Page 3 of Baby For My Ex's Brother

“Speaking of which,” Rick jumps in, shifting his gaze from Liam to me, “what are your plans after you get your English degree, Shiloh?"

I take a small breath, steadying myself for the familiar pitch. "I'm hoping to go to grad school. My best friend and I have plans to apply to Trinity College in Dublin. We’ve dreamed of moving to Ireland for years. Eventually, I'd like to teach."

"Teach?" Darla echoes, her tone laced with a blend of skepticism and condescension. "But wouldn't you rather consider staying home, maybe start a family?" Her eyes scrutinize me as if she's assessing my worthiness for such a traditional role.

Chris chimes in before I can respond, his voice carrying an edge that cuts through the room. "She should really think about it, especially since her grades aren't great."

I sit there for a moment, stunned.

The comment stabs at my chest like an ice pick.

He knows how hard I've been working, the struggles I’ve had with my math and science classes…how I can be a straight-Astudent in all things literary but fail at everything else. His words hang there, heavy, and I feel a flush creeping up my neck. The room seems to shrink, and I'm suffocating under the weight of their stares and judgments.

I need to escape.

"Excuse me," I mutter, pushing back my chair so abruptly its legs scrape loudly against the polished wood floor. All eyes are on me, but I don't care.

I just need some air.

I weave past the elaborately set dining table, ignoring the murmurs behind me, and slip through the sliding doors leading to the garden. The crisp November chill bites at my skin the moment I step outside, and I hug myself tightly.

Flurries of snow begin to swirl around me, dancing in the faint light spilling out from the house. Boston winters don't play around, and I regret not grabbing my coat—but not enough to go back inside.

The cold pierces through my sweater, but it feels good somehow, grounding. The chill clears my mind and dulls the sting of Chris's words.

With each breath I take, the frigid air fills my lungs, offering a sharp relief from the stifling atmosphere I left behind. I watch as frost starts to form delicate patterns on the deck's railing, glistening under the soft glow of the porch light.

"Shiloh."

I flinch at the sound of my name but don’t turn around, convinced it’s Chris. I’m not ready to face him—not yet, with his words still echoing in my ears, a dull ache in my chest. Instead, I stare out into the darkened yard, where the shadows of bare trees sway gently with the wind.

But then, warmth spreads across my shoulders, chasing away the biting cold. It's not the warmth I expect—the kind that comes with sharp words or a strained apology. This is different. It's theweighty comfort of a coat being draped over me, the fabric heavy and protective.

The touch ignites something unfamiliar within me, a flicker of something like hope—or maybe just surprise—that sends a ripple through the numbness I've felt since dinner started.

"Thought you might need this," a voice says—a voice that isn’t Chris’s.

My heart stutters for a beat as I register the fact. Slowly, I turn around to find Liam standing there, his hands retreating from where he placed the coat around me.

His presence is unexpected, like a scene from a play where the lead actor has been suddenly replaced without notice. He stands back a bit, giving me space, yet close enough that I can see the earnestness in his eyes.

"Thanks," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. It's odd; we're practically strangers, yet his simple act of kindness feels more intimate than all the empty conversations I've had tonight.

Liam retreats and I think he’s leaving me to my thoughts—but then he comes back out, a glass of wine in his hand. "And you forgot this."

"Right," I murmur, a small smile tugging at my lips despite the coolness of the evening air. Taking the glass from him, I realize my fingers are trembling slightly. Whether from the cold or from the turmoil of emotions swirling inside me, I can't tell.

"Thank you." The words feel inadequate, but they're all I have. I tilt the glass back, letting the red wine slide down my throat—a temporary balm to soothe the sting of Chris’s cutting words and Darla's cold scrutiny. The liquid is bold and rich, a stark contrast to how drained I feel.

I blink as Liam chuckles—a low, resonant sound that seems too genuine for the facade of perfection that permeates the Walton household.

"You know," he says, his voice carrying an edge of defiance mixed with sincerity, "I hate these family gatherings too."

My eyebrows lift in surprise, and I find myself curious about this man who dares to speak his mind so freely. He's the antithesis of everything I've come to expect from Chris's world.

“Then why’d you come?”

He shrugs. “It’s the only day of the year that I see my dad and my brother… and it would break my mother’s heart if she thought I was abandoning the rest of my family. So I come here, suffer through dinner, and leave. Rinse, repeat.”

---