easton comes over to me and sips his beer. I slide mine toward him. “You DD?”

I nod because, apparently, I still feel this intrinsic need to be the one who makes sure Kenzie gets home safely, which is irritating as hell.

Brinley lines up her shot.

“Remember when we played swords with our dicks?” Easton says, earning a few looks from the people nearby.

But his strategy is effective because Brinley misses the cue ball entirely.

“FYI, that never happened.” I’m loud enough for everyone around us to hear. I walk over to the pool table and set up my shot.

“Hey, Kenz, let’s go to the spa tomorrow and get Brazilians,” Brinley says.

I hit the cue ball, but it hits the ball I was aiming at on an angle I didn’t want and banks off to nowhere.

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