Page 12 of Sinfully Yours

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. "This is a nightmare."

"Okay, but for real," Ryan says, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Is there some secret mystery man in your life? And if so, do we need to intimidate him?"

"No," I say flatly.

Ryan turns to Nate. "That was way too quick."

"Suspiciously quick," Nate agrees.

"Oh, my God, stop."

Dean watches me for a long moment, like he's debating whether to push further. I shove another bite of pancake into my mouth and stare at him defiantly.

Finally, he sighs, shaking his head. "Fine. We'll drop it."

I exhale, relieved.

"But if you are seeing someone," he adds with a pointed look, "you know how this works."

I snort. "Oh, let me guess. Intimidation tactics? Silent, looming stares? The full-on Bennett interrogation?"

Ryan grins. "Obviously."

Nate nods. "Can't let just anyone in."

Dean smirks. "It's tradition."

I roll my eyes. "You guys act like I have a line of suitors beating down my door."

Nate shrugs. "I mean, if you did, we'd have to vet them."

"Exactly," Ryan agrees. "Maybe run background checks. See if they can withstand a psychological warfare level of questioning."

Dean lifts his coffee. "And if they really care about you, they'll survive it."

I groan, dropping my fork onto my plate. "This is why I don't bring guys home. You're insufferable."

Ryan grins. "Aw, c'mon, we're fun."

"I hate you."

Dean busies himself with his breakfast, cutting off a piece of bacon and sniffing it before taking a bite—safe, considering Ryan's cooked it. "Love you too, kid."

And just like that, the mood changes. Ryan launches into a story about a kitchen fire at the firehouse—something about a rookie, a flaming toaster, and an unfortunate amount of foam. Dean listens, shaking his head, while Nate interjects with unnecessary but wildly entertaining sound effects. The attention is officially off me, and I should feel better about that, except I don't.

The text sits heavily in my pocket, its weight so obnoxiously present that I half expect it to burn a hole straight through my jeans. Someone knows.

Someone saw.

Once I've finished the first few bites of the pancakes, my appetite drops. So I sit there, pushing my food around the plate, and debate what to do. My brothers can't know. They can't. If Dean found out, there would be no logical conversation, no calm discussion about how it was just one impulsive mistake. There would only be rage—the kind that involves fists meeting Liam's face and possibly some mild property damage.

Which leaves me with one terrible, inevitable option.

I need to call Liam.

By the time I get back to my apartment, the idea has cemented itself in my brain, but I still spend the next hour pacing my living room, my phone warm in my grip as I stare at his contact. It's not even under his name. JustCarter, because I put it in my phone years ago with the full intention of using it for emergencies only.

And this? This feels like an emergency.

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