Page 434 of The Winslow Brothers

“Do you know that man standing by the lady getting your books?”

“Yes.”

“Is he a teacher? He looks like a teacher.”

“Yes, he’s a teacher, Win.”

“What about him? The guy with the bright-red hair talking to that lady over there?”

“That’s Freddy Harrison.”

“Why aren’t you saying hi to him?”

“Because I don’t know him that well.” And because he’s an asshole.

“What about her, Remy? Do you know her?”

“Who?”

“That pretty girl over there.”

Pretty girl? Say what?

Instantly, I look up to meet Winnie’s eyes and then follow her little finger that’s stretched out toward the other end of the room.

Dressed in jean shorts and a tank top, my sister wasn’t wrong, the girl in question stands at another pickup table and isdefinitelypretty. Truthfully, she’s way more than just pretty. Long brown hair, tanned skin, and the kind of big, warm eyes that make guys like me stupid, she’s downright gorgeous.

And I’ve never met her before. Which is crazy because I pretty much know everyone who goes to Hidden Hills High.

Damn. Who is that? Is she new?

“Do you know her, Remy?”

“Nope.” But I certainly want to.

“I think she has a little sister like you do. See that girl with her? I bet that’s her sister.”

My observant baby sister doesn’t miss a beat. Standing right beside the mystery girl of my dreams is a shorter, younger version of her. She can’t be older than nine or ten.

Instantly, I get an idea.

“She looks like she’s close to your age, Win,” I comment. “You should go say hi.”

“Okay,” Miss Chatterbox responds like it’s completely normal to just walk up to random strangers and introduce yourself.

That’s Winnie, though. Never met a stranger in her life.

Frankly, it’s almost too easy.

I help Winnie off my shoulders and to her feet. And in a matter of two minutes, she’s already across the room, chatting up the two girls.

“Remy! Remy! Come over here!” Winnie shouts toward me as the nice lady with the Coke-bottle glasses is handing me my stack of books.

The beautiful mystery girl and her sister look in my direction, and I silently thank the Big Guy Upstairs for blessing me with the most talkative six-year-old in history as my sister.

I close the distance between us, and it’s no surprise that Winnie is the first one to speak when I come to a stop near their little group.

“This is him,” she says proudly. “My big brother Remington. But you can call him Remy. Everyone else does. Isn’t he handsome?”

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