Page 10 of The Secret Play

They had left behind a driveway full of boxes and furniture that still needed arranging. Well, at least the weather was starting to cool down.

My new neighborhood wasn’t too far from where I grew up.

The street was lined with trees just beginning to turn to their autumn colors, and the house—a modest two-bedroom bungalow with peeling shutters that I’d already planned to repaint—felt worlds away from our cramped apartment we’d left behind in L.A.

I hoisted a small table to my hip, ready to get a move on. But then Nico’s voice rang out, “Don’t lift that—your back is garbage!”

I turned to see my older brother jogging up the driveway, his tall frame balancing two chairs stacked awkwardly in his arms. He had the same easy confidence he’d always carried, even if his gait was a little slower these days.

At thirty-five, Nico Grimaldi was nearing the end of his contract with the Atlanta Fire, but he still had the same charm—and the same protective streak—that he’d wielded like a weapon since we were kids.

“You’re not exactly a spring chicken yourself,” I shot back, crossing my arms as I leaned against the doorframe. “Be careful with that. Wouldn’t want you to strain something and not be able to sing.”

“Don’t worry, Gem, I’m a professional,” he said, grinning as he set the chairs down inside the house. “You’re the one I gotta worry about.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help smiling. Nico had convinced me to come back to Atlanta, after years of me insisting I’d be fine on my own in Los Angeles.

And I had been, but fine wasn’t enough anymore.

Not with my daughter Winnie starting school soon and rent skyrocketing out of reach.

Atlanta wasn’t just more affordable. It was family. It was Nico.

And for the first time in years, it felt like home.

“Where’s Winnie?” Nico asked, his voice softening.

“Inside,” I said. “She’s helping Megan unpack her toys.”

“Megan’s a saint,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No way I’m stepping into the whirlwind that is your four-year-old.”

“You mean yourdelightfulfour-year-old niece,” I said, arching an eyebrow.

He grinned. “Sure. Delightful.”

Before I could respond, Megan appeared at the door, her face flushed but smiling as her glossy chocolate bob swung side to side in front of her eyes. She’d packed on muscle in my absence, and I was glad she was hitting the gym to burn off her nervous energy. Her job was sedentary—a work-from-home medical scheduler—and she had never been one for sitting still. Sitting still only worsened her anxiety.

Megan O’Reilly had been my best friend since elementary school, and though she’d stayed in Atlanta when I moved across the country, we’d never lost touch. She was the kind of friend who showed up when you needed her, no matter what.

“Gemma, your kid just made me an imaginary smoothie in her toy kitchen and tried to charge me five bucks,” she said, laughing.

“What flavor?”

“I am a pineapple and mustard person, according to her,” Megan said, wrinkling her nose.

Nico snorted, and I couldn’t help laughing as Megan joined us outside, brushing her hands off on her jeans. Nico stared with too much interest as she straightened herself out, so I smacked his arm. I knew that look of his, and the thought of my brother and my best friend together was too much.

He cleared his throat and smiled. “Better than the shrimp and gravy one she offered me.”

Megan grimaced. “Guess I lucked out.”

“Where’s your cavalry?” I asked Nico, nodding toward the driveway.

“They’ll be here, don’t worry. So, Megan, been a long time since I’ve seen you.”

“That’s your own fault, Grimaldi,” she said, hands on her hips. Her minty green eyes flicked up and down over him. “I’ve been here the whole time, but you’re too much of a big shot these days to keep in contact with the little people.”

He smirked. “You’re not the little people, O’Reilly. You’re something special.”

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