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“Next, Rhett is a mess with you. He’s smarter than this. Love has fried his brain.”
I bite my lip. “Soooo, you think he really loves me?” It’s not that I doubt it, but I want to hear someone else say it. Most specifically, Merc.
He rubs a frustrated hand over his face and through his wild dark hair. “Yeah, I do. It’s the only thing saving his ass from my wrath.”
“See, Elkingtons can love,” Bryce says.
Oh, dude.
“Not the time,” Merc says. “And I can still ground you.”
“Logan and I are the same age.”
Whoa. I will not be thrown under that bus. No honor among Meyers. Jeez. But it’s true that I’m offered more adult-like privileges than the rest, even though I very much live under his roof. Even more technically than Bryce who lives between Bea, Ari, Grant, and Merc’s houses.
Merc—totally fed up with me for good reason—takes way too long a pause. “He’s right. You’re under house rules until you can support yourself. Watch the tone, or I start taking privileges away. Going out is one of them.”
Wow, now that’s a mixed bag of feelings. Obviously, I don’t want consequences like that, but it also covers me with the same comfort as warm Vancouver rain. Does it cross my mind that I could easily have Rhett fund my life? Yeah, but I understand the way Merc means, and it’s beyond the very real financial support I’ve generously been given by him and Jack.
Instead of tension or anger, my limbs buoy with the knowledge that someone has my back through thick and thin.
Still gonna make Bryce regret that.
“Sorry, Merc. I was outta line. I’ll calm down. You’re not mad at me for the latest shitstorm?”
Ari hands me a bottle for Stanley who cries as soon as he sees it. I pop it into his mouth.
“Not your fault. If anything, it’s Rhett’s. Fucking Christ. He’d better have his fancy PR team on this.”
“He does. It’s just … his dad.”
“Don’t worry, kid. I’ve got an ace of my own. Try not to think of the dreamy fucker until you see him later. We’ll get this sorted.”
“Thanks, Merc.”
“In fact, I’ll help you. Bryce, grab yourself a toothbrush, too.”
“Oh, come on! I have every right to stage a protest,” he says. “Freedom of speech.”
“Sure, I totally support your right to speak, but like everything in life, it’s got consequences. Yours is a toothbrush scrubbing Jack and Logan’s toilet. You too, Lo. Let’s go.”
There’s only one thing to say to that. “You’ve got to be kidding, Merc.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
He really doesn’t, and I really don’t want to give Stanley back yet. “I swear I’ll make this place shine like the Chrysler Building, but can I finish feeding him? Guess I missed the little wedge of hockey lettuce—did I use that right?”
Merc’s face beams brighter than the sun poking out from behind the darkest gray stratocumulus on a stormy Vancouver day. “Close enough. You can feed him, then it’s toothbrush city.”
“Kay, and um, Jack had a ton of ice time tonight, eh?” I sway baby Stanley side-to-side, focusing on his sweet face in case the answer’s something I don’t want to hear.
Merc’s silent pause isn’t good. The watermelon-sized pit in my stomach expands to a full crater.
“Let’s hope for the best, okay?”
“What’s your gut telling you, Merc?”
He pulls in a slow breath. “That we should batten down the hatches.”
