Page 172 of Brazen Mistakes

Chapter 61

Trips

My brother’s damn fake laugh has Clara and me turning to the stairs, where he’s obviously playing it up specifically to get our attention. His little fiancée is hanging on his arm, a cream dress with some sort of furry cloak covering her, looking at my brother with the biggest fucking cow eyes I’ve ever seen.

He’s never done a damn thing that would require that level of infatuation. I’m fairly sure he barely even tolerates the girl. Although, if she keeps up the idolatry, they might end up a functional match. At least until he trades her in for the younger model.

Shifting my gaze, I findFather’snewest model, Jessica, who has inexplicably lasted sixteen years with a man who has been widowed twice, and always when the specter of divorce was around. Or at least, that’s what the staff would gossipabout after my mom died, not seeing me curled around the corner, hiding from the monster that took her away from me.

It makes me wonder, not for the first time, what Jessica has on him.

She’s tucking a piece of Mattie’s hair behind her ear, my sister shaking it loose again almost immediately, the flare of her nostrils telling me this isn’t the first tuck she’s dislodged.

Which only leaves Father. Forcing my gaze to his, I find him evaluating Clara and me, and the twist of his lip tells me that despite everything we did to get her ready, we’re still somehow failing. Already. Before we even say hello. Although maybe that’s the goal this time?

I never know what game I’m playing with him until it’s too late.

My heart heavy in my chest, I lead her across the ballroom, each step closer leaving me craning to maintain eye contact with Father, the waiter slipping my drink into my hand without making me look at him.

That waiter, at least, has worked one of these before. I’ll have to be careful around him. Father’s spies aren’t solely electronic. On busy nights like this, eyes on the ground are also his modus operandi. God forbid he misses a single piece of potential blackmail brought about by too much champagne.

When we make it to the top of the stairs, Trevor disengages from his future wife, coming to wrap an arm around my shoulders before realizing that without me bending for him—which sure as shit isn’t happening—he can’t make the move reach. Malicious glee flutters, but it’s quickly squashed. No good emotions last long around here.

“Hello, hello, and welcome to my party,” he booms as he looks Clara over, something acutely shady in his perusal. Clara, in turn, lets a controlled smile slide across her face, a soft light emanating from her eyes. If I didn’t know her, I’d think she’s happy to be here, but I’ve seen her genuine smiles, the way her eyes glow like they’re glinting stars, not the foggy dawn she’s letting out right now.

It’s a mask. Just like I’ve been coaching her on.

I fucking hate it. Watching her simper for my brother, my father, it makes me want to tear her out of that damn demure-ass designer dress, and instead have her boldly facing off against them, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, her curls piled into a mess on the top of her head as she says whatever the hell she pleases.

Not that she’s there yet. The damn girl has so much rage packed inside of her chest that I almost missed it.

But it’s there, eating her from the inside out. As familiar as my own.

Because of every damn idiot she’s been stuck with before now, she thinks she’s sad, or scared, or some shit.

One day, probably soon, that fury is going to come out with the power of a forest fire. And I sure as shit want to be there to see it.

We survive the introductions, only escaping once Olivia’s family joins us at the top of the stairs. Mattie and I claim Clara and pull her as far away from the others as we can, Olivia’s gaze following us across the room, hurt written there. But then Jessica takes her aside for a word, and we're left unmolested. Because no way are weincluding the trophy wife. She’s on a different path, and having had to endure her company for Christmas, I have no desire to repeat the event.

Mattie’s found a glass of something dark on our way across the slowly filling room, and the way she’s sipping it, there’s no way it’s just soda. “Mattie,” I scold, reaching for the glass.

Her look could cut as she backs out of my reach. “What number was that, then?” she says, pointing at my empty tumbler. “You’ve been here less than an hour, Archie. Pot, meet kettle.” She turns her back to me, taking Clara’s other hand. “Tell me everything about you. How’d you meet my genius meathead second brother?”

Clara looks a bit panicked by the direct assault, but this is hardly training wheels for tonight. “Oh, I saw they needed a roommate. I needed a room. Nothing too special.”

“And then a house full of hot guys fell madly in love with you?” she whispers.

My damn sister and her piles of romance novels. The choked laugh that escapes Clara has a smile threatening me, but I can’t. Not here.

“No, nothing like that. We all just grew closer.” Clara shrugs. “How old are you again? I don’t know if this is a safe topic.”

“I’m fifteen.”

“Fourteen,” I grunt.

She throws her hair over her shoulder, shooting me a glare. “I’m fifteen in nine days. It’s close enough.”

“Not if you’re still young enough to be counting days.”

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