Page 89 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
“What? No.” I laugh, shaking my head even though she can’t see me. “Jack’s daughter. She’s fifteen. Her mom passed away in England, and she’s coming to live with us.”
Another pause, softer this time. “Wow. Okay. That’s…huge. How are you feeling?”
I glance through the doorway toward Jack, his profile sharp against the light from the windows. “Like I have seven days to figure out how to be the kind of person a fifteen-year-old won’t hate on sight. And like she’s about to walk into the middle of a storm she didn’t ask for.”
“She’s got you,” Sienna says, her voice warming. “And you’ve got Jack. Just remember, teenagers can smell fear. Stay calm, be cool, and maybe don’t lead with wedding seating charts.”
I grin despite myself. “Noted.”
“And Ivy?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t try to be her mom right away. Be her ally. It’s easier to close the gap later than undo it if you come in too strong.”
Her words pull me back to fifteen, standing in my parents’ marble foyer in a too-tight dress, wondering why I felt like a guest in my own life. Adults talking over me, decisions made without me, the unspoken expectation to smile through it all. If Emma feels even a fraction of that, I want to make sure she has at least one person who listens. The advice lodges in my chest as I hang up.
Jack’s still in the kitchen when I return, scrolling through what looks like a property report. I touch his back as I pass, and his posture softens just enough to tell me he knows I’m there.
“I want to see the spare rooms,” I say.
We walk the hall together. The first room is bare and cold, like it’s been waiting for someone but never knew who. The second is smaller but brighter, morning light spilling across the hardwood. Dust motes dance in the air, catching on the beam from the window. I linger in the doorway.
“This one,” I decide. “It feels warmer.”
He crosses his arms. “You’re sure?”
I step inside, pacing slowly, imagining shelves along the wall, a desk under the window, maybe a cork-board for photos. “She should choose her own bedding, but we can make it welcoming before she gets here. Some plants, easy ones she can’t kill. A lamp she’ll probably ignore in favor of her phone.”
His mouth quirks. “Sounds like you’ve got this covered.”
“Not yet. But I will.”
Back in the kitchen, we pull up bedroom photos on my laptop. He vetoes anything overly curated. I veto anything that looks like it belongs in a hedge fund boardroom. It feels a little like we’re sparring, quick back-and-forth, no raised voices, just two people trying to land on the thing that feels right. In a strange way, I realize we’re rehearsing for her without even talking about her.
We find a middle ground, clean, personal, a place for a girl who’s about to have her life turned upside down. When we land on the photo that feels right, I feel that same flicker of satisfaction I get when we solve something together, both of us giving a little to meet in the middle.
When the tab closes, I flip open my wedding notes. “Guest list,” I say.
“My parents aren’t coming.”
“I assumed.” I hesitate. “My father’s not, either.”
His eyes hold mine. “Good.”
We move on to foundation planning. The new warehouse space is nearly ready for build-out. I suggest an area for artprograms. Jack sketches a mental blueprint for a mentorship wing. He wants open sight-lines for safety. I want nooks for privacy. We don’t compromise yet, but we take mental notes of each other’s priorities, the same way parents do when they realize they’re going to have to navigate rules and freedoms in equal measure.
Somewhere in the conversation, it hits me how easily this could intersect with Emma’s life. “She could use this,” I say without even realizing I’m speaking out loud.
Jack glances up from the blueprint on his screen. “The foundation?”
“Not in an official way. Just… as a place she can belong. Somewhere outside of school that’s hers. Somewhere she can meet people who aren’t looking at her as ‘the girl whose dad is Jack Wilson.’”
He studies me for a beat, like he’s measuring the weight of the idea. “We can make that happen.”
And the way he says it, steady, unflinching, tells me it’s not just a promise for the foundation. It’s a promise about her.
The thought makes me braver. “Do you think she’ll resent me?”
