Page 173 of Brazen Mistakes

Her glare has Clara laughing as she slips the drink from my sister, handing it off to a waiter. Mattie twists to her. “Not cool. You’re no longer my favorite pending sister-in-law.”

The look of horror on Clara’s face probably mirrors mine, but I can’t help the twist in my gut at her face. I can’t be that bad. Probably.

Maybe.

Fuck, I’m the bottom of the barrel, which is exactly why we’re in the fucking situation we’re in.

“You’re lying, Sparkles,” I say, and I swear she wilts in front of me.

“You cannot, under any circumstances, use that name tonight. I havefriendscoming tonight. And worse yet, I haveenemies.”

Clara’s incredulous face has me hiding another grin behind my empty tumbler. “What fourteen-year-old has legitimate enemies?” she asks.

Mattie just stares at her, and to my surprise, Clara nods. “On second thought, yeah. It felt like enemies peaked around sophomore year. Ugh. Now you have me remembering Hailey Mc-fucking-perfect Smith. Not fair.”

Mattie giggles, then dances backwards away from us. “Whoopsie. I’m out of here. Lily finally showed up. Too-da-loo!”

Clara inches close to me, her arm brushing mine, and I can tell she wants to collapse into me the way she would with any of the other fuckers she’s dating. But she doesn’t, forcing her spine straight after only a moment of contact. “Your sister is something else, Trips.”

“The only fucking bit of sunshine in this dreary prison called my childhood home.”

I can feel her eyes pricking at the side of my face, but I survey the room, picking out families that I’ve known foryears, former friends and enemies—the real kind—mixed with marks and suckers. Nearly all of them top-shelf pieces of shit in one way or another. “We have to mingle.”

“You sound like you’re about to be tortured.”

“That’s because we both are about to be tortured. I’m experiencing existential dread.”

Her chuckle has me hiding another smile before I wrap her hand around my arm, again, liking how small it looks there, while still being strangely possessive. For both of us. Touching in public, even with layers, has my nerves shooting like fucking lightning.

This is the absolute most I can offer, though—a hand on my arm, a stifled smile, distance when all she wants is closeness.

We make the rounds, and with every airy smile, every careful laugh, every bland question she asks and answers, she sinks into the role I built for her. The better she can pretend she belongs here, the more of an ass I become.

I don’t want her to fit in here.Idon’t even want to fit in here.

But I keep her hand on my arm, noting both my father’s continued observation and my brother’s occasional inspection.

Being worried about Father makes sense, but I didn’t expect anything from Trevor besides his fake geniality.

The crowd breaks for speeches, my brother eliciting hearty laughs and a few tears with the story of his courtship, and straight-up cheers when he gifts Olivia the fucking Rubens. Just like that.

All that work, all that trauma, nearly every bad thing that’s happened in the last few months, it all traces back to my brother wanting to get his girl a fucking cat picture.

Fuck this shit.

I catch sight of Summer across the room, and I swear she’s trying to tell me with just her eyes that my family is fucking ridiculous. And it is, so I just raise a brow and shake my head a touch. Clara catches the silent conversation, and a hint of her genuine smile shows when she spots our erstwhile helper across the room.

How long until they’re friends?

And what the fuck should I do with Mattie?

The bright color on her cheeks as she presides over a group of teenagers in the corner tells me more than enough about how she’s doing. A chemically induced smile to cover the broken glass digging into the soles of her feet. It can’t be any better than the rage I cage and feed to sweep away the same. Or the push for power Trevor uses, knowing with enough power, no one will look close enough to see he’s bleeding.

We Westerhouse spawn are professionally penned predators. Thanks, Dad.

Someday, I will break my leash. I’ve been working on it for years. But with one small move, Father’s shortened it while slipping knots around the people I care about.

Clara slides her hand into mine, squeezing it like she can tell my thoughts have turned violent. But she’s been able to read me better than most anyone since the beginning, so it’s not surprising that she’s there, offering comfort inwhatever way she can.

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