Page 119 of In Case You Didn't Know
“Yep.” Brad nods. “As well as your laptop and phone. We’ve recoded them. Nobody can get in.”
“Bring him to my office when he gets here,” I say, needing to be alone. Which is fucking ironic, because I’ve never felt so lonely right now.
I can’t tell her. Not when she trusted me to keep her safe. Not when I’m the one who failed.
I just need to make this go away.
FRANCIE
Charlie can’t hide his grin as his car turns onto the sweeping driveway that leads to our family estate.
“Home sweet ridiculously oversized home,” he says, eyeing the mansion ahead like it personally offends his minimalist aesthetic. “So.” He taps his fingers against the wheel. “You ready for your big confession?”
It’s the third time he’s asked since we hit the Virginia state line. And at least the twelfth since we left Manhattan.
I narrow my eyes at him. “If I say no, will you turn the car around?”
He leans dramatically toward the windshield. “Too late. We’ve crossed the point of no return. Cue the ominous music and emotionally stunted brother stares.”
He’s been like this for the entire seven-hour drive. Peppering me with not-so-subtle questions about why I had him pick me up outside Asher’s apartment building. Not that he knows it’s Asher’s. But Charlie has instincts like a bloodhound with a gossip addiction.
Unfortunately for him, but very fortunately for me, I’ve learned how to handle Charlie-level nosiness: weaponized distraction.
So I spent most of the drive getting him to talk about his new TikTok channel, where he gives financial advice to broke Gen-Zers. He’s gone viral twice, much to his glee. Once for explaining compound interest using Starbucks cups, and again for a video titledBuy Your Avocado Toast AND Retire at 60.
He has the golden touch, not that I’ll ever tell him that. And he’s also completely obsessed with his new channel, luckily for me.
But now we’re here. And he’s vibrating with glee at the prospect of me dropping a literary bombshell on my six older brothers.
“Don’t look so excited,” I mutter.
“Oh please.” He adjusts his sunglasses with the flair of someone born for drama. “You’re about to tell the most macho men in Virginia that you’ve spent the last five years secretly writing hot, sexy, wildly successful romance novels. This is the Super Bowl of family confessions.”
“Do not say the word ‘hot’ in front of your dad or uncles,” I warn him.
“I would never,” he promises me solemnly. “Unless it comes up naturally.”
The car hums along the gravel road that leads to the family home, winding beneath a canopy of towering trees that arch overhead. Shafts of sunlight flicker over the windshield as we drive deeper into the heart of Misty Lakes, and then, as if summoned, the trees part and the view explodes into technicolor.
It’s breathtaking.
Rolling green hills, manicured lawns, and our family home, perched like a crown on top of it all. It’s an elegant, sprawling stone and glass mansion that wouldn’t look out of place inArchitectural Digest. And beyond the hills, to the left, peeking out is a glint of blue. The first of the lakes the estate is named after. Though we can’t see them from here, the lake is surrounded by six cabins. Each belonging to one of my brothers. When they reached the age of eighteen, it was a rite of passage that they built their own home along the lake.
Over the years they’ve added to their buildings as they added to their families. Now they’re all full of luxuries, and their homes-away-from home.
Charlie gives a low whistle as we pull up outside the main house. “Here we are,” he says. “The promised land. Where strong men build cabins and emotionally repressed women write romance novels in secret.”
He reaches to pull open the door.
“Oh no you don’t,” I say. “You’re not coming in.”
His eyes widen. “What? Why not? I’ve been living for this drama.”
“I messaged your mom. She’s expecting you. She’s made dinner.” I give him a wide grin. I love him – and I owe him fordriving me, but this revelation is between my brothers and me. No onlookers invited.
Charlie groans. “I can’t believe you’re making me miss the fireworks. This is emotional sabotage.” There’s teasing in his voice though. He’s never one to hold a grudge.
“You’ll survive,” I tell him, grabbing my purse from the backseat. “Besides, I’ll give you the full play-by-play once the dust settles.”
