Page 160 of Five Brothers

“Oh, she made her point,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

He holds my eyes. “I’ve missed you at night.”

I place my hand on his as he holds my cheek. I don’t know what to say. He’s the one I should want. Out of all of them, he’s the one who’s ready for forever.

I take a deep breath, looking around at all the things cluttering the hallway. “There’s some cool stuff here.” I peek into boxes. “What does he want with the room?”

“Hopefully it’s for Dex.” Army pulls away, back to taking boxes Dallas and Trace hand him. “So I can have some privacy again.”

And he smiles at me like we both know why he wants his room to himself.

“Why didn’t you just tell him you needed it a year ago when he was born?”

“I did.”

I start to shake my head, but then I stop. It would be just like Macon to punish Army for having a kid, but if it was their mother’s studio, Macon might’ve had other reasons for keeping the room off-limits.

I start to back away. “I need to get the kids from the nanny.”

Bateman has been paid up, but I don’t want to be late like my mom.

But Trace calls out, “They’re already here.”

“What?”

“Mars is making dinner,” Army tells me, “and Paisleigh is doing her homework in the garage.”

“Bateman just gave the kids to you?” I blurt out.

“We’re persuasive,” Dallas mumbles.

Yeah, right.I should probably call the poor guy and make sure he hasn’t called the police to report the kids being kidnapped.

I head downstairs, but then halt as Army’s words finally hit me. Mars is making dinner?

I peek into the kitchen, seeing my twelve-year-old brother rolling balls of ground beef between his hands as a pot steams on the stove. I get weepy. Aw.Spaghetti and meatballs.I taught him to make that.

All I say is “Hey” as I walk to the door to the garage. Twelve-year-olds are tricky. If I hover, try to help, or gush about how much I love him, he’ll stop and never cook again.

“Hey,” he says back.

I walk into the garage, seeing Paisleigh sitting on a stool at the worktable. Her legs dangle as she swings her feet in her pink Chucks. “Hey.” I smooth her ponytail as I look to see what she’s working on. “Good day?”

She nods. “Trace got us from home. Mars went in the truck with the others, but I got to go on Trace’s motorcycle!”

I freeze, thankful she’s busy coloring instead of seeing my snarl. “I’ll be talking to him about that.”

I look around. The garage door is up, the hood of a car that looks like it’s from the eighties is propped open with tools discarded nearby. “Why are you in here by yourself?” I ask her.

She changes out her crayon for an orange one. “The mean one was here, but he left.”

The mean one.Macon?

“He was mean to you?”

“No. He gave me ice cream.” She starts coloring the title of herRosa Parks Day worksheet. “But he was mean to the people who came over.”

I peer outside, but I don’t see any unfamiliar cars or trucks. “What did they say to him?” I ask her.

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