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Cass and I answer flatly, in unison. “We know.”
Ignoring Damon, I focus on my stepbrother. “We talked about this,” I say, forcing calm I don’t feel. “Jobs, house, omega. You agreed.”
His features don’t even flicker. His eyes continue scrolling across the page in front of him. “I agreed that it made sense. I didn’t agree to do it.”
For fuck’s sake.
Damon’s eyebrows push together. “Omega—?” He drops his gaze to my sample cup. “Ohhhhhhh. Oh, fuck! Was that today?”
I speak through my teeth. “It’s on the calendar, Damon.”
He turns toward the whiteboard pinned on the side of the refrigerator and frowns like he’s never seen it before.
Jesus Christ.
I force an exhale through my nose, willing myself not to have a stroke. “Did you read the calendar?”
Of course he didn’t.
This is probably the first time he’s ever even looked at the damn thing.
His shoulders pop up in a dismissive shrug. “All right. Shit.” He flashes the smile that always seems to get him out of trouble and pulls his phone… out of his underwear? “Just give me five minutes to crack one out. I’ve got, like, six unopened nudes in my IG messages.”
Yeah, I bet.
The worst thing is, for most guys, those messages would be the direct result of Damon’s position as the star forward for the Orlando Timberwolves and the millions that come with it.
But for him?
Not a problem. Damon’s never needed a hockey career or money to get nudes.
And now he has both.
I’d appreciate the irony if my balls weren’t so sore.
I toss him the sealed, empty cup I found sitting on his bathroom counter. “Here. Five minutes.”
He flips his phone, flashing a whole lot of naked skin. With a chuckle, he strides off down the hall. “I’ll only need three!”
I rub my palm over my forehead, muttering, “He really shouldn’t advertise that.”
Cassian turns another page, pointedly ignoring me.
To the untrained eye, it would seem like he has no dog in this hunt. But I know him as well as I know Damon; and he’s invested.
Usually, by this time, he’s on his way to morning skate because, unlike Damon, he hates to be late. If he didn’t want to be around us, he could leave now or go back up to his room. The fact that he’s even sitting here, in the kitchen, means something.
It took me a long time to learn that Cassian says just as much with his actions as most people say with their mouths. More, on occasion. Like me, he rarely does anything random and this is a message, too.
I don’t want to be here, the book in front of his face says.
But I care about what you want, too, his ass in the stool adds.
I sigh. “Cass?—”
He lowers the book, slowly revealing a scowl. The familiar expression stabs my center. I can picture a younger, surlier version of it on a younger, surlier Cassian. Back when we lost our parents—and everything went to hell.
He’s smart enough to play on my guilt by using the same expression now. Because Cassian is easily the smartest guy I know.
