Page 4 of Brazen Mistakes

She shrugs before sauntering over to the decanter.

“Um, if this is a bad time, I can call back,” Clara says, her voice high, like she’s scared.

Shit. “No, this is a fine time. My sister’s just being a brat. What happened? Are you okay?”

“Oh, no. I’m fine. Totally fine. I was just going to go for a run, but I know you and RJ were talking about installing a new security setup, only I don’t know if you got around to it before winter break and I don’t want to trip a silent alarm or something while I’m out. I tried RJ, but he didn’t answer. Never mind. I don’t want to be a bother. It’s not important. I can call back later.”

“Clara, breathe. You can call. It’s okay to call. Whenever. Any of us. You know that, right?”

Mattie whips around, her eyes wide as she mouths “Clara?” at me, her grin full of schemes.

The damn girl might only be in charge of the freshmen now, but she’ll have the entire school under her thumb before the year’s out. She got the terrible Papa Westerhouse combo of ambition and charisma. Good luck to the administration—she’ll be more trouble than I was.

You can’t expel a kid for always getting her own way.

Clara’s silence has me worried. “Clara?”

“Yeah. I know that. I just, I don’t want to have to call.”

God. It’s only been a few hours. And she already sounds halfway to a full-blown panic attack. Goddamnit.

Futile anger blooms in my gut for the second time today. Loathing for my brother who wanted to get his barely legal bride a rare gift. Fury at my dad for commissioning the Rubens job then buying out the competition when my team won the contract. And rage, at her, at myself, for letting her get so broken.

She fucking chose this shit. And then fell the fuck apart.

I turn away from my sister’s stupid “gimme” hands and pace to the other side of the pool table, eyeing the ceiling, choosing my words with care. “There’s a cycling multifactor code for the doors and all the windows have silent alarms. RJ sent something to your school email about an app for your phone. And he sent a text with the static door code.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push the rage anywherebut out of my mouth. She knows she fucked up. That’s why she’s so messed up. Yelling at her won’t do shit to fix it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be curt. Some stuff has come up since I’ve been here and it’s hitting me hard.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not here. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. Sure. Okay.”

I grip the phone, wishing I weren’t here. This mandatory family time was always going to be painful. But that was before Clara smashed hardcore into our lives and made everything terrible. Unpredictable and rash. Dynamic and so goddamn hot I might have a permanent semi at this point. “Merry Christmas, Crash.”

She huffs out a breath, but when she speaks, a smile colors her tone. “Merry Christmas, Grumpy. I hope it’s not all awful for you.”

“Same to you.”

We both say bye at the same time and hang up, awkward like we’ve never had a conversation before. Like insecure strangers who don’t want to upset the other. Fuck.

Mattie snatches my phone, jamming a newly full tumbler of scotch into my hand. “Clara? A girl? Who calls on Christmas Eve and doesn’t get chewed out by my always annoyed middle-est brother? Who is this mystery woman?”

I roll my eyes and go back to the couch. With all the security RJ’s put on my phone, my sister would have to be a CIA recruit to get into it. “None of your business.”

She hops over the back of the couch, turning to give me the full little-sister-begging treatment. “Please?”

Making deals is the Westerhouse way. “You tell me when you started drinking and why, and I’ll tell you something about Clara.”

She pretends to think about it. But she wouldn’t have drunk in front of me if she didn’t want to talk. “Fine. Only, I want the full rundown. No one-word answers. Deal?”

As if I even know what’s going on with us. “Deal. You first.”

She plucks at a bobble at the bottom of her ugly sweater. “I started drinking this summer.”

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