Page 99 of I Think They Love You

It’s what he needed. For them—and his dad—to fall in love with Braylon again. To believe their lie.

What he really needs is more alcohol.

Denz flags down a bartender. He drowns all the weird thoughts preventing him from doing what he’s here to do—be a supportive brother, look like a confident and competent future CEO—in a highball glass of top-shelf vodka with a cute lemon wedge. He’s okay.

He’s—being knocked sideways by a breathless Braylon.

“Um, are you drunk?” Denz says, annoyed. “I’m trying to—”

“We’re in trouble.”

Denz takes him in. Wild eyes, sweaty brow, cheeks darkening by the second. “What’s wrong?”

“My boss is here.”

Denz’s forehead wrinkles as if to say,And?

Of course, Braylon’s panicking. Just like in college. Every test and essay, swim competition, silly fight with Denz that turned out to be an excuse for great make-up sex.

Denz probably shouldn’t be thinking about that right now. Probably shouldn’t be ordering a new drink either. But, well, here he is.

“Listen,” he says after a sip. “The Sedwicks are entitled asshats, but they’re also very generous with their donations. Tax write-offs. Good press. All that jazz.”

Braylon frowns. “I’ve never lied to my boss before.”

“You’ve never faked a sick day?”

“I don’tfakesick days,” Braylon snaps.

“Only relationships, huh?”

Admittedly, Denzenjoysthe flash of annoyance in those brown eyes. The hint of canines when Braylon’s seconds away from growling. He wonders what Braylon might do with that mouth if…

Oh God. Why doesn’t anyone ever water down the liquor at these things? Denz is one gulp away from tipsy.

He shakes it off. “Just go talk to her.”

“She’s busy talking tosomeone else.”

Denz follows Braylon’s eyeline to an older white woman with grays streaking her businesslike blond bob. She’s like any other guest here. But next to her is—

“Fucking fuck of all the fucks,” Denz says under his breath.

Why?Why does his dad have to know everyone in Atlanta? Why is he escorting Braylon’s boss in their direction?

“What do we do?” Braylon asks.

“Change our names?” Denz suggests. “Find a couple of bodies in the morgue that look like us, stage a fire, fake our deaths, then use all my frequent flyer miles to relocate to Antarctica?”

“Excuse me,what?”

“Drink this,” Denz instructs, passing off his glass to Braylon. There’s no reason to panic. This is Denz’s area of expertise. Lying under pressure. “Follow my lead.”

“Isn’t that how we ended up—”

Denz grabs Braylon’s free hand. Squeezes three times like they used to whenever the other was on the verge of a meltdown. Braylon’s face softens.

“We good?” Denz asks.

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