Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(52)

And by mine, I mean my family.

And no, I don’t want to talk about the way my heart is pounding or my muscles tensing to leap, because I will move fucking heaven and earth and travel to the depths of hell to make sure Ellie’s safe—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, all of it.

Safe. Sound. In one piece.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I’m in love with Ellie Ryder.

The Blond Caveman has four inches on me, but I will flatten him if I have to. And based on the curled-lip scowl under his powdered wig and the way he’s flexing his arms under his vintage navy uniform, he’s thinking he’d be happy to take me out too.

His lips part. “Shut your—”

“Your parents are here,” I tell Ellie.

She smiles, and fuck, she’s pretty.

It’s not the colonial dress or the funny wig with long black curls either. It’s the way she doesn’t hold back on letting the smile spread cheek-to-cheek. The warmth in her eyes. The stubborn set of her shoulders.

Pretty?

No.

She’s fucking everything. The whole package.

“They must be disappointed,” the Blond Caveman sneers.

“That I’m happier without you? Not really.” She leans toward me, and I wrap an arm around her shoulders while she slips away from him. Her pulse is fluttering fast in her neck, and I want to lay him out just on principle.

And then I want to carry her to the nearest dark corner and inspect every inch of her to make sure she’s okay.

And then I want to kiss her. Fuck, I want to kiss her.

“Let’s go,” she says to me.

“Your girlfriend know what you’re doing?” I ask the Blond Caveman while I twist so I’m between him and Ellie.

“She knows I defend helpless women, and she thinks it’s hot.”

Ellie chokes on air. I’m suddenly unable to stop a snicker.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” he snarls.

“We better go quick,” I mutter to Ellie. “You okay?”

She leans on me while we hasten back into view of the street, and it’s going to hurt like hell when I can’t touch her anymore.

“I was such an idiot,” she sighs.

She’s limping more than usual. Not good.

“How heavy is your wig?” I ask her. “Is that what I smell?”

“You’re probably smelling your own armpits,” she says, but she looks up at me and smiles with none of the old you irritate the shit out of me that’s always been there.

No, this is I love flirting with you.

It’s fucked-up flirting, but that’s what it is, isn’t it?

Flirting.

That’s what it’s always been.

We were just too stubborn to see it.

Or to admit it.

And no small part of me wishes we could go back to that.

Because leaving Ellie Ryder?

This is going to suck.





Twenty-Two





Ellie



By the time we’re doing our last-minute hair and makeup fixes in a small tent just down the hill from the gazebo at the far end of Blackbeard Avenue where Monica and Jason will take their vows, I can’t decide whose mother is happier—Monica’s, or mine.

Definitely not Mrs. Dixon. She’s getting an artsy-fartsy daughter-in-law from her black sheep son while her favorite son’s girlfriend has been giving him the cold shoulder all afternoon.

But mine?

She’s in utter heaven over me and Wyatt dating.

Next week just might kill her.

This isn’t good.

“Jeez, Mom, maybe you should’ve adopted Wyatt and kicked me and Beck to the curb,” I tell her while she fusses over my short curls. Any minute now, Pop’s going to call us up for the wedding.

She swats my arm. “You hush. You know I love all my children equally. Wyatt just needed me more than you, Beck, and the rest of the boys and girls.”

I’d be offended, but we were raised by a village. I was just as likely to get grounded by Mrs. Rivers as I was by my own mom. “He’s lucky he had you,” I tell her, and crap.

Now she’s crying, and it’s going to make me cry too, but not out of happiness and joy.

No, my tears will be all guilt.

And possibly grief, because Wyatt isn’t an asshole, and he isn’t a thorn in my side, and I don’t know what to call him, but the fake part of fake boyfriend feels more wrong than the boyfriend part.

Which is impossible, because we really would die, and Tucker deserves to grow up with a good father.

“Stop, stop,” Monica says, bustling over to hug her. She’s changed from her colonial gown to a pirate wedding gown, an eclectic mix of formal and buccaneer, with pirate boots under her lacy hoop skirt and a leather corset embroidered with skulls and crossbones for her bodice. She has a bandana over her ringlets and giant hoop earrings dangle to her shoulders. “No crying until you hear the vows. They’re beautiful. Ellie, how’s your leg? Do you want me to send one of the Rock boys for a chair?”

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

Okay, maybe I’m not quite as fine as that, but I can make it through the wedding before I need to lay myself up for a week to recover.

Alone.