Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(64)

Beck shuts her in the car, and he, too, doesn’t look at me as he walks around to the driver’s seat. The engine roars back to life, and he pulls out of the driveway thirty seconds before the fire truck screeches to a halt at the house.

“The fire’s out,” I tell the firefighters, but the words are hollow. “Kitchen accident.”

They still file inside.

Mrs. Ryder wraps her arms around both me and Tucker, and I wish I was seven again so I could fucking cry too.

Because it’s Ellie.

She’s strong. She’s smart.

And when she’s fucking determined, there’s nothing in the world that will stop her.

And she’s determined that I’m not good for her.

I grip Tucker tighter, because fuck.

One day, he’ll grow up and leave me too. And we still have the teenage years to get through, when he’ll probably hate me.

“I love her,” I whisper to Mrs. Ryder.

“I know, honey,” she says softly. “I’ve always known. She’ll come around.”

I shake my head, but I don’t answer.

Because she won’t.

She’s made up her mind.

And thirty minutes after I thought I was finally in, finally right, it turns out I’m out.





Twenty-Seven





Wyatt



It takes less than an hour for us to get the all-clear to head back inside, but it feels like weeks. Especially with a sleeping Tucker in my arms. He’s dead weight once he drifts off.

“Watch those towels,” one of the firemen tells me as they depart.

“Yeah. Got it.”

I get Tucker put to bed, and I’m about to collapse into my own bed in the next room when I realize I left my phone in the master bedroom downstairs before the fire. On the off-chance Ellie’s willing to talk to me, I don’t want to miss her. I hit the bottom of the stairs and realize Beck’s back.

He’s lounging in the living room. Alone.

“Where’s Ellie?” I can’t help it. The question rolls out.

“Cooper’s place.”

“In her bathrobe?”

“Doesn’t really need clothes for sleeping, does she?” He grins at me, like nothing in the fucking world is fucking wrong, and I consider decking him. He might have two inches on me, but I have more muscle.

Plus, hitting something would feel damn good right now.

Maybe.

Probably not.

But it’s worth a try.

“Want a beer?” he asks me.

“No.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Yes.”

“Awesome. What’ve we got? Smells like toast. You hungry?”

“That’s burnt dish towel.”

“Eh. Never liked that one anyway.” He leads the way into the kitchen, digs into the fridge and emerges with two bottles of Sam Adams. “Ping-pong?”

“You know I’ve been sleeping with your sister, right?”

“Yep.”

“There a reason I’m still standing?”

His blue eyes flicker over me, and for half a second, I think he’s going to deck me. “Looks like she already got you.”

“She sneezed.”

“Son of a bitch.” He gets me with a jab to the shoulder. “Keep that shit to yourself.”

I recoil. “Fuck, you do that—never mind. Don’t want to know.”

“Exactly, motherfucker.”

He shoves the second beer at me. “Ping-pong. Now.”

We troop down to the basement, and he flips on the lights. If I wasn’t watching, I wouldn’t have noticed him casting a glance at the water stain in the ceiling.

“Didn’t mean to break your house,” I mutter.

“Fuck, man, it’s just a house. I’ve got more.”

In the game room, he claims the far end of the ping-pong table and tosses me a paddle. “Talk.”

I set my beer aside and serve a ball.

And while we battle it out for superiority in ping-pong—he’s winning, because I have no heart left to put in it—I tell him everything.

Everything.

Starting with Christmas.

He doesn’t say anything for three games after I’m done. It’s past two in the morning. We’re just standing here, hitting a fucking ping-pong ball back and forth, beers gone, the ball hitting the table and our paddles the only sound.

Finally, he tosses his paddle to the table. “You love her?”

Fuck. My chest threatens to cave in. “Yes.”

“Huh.”

A Beck Ryder huh can mean anything from you’re in my seat to clogged the toilet again to oh, good, meatloaf leftovers. “Huh what?”

He shrugs. “All she’d say was Tucker needs him alive more than I need to bang him again. I think you’re fucked.”

“Thanks. Helpful. Real helpful.”

“And Mom’s making pancakes in the morning. Told me to tell you to sleep as late as you want, she’ll make you more.”

I dig the heel of my palms into my eye sockets, because I don’t want pancakes.

I want Ellie to have some faith that we can do this.

But I’m supposed to leave to drive back to Georgia in a few hours, because I go back to work Monday.