Page 64 of The Sculptor

I laugh. “Sounds complicated.” And a much better option than trying to speak to Vance directly.

“It was complicated for a while, but things seem to be finally settling down for both my brothers.” He says this like it’s a relief—that maybe things were more than just complicated.

“Maybe we should come clean to Vance and Astor about Jude.”

His body tenses around me. “No, not yet.”

“Why?”

“Because I did something and don’t want them part of it yet.”

And like his declaration needed proof, his phone buzzes. We both look at the screen, seeing the name Harrison Potter flash across.

I turn in his arms. “What did you do?”

This ridiculously adorable smile emerges. “I was a good son and sent my parents a Christmas card.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

Oh, hell. “What was in the Christmas card, Duke?”

He presses his lips to mine like that’s going to distract me. “I can’t remember exactly, but I think,” he pops the k dramatically, “it was a picture of that Christmas when you and I took a selfie with your baby bump.”

My heart sinks. Not only because he still has that picture but because he sent it to the man who is partly responsible for us not taking any subsequent pictures with that baby.

“And,” he continues, as his phone buzzes again with another call, “I might have included Kelly’s card with a note that said something like: You can tell us where he is or she will. Either way, it’ll be a merry Christmas for us.”

My eyes widen at his boldness. “I thought we were going to wait on Kelly for more information.”

Something flashes in Duke’s eyes—something primal. “The season of grieving is over, Ray. It’s now a season of war.”

And like he just didn’t rock my world, he adds, “Now, let’s go get a Christmas tree. We have a picture to take.”

I didn’t realize he meant we would cut down a Christmas tree, but nevertheless, my ovaries are impressed with how he looks in a flannel shirt.

“You know, Potter, I think you might have missed your calling as a lumberjack,” I say, appreciating how he wields the handsaw under the fir tree.

Ignoring my remark, he flashes a panty-melting smile instead. “Are you sure this is the tree you want?”

“Yep. This is the one.” It looks just like the one we had many years ago.

“All right,” he says, his excitement seeming to bleed through his cool demeanor. “Move out of the way.”

“What if you need my help?” I tease. “A saw isn’t a scalpel.”

Those hazel eyes find mine and glare. “A blade is a blade. Now, move.”

“Fine.” I throw my hands up in a playful gesture and step back. “Someone is sensitive.”

“I’m not sensitive.” He grunts as he starts sawing at the trunk. “I just don’t need your snark when I’m—”

My phone buzzes in my pocket. “Hold that thought,” I tell him jokingly. “And don’t cut it lopsided. We need it to go in the stand.”

I think he tells me to hush, but I can’t be sure since I freeze at seeing Vance’s name. “Hello,” I answer carefully.

“Put my brother on the phone.”

This hateful man. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Dr. Potter. It’s been a long time. I’m glad to see you haven’t changed.” At least since I last spoke to him when I asked him to ensure Duke got home safely from Vegas.

Vance sighs like maybe he didn’t mean to come off so rude. “Merry Christmas, Ramsey. I hear congratulations are in order.”

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