Page 113 of Flirting with Trouble

“Should I be worried?” I ask as Bellamy and Jules reach for Victory’s hands.

“No,” they say, tugging her away. I love this for her. She glances over her shoulder with a soft laugh, gorgeous as can be in navy shorts and a white sleeveless top, and I know she’s loving it, too.

“Ooh, pretty!” Keira snags the bouquet of lilies out of my hand and smells them.

“Hey, those are for Mom.”

“I know, suck-up. You bring her flowers every time we have breakfast. Mom and Dad are picking something up at his house, so we’re in charge of cooking.”

“No wonder the music is so loud,” I say as we head for the kitchen.

Jules is whisking something in a bowl at the counter, which is littered with dishes, egg cartons, bread, flour, and other ingredients that are not necessary for our usual breakfasts. Bellamy is peeling apples over a trash can, telling them about clothes she got for a sponsorship deal, and Victory is standing at the island, which is covered with more baking accoutrements. She’s slicing the already-peeled apples, her hips swinging to the beat like she does this every morning with them. Grant and Fitz are just outside the open French doors, inspecting a chair that’s lying sideways on the deck. They glance inside, lifting their chins in greeting. I do the same in return.

I slide my hand along Victory’s back. “You okay?”

“She’s fine,” Bellamy says.

“We’re making apple crisp and French toast casserole,” Keira says as she fills a vase with water for the flowers.

“I love apple crisp,” I say.

“Play your cards right, and maybe I’ll learn how to make it for you,” Victory taunts. She leans in for a kiss, and my fucking heart eats it up.

I squeeze her waist. “Can I help?”

“No,” my sisters and Jules exclaim.

I hold my hands up in surrender. “Sorry.”

“I love this song,” Jules exclaims, and sings, “I’m not gonna waste another tequila shot on you, you, you. No, I ain’t gonna waste another spot or shot on silly old you.”

“Whiskey,” Keira corrects her.

“You sing your song. I’ll sing mine.” Jules kisses the top of Stevie’s head. “Right, sweet pea?”

Grant leans into the kitchen and says, “You tell ’em, Pix.”

I step outside with him and Fitz. “What’s going on?”

“Just a crack in the chair. It’s not a big deal,” Grant says. “We’ll fix it.”

“It wasn’t cracked last time we were here. How’d it happen?” I ask.

“You don’t want to know,” Fitz says.

“Now I do,” I say.

Grant’s jaw ticks. “Mom and Dad and too much champagne.”

“Jesus. I kind of feel like I should be cheering Dad on, but that’s gross.”

“Right?” Fitz says.

“We can only hope we’re as randy as they are when we are their age,” Grant says.

The girls start singing “Walking on Sunshine” and dancing around the kitchen. They’re holding wooden spoons like microphones, singing to each other.

My brothers and I exchange a knowing glance. I arch a brow, and slow smiles slide across their faces. I tell them what song I want to sing, and with a confirmatory nod, we burst into the kitchen, and I belt out the lyrics to “Shut up and Dance” as I stalk toward Victory. The girls crack up as I sing about keeping Victory’s eyes trained on me. Grant and Fitz flank her, singing, “Stop holding back.”