Page 26 of Brazen Mistakes

“You’ve seen him freak out?” Walker asks, his palm warm on my lower back.

Jansen and Trips share a look. “It’s been a while, but yeah,” Trips says, before striding back to his chair. “What are we going to do about the engagement party?”

Jansen dives onto the couch on his stomach, propping his head up on his fists, legs kicking like a child. But I can tell it’s at least a little forced. “It’d be best if I could get in. Then I could do reconnaissance.”

Trips huffs out an angry breath. “There’ll be extra hired security and regular staff. It isn’t worth the risk of sneaking you in if Clara and I can just flounce through the front door.”

Walker and I end up cuddled in the chair RJ just left. “I’m not sure I’m ready to do reconnaissance. I’m not even sure I’m ready for a fancy party, let alone being on your dad’s radar. And don’t you already have all the reconnaissance you could need from living there as a kid?” I ask.

Trips adjusts the sleeves of his sweater, looking more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. Is his dad really that bad? Bad enough to have him skittish just thinking about him?

“My dad likes to move cameras, turn them off and on at random intervals, leave listening devices in potted plants and behind picture frames, basically open the possibility of observation at any place and any time. He doesn’t forgive, he never forgets, and he never leaves anything important behind less than three layers of security. Do I know how to get from the conservatory to the theater room? Of course. Do I knowwhat kind of security my dad has on his computer four years after I moved out? Hell no.”

I swallow. “Back up. Did you just say you know how to get from the conservatory to the theater room? And you have a gallery at your house? How fucking rich are you, Trips?”

Walker and Jansen both chuckle. “Disgustingly rich, princess,” Walker answers for him.

“Why the fuck are you at the U? Shouldn’t you be a Harvard legacy or something?”

Trips paces in front of the TV. “I am a Dartmouth legacy. But a juvie record generally looks shitty on college applications.”

I watch him as he paces, not sure if you’re supposed to ask a guy you’re not really dating, but wish you were at least kissing, about his criminal record.

He takes the choice from my hands. “I was just finishing junior year of high school when I saw this jackass, Pierre, slapping around his girlfriend in the parking lot after lacrosse practice. I’m sure you can imagine what happened.”

He drops into his chair, his head in his hands. “The cops were called, and as much as I hated my dad, I knew he’d be able to keep me out of jail. He did, but the record wasn’t sealed until after college applications were due. I was booted from school and lost my spot at an Ivy. Probably better that I did, but yeah. I’m that kind of fucked up rich. Generations of Westerhouse men working in the shadows to make rich men richer. And none of them did it without getting some blood on their hands. Quite the fucking legacy.”

In the silence, I slip from Walker’s lap and inch to Trips, dragging his hands from his hair and squeezing them in mineuntil he meets my eyes. “We’re making our own path here, Trips. And it won’t be the same as your dad’s. You protected that girl, the same as with that woman across campus, and me just a few months ago. You’ve saved lives, even if it looked messy and wrong in the eyes of the law.”

He swallows, icy blue eyes softening the longer he looks at me. Finally, he nods, pulling his hands from mine before shifting me out of the way and getting up to pace again. “We’ll have to train you on basic reports this week, as well as schooling you on my family. And etiquette. Do you know how to ballroom dance?”

I work to keep a spine in my body, despite the intimidation factor. “No. What kind of people know how to ballroom dance?”

“The kinds of people that will be at this party.”

“Likeyouknow how to lead a waltz.”

“Etiquette school was mandatory once I turned twelve and was forced to go to these events. Ballroom dance was a part of that.”

I gape at Trips. “What planet do you even come from?”

“The shores of Lake Minnetonka, Crash.”

Walker sprawls across his chair, eyes twinkling at my incomprehension of Trips’ upbringing. “We’ll have to go shopping, too. Unless you have a Valentino or Oscar de la Renta hanging up on that rack in your room,” he teases.

I flip him off as he and Jansen chuckle. “Right. My Marchesa gown is right next to my bargain bin tank tops and goes great with my holey running shoes.”

Trips blinks at me in shock until it sinks in that I was joking.

The rest of us laugh at the slow realization crossing his face.

Once we all recover—I didn’t snort once—I clear my throat. “On the topic of teaching me all kinds of stuff I never needed before now, I want to learn other things, too. Like how to protect myself. Or how to pick locks or pockets, or how to play poker and lie better. Basically, I need a primer in criminality.”

The three of them look at me for a second before I’m the one everyone is laughing at. Jansen pops to his feet, swooping me into his arms before flopping with both of us onto the couch. “Of course you have a syllabus for your criminal education.”

“What? I need to learn this stuff if I’m going to ever be anything besides a hindrance to you guys.”

Trips cuts in. “You’re not a hindrance. Never have been. Foolish and foolhardy? Yes. But you’ve never actively messed anything up.”

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