“Madam.” Another attendant appeared at my back, bowing again. This one was younger than Ron and his bow not quite as graceful or practiced.
“Aria. Not madam.”
“Aria,” he corrected with another bow. “May I get you a refreshment?”
“Water. Please.”
“Of course.”
Before I caught him in another bow, I walked down the aisle and took the seat across from Brody’s. “Who’s Heather?”
“My ex-fiancée.” His attention stayed focused on the phone.
“Ahh. And she’ll be at the wedding.”
“Yes,” he said flatly. “She’s the bride.”
“Oh,” I murmured as the attendant appeared with my water glass balanced perfectly on a black tray. I took it, cringed at yet another bow—please, stop bowing—and waited until he’d disappeared behind a curtain toward the cockpit. “Tell me what I’m getting into here.”
Brody scowled but tucked his phone into the jacket pocket of his tux. “My ex-fiancée, Heather, is marrying my brother, Alastair.”
“Did she become his fiancée before or after she was no longer yours?”
“Before. During. Neither will admit they’d been fucking before the one time I caught them in the act, but I know Alastair and he’s never been one to abstain.”
“Alastair.” My nose scrunched. “And I thought Broderick was pretentious.”
“They are family names.”
“Shocking.” The word dripped with sarcasm.
That type of retort would normally incense Brody. It should have antagonized him into some verbal sparring. At the very least, that blatant censure should have earned me a glare and a jaw tic.
Instead . . . nothing. His gaze was unfocused as he stared ahead, like he’d missed my comment entirely. Brody’s fingers tapped on his knee.
Was he nervous? The signs were subtle, so much so that most would probably miss them. But I knew Brody. He always fought for the last word. Always.
Like he always fought back.
“She left you for your brother, right? Heather?”
He nodded, his eyebrows coming together, but that gaze was still locked on some imaginary spot on the plane’s wall.
Interesting. Clearly, I was along as revenge of sorts. Did he still love her? How painful would this be for him?
Or maybe his fears had nothing to do with the bride. Maybe his fears were because I was on his arm instead of my sister.
“I won’t embarrass you,” I promised.
Brody blinked and mentally replayed my words. And when his gaze met mine, it was softer than I’d ever seen it before. He looked at me the way he looked at Clara. With kindness. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“Are you sure?”
“My family is . . . difficult. I avoid them mostly. The last place I want to be is at this wedding, but I have no choice.”
That was all the explanation I got. The attendant entered the cabin, his hands clasped behind his back. “We’ll be leaving momentarily, sir.”
“Very good,” Brody said, dismissing him.
The pilot greeted us next, outlining the details of the flight and shaking Brody’s hand. They all called him sir. Everywhere we’d gone tonight, he was sir.
It wasn’t until we were in the air, the short forty-five-minute flight well underway, that I spoke again. “Clara doesn’t call you sir.”
“Why would she?”
“Everyone else does.”
“Hmm.” He hummed and drank the last swig of his water. “She’s never called me sir.”
Because Clara was different. His relationship with her was different.
And that relationship was the reason the man grated on my every nerve.
I’d first met Brody at his office in Las Vegas. Clara had been so proud of her new job and had wanted to show me her workspace. I’d been proud of her too. She’d built a career in no time flat. She’d climbed out of the junkyard and made something of her life.
Brody had been a budding entrepreneur, or so she’d called him. She’d gushed about his brilliance and creativity and drive. Maybe she’d set the bar too high.
Because the day she took me to the office, he was there too. Clara left me at her desk outside his office to run to the bathroom. The two of us had been guzzling water like thirsty camels after hitting an outlet mall before coming to the office.
Brody’s office door was open and when he spotted me, the smug bastard told me that the cleaning staff was not to come in until after eight at night. When I corrected him, informing him that I was Clara’s sister, he waved me away. He actually said shoo. What kind of asshole said shoo?
I stood fuming outside his door, listening as he picked up the phone and ordered someone to buy him a new car. A Ferrari. Whatever model was the most expensive.
By the time Clara returned from her pee break, I was disgusted. Brody then sent her home with a list of tasks to complete when he’d known damn well that she was on an approved vacation.
First impression? Mega douche.
Over the years, he’d done little to change my opinion. Mostly I hated how he spent money. He tossed it around like it was meaningless because Brody had never gone hungry.
Cars. Trips. Homes. Planes. Brody was rich. Did he appreciate it? Did he realize how lucky he was?
Clara promised he was a good man. Was he?
Brody doted on her. He provided for her because he wasn’t stupid. He knew she was one of a kind. Clara was the fleck of true gold in a sea of pyrite.
I was the lesser twin, something he liked to remind me of as often as possible.
Once, he’d told Clara that the flowers beside her front door were gaudy and overgrown. I’d been standing right beside her.
For Clara. I was doing this for Clara. I’d fake a smile through this wedding. I’d drink a lot of champagne and enjoy what she promised would be a five-star meal. Then I’d climb back into my sweats and enjoy the next two weeks with family.
With any luck, Brody would hop back on this very plane and disappear for the rest of my vacation. We’d learned to avoid each other, mostly to spare Clara from being in the middle.
One night of pretending.
Then we’d go back to what we were good at.
Hating.
City lights twinkled in the distance, glowing outside the window. “Ugh. I hate Vegas.”
“You and me both,” Brody said, his gaze aimed out the small window. “When was the last time you were here?”
“When August was born. I came to help Clara. I offered to help her move too but you took care of that before I could get here.”
“Are you really upset? I thought you would have wanted her away from him.”
Him. Devan. August’s father.
At the time, it had surprised me when Brody had asked Clara to accompany him to Welcome. Maybe he’d known how badly she’d needed to escape Vegas too.
“In that, we can agree. She’s better off without Devan in their lives.”
Clara had cut Devan loose when August had been a newborn. The two of them had dated for about a year when she’d gotten pregnant. It hadn’t been planned. She’d tried to keep him involved, but by the third trimester, he’d already checked out. Knowing that he’d never make a good father—and knowing that she’d never succeed if she tried to change him—she’d given him an out.