Page 33 of The Wrong Brother

I smirk, slipping the phone back into my pocket. “Let’s see if you can beat me there.”

Her eyes light up with a mix of challenge and mischief. “Twenty bucks says I’ll get there first.”

I shake my head, my smirk widening. “Let’s make it a hundred.”

Her mouth opens slightly in surprise before she recovers, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Send me the directions.”

I do, and she studies her phone briefly before tucking it away. “You’re on,” she says, kicking off and picking up speed instantly.

I watch her for a moment, her figure cutting through the fading light as she glances back at me with a grin. I deliberately slow my pace, letting her pull ahead.

The park unfolds around us in pockets of beauty…bronze statues tucked into alcoves, gardens blooming even in the dim light, and the steady stream of people enjoying the evening. A group of children races past on scooters, their excited shouts ringing out, while an older couple strolls hand in hand, pausing to admire a rose bush. I’ve spent so much of my life rushing through moments like these, always focused on the next deal, the next victory.

It makes me sigh now, thinking of how many tiny, mundane, magical moments like this I’ve missed.

About forty minutes later, as the sun dips lower and the sky deepens into twilight, we arrive at Antico Arco.

Jenny beams with triumph as she slows to a stop, her laughter spilling out into the crisp evening air. Her chest rises and falls with exhilaration, her cheeks flushed from the ride, and the faintest sheen of perspiration glistens on her forehead under the soft glow of the streetlights. She leans forward slightly, gripping the bike’s handlebars as she catches her breath.

“I told you I’d win,” she says between gasps, her voice bright with satisfaction.

I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips as I step off my bike. “You did,” I admit, reaching into my pocket for my handkerchief. The white linen is crisp, my initials embroidered neatly in one corner. I hold it out to her. “Here.”

She looks at me, her eyes flicking to the handkerchief before taking it. Her fingers brush against mine briefly, and then she dabs it lightly against her forehead. “Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice quieter now, still breathless. She puts it away in her messenger bag.

The sight of her…radiant, glowing from the thrill of victory…renders me momentarily still. She’s breathtaking. Not in the overly polished, put-together way the women I usually surroundmyself with are, but in a way that feels entirely her. Real. Unfiltered. Stunning.

My hand slips into my pocket, retrieving my wallet. I pull out a crisp 100-euro bill and extend it to her, my other hand resting casually on the handlebars. “Your winnings.”

Her brows knit together as she glances at the note, then back at me. “Wait… this is a hundred euros. I meant dollars.”

“When in Rome…” I reply, tucking the wallet back into my pocket with a faint smirk.

Jenny laughs softly, taking the bill from my hand with a shake of her head.

Chapter

Twenty-One

JENNY

The evening air feels lighter after the bike ride, the lingering exhilaration still tingling in my fingertips as I dismount and catch my breath. My chest rises and falls, the warm breeze brushing against my skin, carrying with it the faint, intoxicating scent of Rome. For the first time all day, the tightness in my chest has loosened, replaced by something softer…something that feels almost like hope.

I glance at Zack as he secures the bikes, his movements calm, efficient, and utterly self-assured. He looks up, his gaze meeting mine briefly, and there’s something in his expression…something unreadable but grounding. I tear my eyes away, focusing instead on the soft glow of Antico Arco’s lights spilling out onto the cobblestones ahead. The restaurant looks like something out of a dream, perched on a hill with views of the entire city twinkling below. I feel a pang of awe, quickly followed by the familiar ache of not belonging.

I smooth my satin dress, fingers brushing over the soft, flowing fabric that feels both luxurious and oddly childish paired with my sneakers. The thought makes me smile faintly, though the moment is fleeting. We step inside, and I’m immediately struck by the elegance of the place…the quiet hum of conversation, the faint clinking of glasses, the refined atmosphere that seems almost too perfect. It’s not new to me, not really. Growing up with the Jacksons meant I spent more time in places like this than most people ever would. But tonight, it feels different. This isn’t their world anymore. It’s mine. Or at least, I want it to be.

The hostess leads us to a table by the window, where the view outside is breathtaking. Rome sprawls out in golden lights, the distant hum of the city muted by the glass. I slide into my seat, trying not to fidget as I glance around. The other women in the restaurant are striking…dressed to perfection, their every movement polished and effortless. My stomach twists, the same sinking feeling I’d had at the fitting creeping back. I don’t belong here. Not really.

Zack settles across from me, and I steal a glance at him as he shrugs off his tie, setting it aside with deliberate ease. He unbuttons the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, tanned forearms. His dark hair is tousled from the ride, and the soft lighting makes his pale grey eyes almost translucent. It’s impossible not to notice him…breathtaking in a way that feels dangerous, as if he’s too perfect to be real. Brett, I remind myself. Brett is approachable, warm, easy to be around. Zack… Zack is something else entirely.

I hate to compare them, but truly I cannot help it.

The brush of fabric against my skin brings me back to the moment, and I shift slightly, my nipples brushing against the satin of my dress. My cheeks flush as I force my gaze down to themenu, telling myself it’s nothing. Just a reaction. Just a stupid, physical thing. It doesn’t mean anything.

“What do you want to drink?” Zack asks, his voice low, calm.

I glance up, meeting his gaze. “Red wine,” I say quickly, the words slipping out before I can think them through.

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