Page 3 of Uxpectedly Ever After

"He'd do it for you."

A snort of laughter bursts out of my throat. "Banks Priestly wouldn't let me crash on his couch if I were homeless and bleeding in a blizzard with a pack of hungry wolves circling."

"That's total bullshit and you know it." Kasen's voice softens, and I hate everything about this. "He's always looked out for you."

"No, he's always lookeddownon me." I practically throw the wet rag into the sink, the splash echoing in the suddenly quiet bar. "There's a major difference."

"It's just until his apartment's livable again, I swear." Kasen pulls out his ultimate weapon—that earnest, pleading expression that somehow convinced our parents to let him keep that mangy, three-legged stray cat we found when we were kids. Even I’m not immune. "Three months, tops. Please, Clover. I wouldn't ask if there was any other option."

I cross my arms over my chest, racking my brain for any halfway decent excuse that won't make me sound like a total bitch. "My apartment only has one tiny bedroom."

"He can crash on the couch. It's surprisingly comfortable for a futon."

"I work crazy late. He works even crazier shifts. We'll be tripping over each other constantly."

"So, make some rules. You're practically the queen of rules." He’s got me there. "Consider it a massive favor to me. I'll owe you big time—like, do your laundry for a month big time."

I let out a long, slow breath, my resistance finally crumbling under the weight of Kasen's relentless pleading and, if I'm being honest, my own stupid bleeding heart. Despite everything that annoys the crap out of me about Banks Priestly and his smug face, the thought of anyone—even him—having no place to go makes my stomach clench.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s stupid hot.

“Why can’t he stay at the station? They have beds.”

“They also have liability policies that say he can’t be there when he’s off duty.”

"Fine," I snap, giving in with all the grace of a toddler denied a cookie. "But I have conditions."

The knot in my stomach tightens to the point I don’t think it’ll ever come undone, and my heart starts slamming against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Banks Priestly. Taking up allmy space. The mere thought makes my skin prickle with this infuriating, unwelcome heat that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

Kasen's face splits into a relieved grin. "Lay 'em on me."

"Three months, and not a day longer. He stays the hell out of my way. Absolutely zero noise when I'm trying to study. He cleans up every single one of his messes. And absolutely, positively, no bringing random women back to my apartment." The mental image of hearing Banks doing the horizontal tango through my paper-thin walls makes my stomach churn like I just chugged a gallon of spoiled milk.

Nope. Nope nope nope.

"Done and done." Kasen rounds the bar and swoops me up in a hug, lifting me off my aching feet despite my undignified squawking. "You are officially the best sister on the planet. I'll text him and tell him it's a done deal. He can move in tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?!" I wiggle out of his suffocating grip. "I need at least a week to mentally prepare for this kind of torture—"

"He's been living out of a damn duffel bag for two weeks, Clover." Guilt, that sneaky little bastard, lands a direct hit courtesy of my brother. "His shift ends at noon tomorrow. I'll text you when he’s on his way."

Before I can even think of a decent argument, he throws a couple of crumpled bills on the counter (barely enough to cover the Macallan, the cheapskate), and kisses the top of my headbefore practically sprinting toward the door, clearly terrified I'll change my mind.

"Kasen!" I call after him, my voice echoing in the empty bar. He pauses with his hand on the door handle. "You seriously owe me so freaking big for this."

His grin is this perfect mix of gratitude and pure mischief. “I know. And hey, Clover? Try not to stab him in his sleep, okay? It’s hard to make new friends and I like this one.”

I flip him off and then he's gone, leaving me standing alone in the suddenly too-quiet bar, wondering what fresh brand of hell I've just willingly signed up for.

It’s 2:18 AM, and I’m elbow-deep in a bowl of bread dough, kneading it with the kind of aggression usually brought on by the comment section on political posts.

But this here? This is Banks-induced agitation. You know what? Throw a little my brother’s way, too.

Baking is my therapy. It’s cheaper than therapy-therapy, and way more satisfying than just screaming into a pillow. The whole methodical process of measuring, mixing, and pounding usually manages to quiet the circus of crazy thoughts in my brain. Usually.

Tonight, not even the familiar rhythm of mixing and kneading the dough can shut up the full-blown rage-panic in my head at the thought of Banks freaking Priestly and his enormous firefighter boots stomping all over my life.

My apartment isn't exactly a palace—it’s a slightly cramped one-bedroom in an old warehouse conversion with exposed brick that’s constantly shedding and pipes that sound like they’re having a very enthusiastic orgy when the heat kicks on–—but it’smine. Every single inch of it screams "Clover," from my organized-by-color bookshelves to my perfectly arranged bar cart to my collection of plants, all named after classic cocktails. Mint Julep, my favorite, has prime window real estate where the morning sun hits just right.

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