Page 66 of The Fake Out

“Are you texting with my sister?” Chris asked, startling me.

My first instinct was to hide the phone. But nothing in the message was anything other than friendly. So I forced myself not to move.

“Nosy much?” I asked, forcing a smile.

For a moment, he leaned closer and read through the messages still on the screen. “Why are you talking to my sister about houses?”

“She’s going over to Miller’s to talk about a graphic design project Dylan wants to hire her for?—”

“What?” His brows slammed together.

What the hell? Pop told him and Avery about this last night, and Avery went on and on about what a good job she’d do.

Annoyance coursed through me. The idiot was so overprotective of his sister, and he really did care, but obviously, he didn’t pay attention. And although it made hiding my feelings for Gi easier, it was frustrating.

“Yeah,” I said, affecting an even tone. “She’s trying to pretend she’s not nervous, but she is. So I was checking in on her. Then she deflected by bringing the conversation around to houses.”

Jaw locked, he glared at the row of seats in front of us. He finally turned to me. “Should I do something to help her?”

Like what? Chris wasn’t a bad artist, but his talent was nowhere near as impressive as his sister’s.

So I shrugged. “Maybe just listen to her.”

“What?” he snapped.

“Listen,” I repeated. “When she talks or has something to say. Don’t hear blah, blah, blah. Maybe just listen to what she’s actually talking about.”

He nodded and pulled out his phone. “Avery can do that. I’ll have her call.”

I shook my head, fighting the laugh. The guy meant well, but he was a fucking idiot.

Gianna hadn’t replied to my message, so I tucked the phone away and turned back to watch the clouds and enjoy the view. I soaked in as much as I could, vowing not to forget little things like the view of the Rockies below me and focusing on the moment and my surroundings and the sound of my teammates laughing. I stopped worrying about next season. It was months away, so I was determined to enjoy the present.

This was not a big deal. That’s what I told myself, even as my heart pounded away in my chest. The brownstone I was staring up at was my dream house. I’d been told repeatedly and pretty bluntly that Dylan wanted to work with me. And on the phone, she’d sounded excited, so there was no reason for my stomach to be in knots.

My phone buzzed, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts, so I pulled it out and tapped the screen.

Emerson: You got this, Mariposa. Just be yourself. Can’t wait to hear about it.

My shoulders relaxed just a little, and I took a breath.

Me: Thanks

With my head held high, I headed up the steps and rang the bell. Instead of the typical ding-dong, a sound like a wind chime brushed through the air, and an instant later, the heavy wooden door swung open.

“Who is you?” A little girl stood in the doorway, her brown pigtails bouncing as she tipped her head one way and then the other.

“Addie.” A blond girl who looked about ten with bubble braids skipped to the door and scooped her up. They wobbled in the way a ten-year-old does when holding another child who’s almost half their size. “I’ve explained repeatedly that the probability of opening the door to someone you know is only about 9 percent.”

“What about the probability that it’s not gonna be a murderer?” A boy with dark curly hair appeared beside the blond.

I rolled my lips but couldn’t stop myself from smiling at his head-to-toe denim ensemble. His jean jacket was buttoned up to the neck, and his pants were the same shade. He was sporting a pair of aviator sunglasses and three gold chains around his neck. The kid looked like a bad eighties rapper.

Cute as hell and thoroughly himself.

Behind them, another boy sauntered up. This one was tall enough to ride a roller coaster. The teenager stepped into the light from the sun behind me and flicked his red hair out of his eyes.

“Ma says this is an important meeting and we’re supposed to be at the park. Let’s go, rugrats.”

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