Page 84 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
“Alright,” I say quietly. “We do it your way. But I get a say in the ending.”
“You will,” he promises. “And we’ll make sure they regret coming for you.”
The words settle in my chest like armor. For the first time since I saw those files, I feel something other than fear.
“Live our lives,” I say, repeating what he told me earlier, tasting the words like they’re a luxury.
His mouth softens. “Like maybe deciding what song you want to walk down the aisle to.”
The pivot is deliberate, and it works, I feel my shoulders loosen a fraction. “That’s a trap. If I say the wrong one, you’ll pretend to agree and then change it later.”
He comes around the counter, leaning against it so we’re eye to eye. “Or I’ll surprise you with a string quartet playing it in the exact moment you say yes.”
I can’t help it, I laugh, the sound cutting through the leftover static in my chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stalling,” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Just picture it, me, at the end of the aisle, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room. Because you will be.”
It’s dangerous, how easy he makes it to forget the rest of the world exists.
I slide my notebook across the counter, flipping to a page I’d labeledSomedayin small handwriting months ago. “Fine. Let’s talk wedding before you bulldoze me into a string quartet I didn’t pick.”
His eyes flick down to the page, amused. “You’ve been keeping notes?”
“Some people call it being prepared,” I say, tapping the pen against the margin. “Some people don’t wait until the night before to decide if they’re wearing a tie.”
“Some people are full of surprises,” he counters, pulling the notebook toward him. “Alright, what’s this…‘reception lighting: warm, never fluorescent’?”
I give him a look. “Do you want our guests to feel like they’re in a crime scene interrogation?”
He pretends to consider it. “Depends on the guest list.”
I roll my eyes and write downJack is banned from inviting anyone who wants to interrogate the bride.
“Cake flavor?” he asks.
“Classic vanilla with buttercream,” I say automatically.
“That’s it? After everything we’ve been through, you’re going to settle for vanilla?”
“It’s timeless,” I defend. “And besides, if you want something fancy, you can have your own groom’s cake. Maybe in the shape of your car.”
He smirks. “Or you.”
I shake my head, but my cheeks warm. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are,” he says, leaning in until our foreheads almost touch. His voice drops lower. “Planning forever with me.”
I let my pen fall to the page, our lists forgotten for a moment. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, anchoring me.
The city moves outside our windows, loud, relentless, watching. But for the first time since I saw those files, I believe we might win. Together.
Jack’s phone buzzes on the counter, the vibration sharp in the quiet. The screen lights with an international number, the +44 country code catching my eye. His jaw tightens, just slightly, but enough for me to notice, before he flips the phone facedown.
“Not important?” I ask.
His gaze flicks to mine. “It’s complicated. I’ll handle it later.”
He says it lightly, but something in his voice makes me think it’s not business. The thought lingers as he pushes the phone aside and nods toward the balcony. “Come on. Let’s get out there before the sun disappears behind whatever glass monstrosity they’re building next door.”
