Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

60. Clara

Chapter 60

Clara

W e’ve made it through the fucking underground tunnel between the garage and the house—which, what?—and have come up into a mudroom on steroids, when a squeal has me on my toes, spinning to see where the danger is.

Instead of death and violence, a whirlwind of a girl with the same dark auburn hair as Trips canters into the room and latches onto my hands before I have a chance for my brain to catch on. “You must be Clara,” she proclaims, half dragging me behind her as she tugs me into the house, nothing but paneled wood walls flashing by as we go. “I’m so excited to meet you. I want to hear all about all your,” she leans in and whispers in my ear, “boyfriends.”

Her grin is pure mischief as she goes back to her singsong cadence. “And don’t worry about including Archie. I get it. I’d leave him out, too. He can be a real sourpuss when he wants to be.”

Whipping back to Trips, I don’t know what kind of face I’m making at her blithe discussion of my love life, but it must be something, because he blanches.

Mattie, because this couldn’t be anyone else, catches the look on my face, and she giggles like the girl she is. “Don’t blame him. He’s easy to get secrets out of when he’s drunk and pissed. Low-hanging fruit. My mom put you guys in the blue suite, as father has some business people out in the pool house. You know how he is.” She throws a glance over her shoulder at Trips before continuing the half run through the house and up two flights of stairs, Trips and me caught in her wake.

“Nice to meet you, Mattie,” I say, defaulting on propriety. Isn’t that important in this world? Manners and using the right forks?

She just grins, hauling me down to the end of a hallway, pushing open the last door on the left, finally stopping once Trips and I are in the blue suite with her.

Because based on the pale blue wallpaper, the darker blue duvet, and the navy chairs spread out in a room larger than most studio apartments, that’s exactly where this forced march has brought us. There’s even a fireplace.

“Holy shit,” falls from my lips before I remember I’m supposed to be a classy bitch.

Trips grumbles as Mattie dances into the space, folding her lanky frame into a chair by the fireplace. And is that—yup. An actual fire. Who has a wood-burning fireplace in a guest bedroom? Speaking of which, who has enough bedrooms that you have to designate them by color?

I’m so unprepared for tonight, I’d be hyperventilating if Mattie wasn’t kicking her legs and saying something to me. Which I miss in my panic. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

“You can be real with me. No worries. I’m just excited Archie brought you along. But don’t forget to lock it in when you come downstairs—our father is, well, I’m sure Trips filled you in. Anyway, I’ll let you two get settled while I finish getting ready.” She throws herself out of the chair, hugging me, then pausing on her way out. “Oh, and don’t forget to come find me tonight. I hate these kinds of parties, and you’re bound to be better company than most everyone else there. And I need all the gossip. Archie never shares any of the fun details.”

With an impish grin, she darts down the hallway, leaving me alone in the room with Trips, who slams the door behind her, carrying the bag to the closet as I stay frozen on the plush blue rug. After three rounds of finger taps, I find my voice. “How the hell can she be related to you ?”

Trips hangs everything neatly, not answering until he’s collapsed into the chair Mattie just left, glancing around the room with searching eyes, reminding me we’re being watched. “The Westerhouse charm missed me. You’ll find that my brother inspires confidence with the same ease that Mattie inspires trust. I’m the only one who inspires fear.”

My brow crumples as I unbutton my coat, hanging it next to Trips’ in the closet. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

He shakes his head, once again going to drag his hand through his hair and finding it styled and inaccessible. I join him at the chairs by the fire, watching the flames lick the wood, the trancelike motion calming me enough that I no longer feel like I might fall into one of my stupid laugh-crying stints.

No wonder this is one of Jansen’s favorite forms of meditation. Maybe I should join him?

After a long breath, I glance at Trips, finding him scanning the molding on the ceiling. “What now?” I ask.

He looks at the bed, his brows dropping, lips twisting. “There isn’t a couch.”

“Not that I can see.”

“My father knows you’re just my roommate.”

“Would he have assigned the rooms?”

“Yes.”

I want to ask what to think about that, how screwed we are, but without knowing if it’s safe to, I hold all my questions in. Instead, I take his hand, immediately worried it’s the wrong move.

He doesn’t get mad, though, or pull away. Instead, he gets to his feet, dragging me up with him. And for the first time since we came in, I take him in. He’s wearing a charcoal suit with a deep pink shirt underneath, the shady cousin of the color of my dress, matte black shoes, and a pink and black striped pocket square. The cut of the jacket makes his shoulders even broader, and if the thing wasn’t obviously tailored to fit his biceps, I’d wonder who the hell the designers were using for sample models.

Swallowing back a different burst of nerves, I croak out, “You matched me?”

“It seemed prudent. Then the fortune hunters might leave me alone. ”

“That’s a thing? A problem?”

He just raises a brow, tugging me toward the door. “Time for our game faces.”

“Right,” I say, stumbling after him.

Walking through the halls of this place at a slower pace gives me a moment to take it in, the craftmanship obvious to even to my untrained eyes. Carved woods, burnished and detailed, line the hallway and the stairs, purposeless tables with cut flowers decorating alcoves while painted landscapes decorate the walls. Knowing they have an art gallery somewhere around here, these other paintings confuse me. They look like the art I’ve seen at museums with Walker, but apparently aren’t valuable enough to protect.

Trips leads me to the back of the house once we reach the second floor, and we pause at the top of a staircase leading to what is an honest-to-God ballroom, complete with two-story windows that look out over extensive landscaping, artfully lit to the lake. It’s only then that I realize I’m clenching Trips’ hand like I want to crush it.

Loosening my grip to slide it free, I’m surprised when Trips doesn’t let it go, instead settling my palm on his arm before, shoulders back, his face locked into emotionless stone, he leads me down the stairs, the room mostly full of serving staff, only a few other guests gathered this early. I bob my head at a collection of slippery-looking men slinking around the bar, and Trips leans down to speak in my ear. “A few of my dad’s business partners. They’ll be staying at the pool house. Don’t be caught alone by any of them.” He pauses, glancing around the room. “Or my brother. Or my father.”

“Maybe I should just stick with you. ”

“Probably the best choice.”

He flags down a waiter, who vanishes before I can hear what he ordered, too busy taking in the bouquets of white and red covering every flat surface, the perfume of all the flowers almost tricking me into believing I’m in some magical winter garden. But I’m not. And any comparison with a garden would probably include a lying snake, so I should try to keep my eyes peeled and my focus engaged.

Trips hands me a glass tumbler full of amber liquid, his own drink amber and downed nearly instantly.

It’s my turn to raise a brow, and his lips twist, a long sigh escaping as he flags down the waiter for another.

He got me a whiskey ginger, and the comfort of one thing here being familiar has me leaning into him with a small smile. Our moment is broken, though, by a too loud laugh from the stairs behind us. Turning, framed by the gilded staircase, is the rest of the Westerhouse family.

It’s time.