Tristan tore his eyes away from the slow drips and focused on the teenager's face. "What? Why would you do that?"
"Because you'll want me to pay for the damages."
And now Tristan looked ticked, a muscle clenching in his jaw.
Ah, there it is. The anger.
Except...
"I'm not our fucking dad," Tristan grit out, before continuing in a more normal voice. "It was an accident, and I'll pay for anyrepairs. You get to keep your money. But you do have to help clean up. Oh, and bring in the dishes from the roof. That was part of our original agreement."
Archie exhaled. "Sir, yes, sir."
And just like that, the moment passed. No screaming. No lashing out.
What kind of alternate universe had I fallen into?
Tristan turned to me. "Baby, make yourself comfortable while Archie and I go sop up this mess, and then, well, I'm going to need a drink. Or two."
The expression on his face was a mix of amusement and weary acceptance, the look of a man who had given up on controlling the chaos around him and had somehow made peace with it.
And damn it, if that didn't melt a fraction of the icy shield I'd put up around my heart.
"Sounds like a plan," I said, still processing the situation.
It would have been a million times better for me if Tristan had indeed lost it, not for Archie, of course.But for my own sanity.It would have been a clear reminder of why I hated this man.
Which I did still. Obviously.
It was just becoming increasingly difficult to reconcile the two Tristans in my head. Was he just a master manipulator who was great at being two-faced? Or perhaps he'd changed, grown up, and become a better man?
Even if that was the case,even if he'd somehow transformed into this responsible, almost-kind older brother, that didn't erase what he'd done before.
Someone who'd acted like that—ever—couldn't be forgiven.
I just had to keep remembering that.
With a sigh, I turned away from their retreating backs and looked around the space.Because the last thing I needed wasto keep staring at TristanHawthorneand feeling this… this whatever-the-hell-it-was.
There was another room beyond this one, and it looked a lot more comfortable and lived in, a huge TV opposite the windows.
I stepped in there and studied the area, evidence of Archie scattered around, a backpack in one corner, its contents spilling onto the floor, a hoodie tossed over a chair, and a stack of books next to video controllers on the coffee table.
Taking a seat on the couch, I glanced at a photo on the side table next to me. It was Archie and Tristan, mid-air on a roller coaster, both of them with their hands up, wearing ear-to-ear grins.
Looking around, it was the only photo in sight. Nothing of the parents, and certainly no staged family photos like the ones my mom made us take every fall that we all grumbled about but loved to look back on year to year.
My eyes fell to the stack of books, initially thinking they belonged to Archie, but judging by the titles, they actually seemed like they were Tristan's. There were a few popular business books that even I had heard of, a sports biography, and—
Wait. Wait a freaking second.
Was that a cookbook?
I squinted at it.
No. Just no way.
Grabbing the book with shaky hands, I flipped it open, half expecting the pages to be pristine and untouched.
