Page 208 of Enemies

I hit her contact on my phone, and she answers immediately on FaceTime.

“Hey.” Her gold eyes blink, faint circles beneath them hinting at long nights awake.

“Hey. Where’s Rose?”

“Uncle Beck’s putting her to sleep. He’s magic. If I’m lucky, she’ll be down for an hour.” She moves around her house. “Haley told me to document every moment because Rose will grow up so fast, but I don’t know how she found the time.”

“Maybe Jax took the pictures.”

Annie laughs silently. “Can you picture it? My dad, the paparazzo?”

I shift my notebook computer off my lap and lean forward, thinking back to her text. “How did you know Harrison would be here?”

She tucks a piece of hair behind her head. “Why would you think?—“

“Because you’re a romantic and you basically outed yourself already,” I tell her. “So fess up.”

Her nose scrunches. “Fine. Tyler and I saw Harrison in New York a few days ago, and I miiiight’ve shared that amazing photo of you and his brother in London.”

I huff. “That’s why he showed up jealous as hell.”

“Did he?” Her lips part, her eyes glazing over dreamily. “I want to know it all.”

“You don’t have enough testosterone-fueled bullshit in your life, you’re welcome to some of mine.”

“Please. Having a three-month-old isn’t great for your sex life. Or any life,” she admits.

“I could understand if you don’t want to have sex.”

“It’s not me. It’s Tyler,” she whispers. “He’ll stay up and rock the baby all night. Won’t complain once. Then he fell asleep on me last night.”

“On you.”

“On. Me,” she emphasizes.

“Huh.” I’m sure it’s temporary, because Tyler has seemed one heartbeat away from jumping his wife the entire time I’ve known them. I fill her in on Harrison’s arrival, giving more detail than I normally would.

“He hit him and then he kissed you?”

“Hit who and kissed who?” A familiar voice comes from out of speaker, and I sigh.

“Hey, Beck.”

The screen rotates, and a moment later, they’re both in frame.

Beck grins. “Hey, Little Queen.”

“Harrison hit his brother and kissed Rae,” Annie informs him.

“Damn. Serves that snotty prick right.”

“Who?” Annie asks.

“The brother. Pretty boy has no chill.” The derision in Beck’s voice is laced with something else, maybe from when Ash slammed Beck’s reality TV show the weekend we were all on the yacht last year for my birthday.

I think of Ash’s issues with drugs—if Beck only knew—but say nothing.

“He’s had a tough season. It’s a lot of pressure,” I hear myself say. “You’d like him if you gave him a chance.”

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