Page 6 of Lessons in Heartbreak

“It’ll feel like a fucking root canal,” I’d said offhandedly. “With no numbing shot.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

She hummed. “I have a sister like that. We fought like cats and dogs growing up because we were only a year apart and constantly in each other’s business. Was it like that with the famous King twins when you were still at home?”

A derisive laugh slipped past my lips before I could stop it. “No. Growing up, we were inseparable, even though we were complete opposites. Always competitive, of course. But most brothers are.”

The rift had crept up slowly. Unnoticeable at first. Healthy competition through high school was honed into something sharper in college. Less comfortable. If he showed up to the weight room an hour before he was supposed to be there, I started showing up two hours before.

If I did conditioning six days a week, he started doing it seven.

Everyone around us fed into that competitive streak—starting most innocently with our father, then our coaches and our teammates. If thesaying was true, that iron sharpened iron, then my brother and I were made of something even harder than that.

The difference was, everyone saw him as the disciplined one, despite the fact that I was toe to toe with him the entire time.

Not that there weren’t times I’d made regrettable choices, but no matter how I changed, my brother and I were firmly cast in our respective roles, and there seemed to be no changing that.

“Can you do that”—she motioned to her temples—“twin-telepathy thing?”

Briefly, I arched an eyebrow. “I don’t think I’d want to read my brother’s mind even if I could.”

The thought of being privy to Barrett’s thoughts made me shudder. It was probably all spreadsheets and statistics and to-do lists, and so fucking regimented that I’d lose my grip on my sanity after about ten minutes.

He’d probably say the same of me. But if wehadbeen able to read each other’s minds, maybe we’d still be speaking now, I thought with a tight swallow.

Falling in love with the same woman had a tendency to split even the closest of brothers apart.

Difference was, my brother married her. Had a couple of kids with her. Had the unfortunate task of discovering she was a narcissistic attention-seeker who’d thought the eldest King brother could do a better job of tending to her emotional needs.

When he didn’t, after years of coming second to his demanding job as a head coach and deciding the tedium of motherhood wasn’t for her, Rachel attempted to come back to me.

Even though she was wearing a see-through bra to showcase her latest, very successful surgical enhancement, a thong so delicate it would snap with very little effort, and those thigh-high garter things I had a particular weakness for, I slammed the door to my penthouse in her stunned face after hustling her out of the kitchen.

Less than a minute later, a brisk knock had me yanking it back open, expecting to find Rachel.

And I did. But my brother was right next to her.

“Didn’t expect to see my wife getting into the elevator on your floor, Griffin,” Barrett said in a low, dangerous voice. Behind him, Rachel crossed her arms tightly across her chest and slicked her tongue over her teeth.

“You might want to keep a tracking device on her,” I said, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe. “But I’m guessing you won’t like what you find if you do.”

Rachel stepped forward, eyes blazing. “You son of a bitch.”

I whistled. “That’s not nice. You weren’t calling me names when you tried to undress in my kitchen.”

“Fuck you, Griffin.” She cut a look over to her husband. “Expect papers from my lawyer, asshole.”

Then she stormed off in a whirl of long, dark hair and trench coat tails, and the ding of the elevator echoed down the hallway toward my penthouse.

I couldn’t help but laugh, rubbing a hand over my neck while my brother stood there glaring at me.

“Is everything a fucking joke to you?”

I arched an eyebrow. “No, not really.”

“How long was she here?” Barrett asked.

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