Page 77 of Distress Signal
I was glad she indulged as well, not pushing me away or subtly distancing herself when I got close.
Almost like, maybe, her “I can’t do this with you” walls were crumbling.
But I wasn’t going to push her. I was happy to have her here, at my side, and I wouldn’t risk this little bit of common ground for anything.
Before any of my brothers could open their mouths to argue with me, Mama cut them off.
“I’m not going to listen to you all argue about this. You know where I stand on the matter.”
Her disappointment in the four of them said as much: she was in favor of Aria doing whatever made Aria happy.
“And I think you’re crazy,” Lane muttered.
Mama glared, and he wisely shut his trap, at least having the sense to look guilty.
“Moving onto more important things,” Mama said pointedly. “I’d just asked Aspen how wedding planning was going before you all so rudely interrupted.”
Groans rose from my brothers, and all but me and Crew made to get up, but Mama pinned them in place with a look.
“This is your punishment for being mean to your sister,” she said.
“Better than having our pie privileges revoked,” Trey muttered.
“The night is still young,” Mama quipped, then fixed her attention on Aspen.
Aspen wore a shit-eating grin on her face. She secretly loved it when the boys got scolded by Mama, presumably fondly rememberingherfirst family dinner in this house. Mama had learned Lane tried to run her out of town and had given his slice of pie to Crew as punishment. Crew had savored that fucking pie while Lane watched, fuming.
“Wedding planning is basically done. Linens have been ordered, chairs and tables have been rented, flowers are booked, and I had my first dress fitting. Oh! And we finally have a caterer,” she added with a pointed look at Crew.
“What?” he asked. “That first guy was a fucking creep, and the second one fucked up the ribs.”
“Okay, fair,” Aspen conceded. “Those ribs were dry as shit. But the first guy was not a creep.”
“He kept looking at your ass,” he told her flatly. “He’s lucky we left with his face intact.”
Ignoring that comment, Mama asked, “What about a photographer? The big day is in like two months.”
For the first time all evening, Reagan willfully waded into the conversation.
With a little gasp, she asked, “You don’t have a photographer this close to the big day?”
Aspen shook her head. “Wherehe”—she jabbed a finger into Crew’s chest—“was picky about the food, I’ve been picky about pictures. I haven’t found anyone whose work I’m in love with, you know?”
Reagan nodded, turning her attention from Aspen to me as Crew muttered something about picking one already.
I met Reagan’s gaze, her eyes narrowing a little, a silent question posed in them.
Somehow, Iknewwhat she was asking without a word exchanged between us, and I gave her a small nod.
“I could do it,” she said quickly, whipping her head back to Aspen and Crew, interrupting their whispered argument.
Aspen’s eyes widened comically as Crew’s mouth split in a grin.
“You would?”
“Of course,” Reagan insisted. “I’d be happy to help.”
“You’re hired!” Crew yelled, and the room erupted into laughter.
